�� Okay, I know I recently promised "no more personal blogs". But I didnapos;t really mean it. Continuing noises from the peanut gallery out in left field oblige me to throw you a curve. (Have you ever noticed how many phrases from�the ancient National Pastime have infiltrated our�daily language? Even in the U.K., cricket-loving types now refer to apos;ballpark estimatesapos; without, I�think, realizing that they are referring to baseball.)
�� Where was I? Oh, yes. - an essay on Love. As�I recall from reading T.S. Eliotapos;s apos;The Cocktail Partyapos; about fifty years ago, it concerned one person who was incapable of loving and another who was incapable of receiving love. Iapos;m too lazy to check it out; if that wasnapos;t the theme, it should have been.
�� But can persons such as this exist in real life? I�apply,�comme toujours, the relentless light of introspection to my own psyche. Being unloving isnapos;t my problem: as a card-carrying romantic, I am always in love with someone, or even several someones at once. Receiving love is a different story. A basic lack of self-esteem,�resulting over the years�in the construction of high walls for self-defense,�has made me extremely unwilling to accept any evidence of interest from another party.
�� But as Barack Obama would say, "Hereapos;s the thing."
�
���� To be continued.
�
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