I’m envious of the women who write about love. The ones that make a relationship appear as both a battlefield and an orgasm, utterly draining and a holy sacrament of human activity. I can’t write about love. My experiences are limited- there was Jason who professed his love on a high ride only to turn his head out the car window and start vomiting profusely. I calmly stopped at a stop sign and informed him he had to clean it up. There was Forest the Ranger who told me he loved me while Playa dust swirled around us and all I could think was “how very typically Burning Man.” There was a Nick, a Dave, and an Erik. A Stephanie and a Courtney and some others I’m forgetting. I’m Han- when I hear the words “I love you” my answer is always “I know.” No emotion behind it, just a simple “I know.” I can write of disasters and triumph, of pain and lessons. I can weave words about loss and build castles out of car wrecks. If you listen closely, you’ll find I can create entire civilizations, the religious sects and political intrigues, the rows of buildings and the collapsing facades. I can write of every human interaction since the beginning of time and of the ones that came to us prior to the Big Bang. I can sing of stars and heroes, of villains and abusers, but never, oh never, can I write of that kind of love you fall into. The one that is all encompassing and maddening, joyful and heart wrenchingly sad. Maybe if I viewed love as disasters the words would flow. “I love you.” “I know, but have you heard about the plane that fell from the sky, throwing suitcases into apartment buildings and bodies into trees? Have you heard about the wars or the plagues or the fall of the Templars?” “I love you.” “I know.”