After three years living in a small city, Jenna noticed she had developed prejudicial attitudes she was unaware she carried within her. This caused her some disappointment as she thought she might be above these things. But alas, no.
Certain types of people began to annoy her. Those ringing up sales in takeout places were the worst. They probably had their reasons. She found them hostile but perhaps they found her arrogant or just unworthy of any niceties. Maybe it wasn't even about her, but the woman before her. Maybe we mirror each other's stress and we will all eventually break. God will have to declare it a default and take heart with the natural world, while humanity chokes on its rabid artificiality. She was not even certain about this God of all-power. Such were the dire thoughts Jenna had while walking home on an gray afternoon, worn out from her temp job and the endless job search that seemed to yield not much of anything.
Perhaps I should go to the back to the country and remove myself from disheartening appraisals, she thought to herself. She worried that the city propels hostility and that she wasn't immune. Relaxed in the country she wouldn't have to worry over her insidious thoughts which she felt were somewhat justified as all racists do. She certainly never thought of herself as racist but then we never do. She concluded that she was not even sure what the exact definition of "racist" was as the word has become a cultural weapon. This she knew from working on a certain senator's political campaign during college. She had been raised in a liberal home, her parents were college professors, and she was never allowed to feel superior to anyone. The word "racist" had dark propensities akin to "murderer."
She continued up Market Street thinking about why so many people are born and how it keeps on going and why. It seemed to her the human experiment was not the success it was supposed to be, but a mishap of sorts. There are too many of us born in nothingness, she mused, although she did not include herself in this equation coming from a middle-class, educated home, but since she recognized her prejudices, she included herself in the great failed miasma, so astounding was her guilt in these matters.
On arriving home, she saw her mailbox contained a brochure from an urban peace organization she had once given money to. Some people are more optimistic she thought to herself upon entering her apartment. They think the world has much to offer and is worthy of building. They could look at a larger tableau and ignore rude cashiers. To them she aspired.
She was wearing down. No one told her life would be so hard in a city. She was led to believe she could have a jolly life, with dates, dinners, nice clothes and friendship. Instead she was mired in penny-pinching and thrift stores, poor food and sagging self-esteem. Her parents had no idea of her state and she didn't tell them. She was raised not to whine about things but to buck up and deal with what life offered. Her father was French and his favorite expression was "You just have to cope." Anyway, they were on a mission in Zimbabwe and couldn't help her.
Jenna could only speculate on all of this in the privacy of her own mind. She had been taught to see the ills of the world and to do her part in alleviating them. Instead she wished she could meet someone in a bar, have dinner in a nice restaurant and forget the world. She wished she could buy new clothes and have her hair highlighted. Her mother might call her superficial and she supposed she was. To each his own, she thought woefully but filled out the form on the back of the brochure letting the organizers know when she was available for volunteer shifts. She then reheated last night's takeout, another day of futile effort over with.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
#13 IS HE REALLY GOING OUT WITH HER?
This story continues from #12 GOOD TO BE BACK.
I’d been away from the city for a couple of months and after a little investigating, a few discreet inquiries, I found out who my boyfriend Jimmy has been seeing in my absence. Liz. Not someone I would have expected him to be involved with. She's not really his type and he often said so. She would not find him exactly lovable either. In fact she seemed disdainful of him over the years. Now I'm wondering, was she faking it all this time?
You see I've known her for years: she's been off and on in our circle. She backed off when she quit drinking for awhile but would eventually return to us. By us, I mean Jimmy's circle of friends who all drink quite a bit. Or did.
We were the most interesting company, I thought, but she said no, she had some artist friends in New York far more interesting. Then she would tell us how San Francisco is not at the cutting edge and lives on its past. She said New York still has it but Berlin is the new art capital, and that London has a good scene too.
As a native San Franciscan, Jimmy had disdain for these proclamations and would huff and puff over it the next day. Go to New York he would say. PLEASE go to New York. He would never actually say this in her presence but only to me later.
Liz is also from San Francisco. Roots are roots and she was frolicking in Golden Gate Park when I was still babysitting in rural Michigan. Even I have to admit she got off to a better start than I did by winning the hometown lottery, but that is neither here nor there nor anything to do with this story except that she is a little more sure of herself though my genuine love for San Francisco trumps her art capitals. She was everyone's first crush. I came later, after she moved to New York. A few people compared me to her but we're nothing alike really. I just became the “cool chick” with her departure decades ago.
They've been seen together and it has been hinted that she has emerged from his room in the morning. I can't picture these two in his small bed but then again, can we ever picture these things? I can't even picture myself in that small bed but I've been there, more than a few times. I almost have to see it to believe it. No one is talking much, at least to me. That is to be expected. He has first loyalty with our group, having been here forever and knowing everyone longer.
Maybe it's a flash affair and will play out in a couple of weeks. Maybe I should just bide my time patiently. Maybe I should go out with someone else. Yes, to the Greg Brown show. I could tell him all about it because he would have to hear how beautifully Greg did The Evening Call, lately our song. He will be jealous that he wasn't there with me.
Maybe I should call him. No, I shouldn't give him the satisfaction. Maybe I should just ignore him for a very long time. Maybe I should send him a letter. I'll say I need to know what's what so I can plan accordingly. Maybe I should stop planning; it hasn't gotten me much so far. Now he is lonely and seeking company in the wrong arms while I am busy making plans.
Okay, I've got to stop projecting. Stop this looping of rapid test-fire thinking. I've got to feign nonchalance. It's imperative. I can't let him see me rattled. I've got to play it cool. Yes...cool.
Okay, I couldn't do that: I called him. But I kept it casual and asked about his cat that was missing. I talked around the issues. I mentioned that he hasn't called lately. I listened to him try to fish his way out of any trouble with precise, clipped sentences. He continued playing it offhandedly and so did I.
Thursday he's coming to my place for a party. He can't get out of it; it's for his best friend. I certainly hope he's not bringing her to my dinner. How will I handle that? Would he dare? Yes, he probably would. I've been away more than two months, he will feel justified. And if she’s in town, she’ll want to come; she’s known everyone forever. He won't be quite at ease because she will say things that irk him beyond endurance and he will have to be polite and include her opinions in the conversation which will nearly kill him. Instead he will have to listen to her analysis on the hippest clubs in the world. Liz doesn’t placate. Good! Why is he going out with her anyway?
Maybe he's feeling desperate. He must be. He always said it was not just her stupid opinions but that he couldn't stand her thick ankles. He judged women by their ankles: he told me that when we first met, many years ago. That she wouldn't do, with those ankles, he always said.
I have to have a date helping me in the kitchen the way he always does. This he will most certainly not like. He likes to rule the kitchen at our parties. Maybe I can get Greg Brown to come over. He'll be in town. I'll ask him after the show when he signs my CD. Wouldn't that be just desserts?
Okay, I called him again. Had to ask if he is planning on bringing someone or could I depend on him for some cooking. He hedged horribly.
"Why?" he falteringly asked.
"Just wondering," I hedged even more.
"Well, is it alright if I bring someone?"
The nerve! I thought to myself but said, "Depends on who it is."
He hedged some more.
"So is that a yes, you are bringing someone?"
"Well, if it's alright..."
I had a moment there to stop this but I chickened out. I said, "Sure bring whomever you want." I had my chance...now she's coming and I'll have to see them together. Maybe I'll have a better picture of where things stand. Maybe I'll want to throw the seafood lasagna he's bringing against the wall. We'll see.
I will just have to accept this temporary insanity on Jimmy’s part. I hope she's wearing a skirt, showing off her ankles. I hope she tells us where the music scene is really taking off. That will necessitate his first stiff drink. I hope she gets really drunk and embarrasses him. I'll smile knowingly at his discomfort. Our eyes will lock for more than a few seconds. She'll get jealous. He'll get nervous. Greg Brown won't understand any of it but will be busy serving drinks and appetizers. She'll then come on to Greg Brown which he gets all the time but he won’t know all the history, the subterfuge, the innuendo, and only mutter, It's always weird in San Francisco.
Okay, so except for the phone calls, none of this has happened--it’s endless projection. I haven't even bought my Greg Brown tickets yet. Maybe I'll call him to see if he wants to go to the show. Then I'll have to ask if he's seeing a certain someone which will be painful and maybe he will cry. Maybe I will. He'll remind me of my departure, not his idea, and then he will admit he was thinking of bringing someone and yes...he can't really get out of it at this point...
"Because she leaves your room with the early morning daylight?" I sarcastically ask over coffee at Peet’s.
"Don't start. I can't take any fighting," he moans.
"We won't fight."
"I'm glad. I can't do this stuff. I'm burned out. Be here or there, just don't upset me. I'm not strong anymore."
"What a baby," I say, knowing I’m baiting him.
"Stop it!"
"Okay, okay don't have a stroke."
"God, I hate this. Why did you ask me to meet you?"
"To find out the situation."
"I can't talk about it. I won't."
"You couldn't stand her, if I remember correctly and I do."
"Will you stop, or I'm leaving." He’s starting to get rattled--he hates fighting and being picked on and clams up even more.
"Calm down!” I say a little shrill.
"Look, we all know each other. We're friends.”
Did he really say that? "I'm glad we're so liberal, so modern."
"We're just people. It doesn't get beyond that. Don't make it more than it is"
"Yeah. You're right," I mumble, not really accepting his equation.
That's the thing about him: you know he's in the wrong but somehow you end up mollifying him. So I'll play my part. We'll all talk. I'll be listening to her tell us about the how boring San Francisco is compared to whatever place she's recently been. Jimmy doesn't relate to anything that's not in his immediate sphere. She doesn't know or care. I can tell you I'm a better choice but as he says, "You left."
Okay, I'm still projecting like mad again although we did have coffee at Peet’s with the gnarly conversation. Notice how he didn’t admit to anything. The more I think of them together, the angrier I get. And disappointed. Couldn't he do better than that? So predictable. Maybe I should call her. She'll be easier to talk to. She'll be hesitant at first but she won't have the nerve to dissemble with me. We know each other pretty well. She'll come right out and say she got drunk at a party and he came on to her and she just let it happen even though she has never really been attracted to him. She'll mention how he's a misogynist, arrogant, hates women, blah, blah, blah. I'll then ask her why she's been staying with him for the past week. She'll say she just got involved and now doesn't know what to do.
“Anyway, I'll be leaving soon. I'm going back to New York. San Francisco is so small-town, so not happening unless you're a into gadgets and gimmicks. All the really cool people have long moved on. I can't stay here. There's no energy.”
More projection on my part but it’s a fairly accurate portrayal of her.
What she did say was "You shouldn't have left him. He was miserable. I've never seen him sad; he's always so bloated and full of himself but you’ve managed to make him seem humble somehow.”
So you see, just bide my time. After all, they've never really liked each other. Before you know it, I'll be back in the little bed though I don't think I like following her. It's like old times; first she was the belle of the ball, then me. I suspect I'll always be following her. She was here first and there's nothing I can do about that. I'll always be the gate-crasher with this crowd. Some things you just have to accept.
THE PARTY
The party was quite the success. I outclassed myself by getting beautiful stemware in thrift stores all over the city. I knew everyone would bring really good things to drink; wine, brandy, cordials, more wine...scotch. I served Pastis because a few of us like it. I had a huge tray of mismatched drinking glasses and it made an impressive array on the sideboard for a group largely of antique dealers, artists and musicians. Jimmy came with me on a couple of those treasure hunts as his taste is impeccable in certain areas, stemware being one of them. He's also good with flowers and fruit and sets a fine table. He could make a centerpiece out of a dead leaf if he had to. He meandered around with me the afternoon before the party. We wandered up and down Polk Street twice. He recommended cheese, cold meat, pate; he knows what to serve this crowd, his friends of many years. He told me he would bring flowers from his yard. My party was shaping up nicely except for the dread of seeing them together. Not a word was spoken on this topic.
The night of the party, I paid special attention to my appearance. I had my hair done and bought a 1950’s cocktail dress in a vintage store. I overspent on food and felt no fault could be mine if the party sagged. I did my part. The first to ring the bell was Jimmy with an enormous arrangement of flowers, fruit and branches. It was pivotal in adding to the true party spirit. I thanked him and wondered why he was alone. I didn't have anyone special with me in the kitchen. Greg couldn't make it…okay so I didn’t have the nerve to ask him…but it turns out I didn't really need a prop. It was all in my head. I'm fine. My new stemware sparkled. In fact the entire flat was shining. I told him I wanted to control the music for the most part but he could step in now and again. This is the host's job and as far as I knew he wasn't the host at this juncture.
"I thought you said you were bringing someone?"
"Changed my mind," he said in his most evasive manner, another of his talents.
"So, up for any kitchen work?"
"That's why I'm here so unfashionably early."
"I'm glad you're here, I need your help with the salad.”
We got busy in the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of wine and listened to an old record he’d played on, just re-released. We talked about music then and now.
Liz did arrive only she wasn't alone and had a young (ish) leather guy with his arm around her to balance himself. She was also wearing leather, some of it shiny. Her hair was dyed black and she wore quite a bit of makeup. I did not envy her look: she was trying to look hip and tough. She is tough so she doesn't have to try for it. Hip is a whole subjective category but everyone in our crowd falls somewhere into it. So she arrived on the arms of another man and at first I was confused--she introduced him as Brad and moved in and around the room like a snake ready to pounce. She hugged and kissed, called out to everyone in loud bursts of glee. She grabbed at this one and that, they slightly worried she was going to make them spill their drink which would be a bother.
She ignored Brad for the most part. I felt sorry for him. This crowd does not take to newcomers and wasn't warming to Brad at all. He hid in the kitchen making friends with Jimmy. Liz seemed happy to see me. She begged me to tell her Brad was "really cute" and mentioned that he may be a tad too young but that she found him refreshing. When she asked about me, I had no news worth telling her, but the truth is I didn't feel like telling her anything particular about myself. I didn’t care about her new boyfriend either except that I was mystified.
My party started to sizzle. Brad began to annoy me. He started talking and no one wanted to hear about an underground club he played in Prague. Luckily the food was ready and we could all relax and find new topics of conversation. I changed the music to classical in order to calm everyone down enough to eat. A great deal of alcohol was consumed. The salad was brought in. Liz went giddy over its color and composition and then ate it in two bites. She said she hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday. I didn't care about her dietary habits either. She was a dope, I thought. I briefly wondered if it was always the case or if the years have not been kind to her mind. Jimmy was drunk and wrote her off just as he did years ago when she told us that the only real rock and roll bands were in England that American music had become too commercial; he said he never wanted to talk to her again and he meant it. Luckily she moved to Berlin and he very rarely had to.
Meanwhile the seafood lasagna was finally presented with copious bottles of white Bordeaux. Everyone was uproarious by this time. Toasts were offered and glasses were clinked. More joints were rolled and passed around. Brad was getting really drunk and he told me he didn't usually drink because it affects his meds. I could believe it. Liz was now hanging on Jimmy and when I went up to them she started telling me when she last saw him in Paris during the ’80s and she drove him to the airport and how wasted they were. Ha, ha, ha. I guess she forgot coming out of his room in a state of dishevelment last weekend.
I was a little drunk but only a little. Who could tell me what was happening? Everyone was in deep conversation over Brahms. We had an expert in the house, several musicians and Brad who plays bass in an unknown band in Czechoslovakia. For a moment I stopped listening to the party chatter and enjoyed the smooth voices, oiled from food, from drink, from the promulgation of a cherished viewpoint, the sound of one’s mind working a crowd. The loveliest part of a party; when it dies down, everyone satiated and amiable. The coats are gathered, the candle light is dimming, the smell of wax fills the air and mixes with the smell of the fruit from the centerpiece. It’s a blend of love, gratitude and perfect self-expression and I felt warm and fuzzy.
I'd begun to realize a mistake had been made on my part. I headed to the kitchen to ask Jimmy a few questions without showing how ignorant I'd been. I said, "I thought you were bringing someone? Where is she?" And he replied, " It wasn't a she." And I exclaimed "What do you mean?" And he recognizing my confusion laughed and said "I mean I was planning on bringing Makowsky because he's in town and I didn't want you to freak out so I didn't tell you he was coming but figured once the party was in full swing you wouldn't mind seeing him. I know you two had a thing and he hurt you but he's still our friend. I had to ask him. He wants to see you."
"Makowsky? You were going to bring Makowsky? Why would I mind?"
"I thought you two weren’t speaking."
"That's long over. I never see him. I don't have a problem with him. He could have come to my party."
"Good. Because I think he just arrived."
I tingled for a moment taking that information in. Yes, there he was in the doorway. Why is he so attractive to me? I was instantly buzzing. He was a part of our group but had long ago disappeared. No one really knew where he lived but every five years or so he showed up. I’d had a brief affair with him ten years ago that left me reeling. I was about to greet him when to my right an avalanche of humanity banged into me, knocking me off the path I'd maneuvered to Makowsky. I jumped in irritation as Liz flopped forward and landed on his chest with Brad close behind, landing on the floor with his drink overturned on my recently purchased rug. Makowsky laughed and held her to him and she laughed and said how she hadn't seen him since she left him in London in '85 and how was he...on an on she went as I stood there roiling, ignored, while Brad was attempting to wipe up his spilled drink but was instead grinding it into my carpet. Thanks Brad. Makowsky held out his arms to me and I shyly greeted him, accepted his kiss and invited him in. Everyone was really glad to see him: he’s something of a legend but that is another story.
Jimmy came up behind me and put his arm around me. "Nice party. Everything was perfect, just great. I hope you're not mad at me anymore. What's been with you since you got back? You seem like you're pissed off at me and I didn't do anything. You left."
Boy, if only he knew. “Someone hinted at a fling with Dizzy Lizzy and I’ve been wondering how to handle it,” I admitted.
“Why would I go with her, you know my feelings on her; I think I’ve mentioned them over the years. She's way not my type.” He seemed momentarily derailed.
“I was told she comes out of your room in the morning and you didn’t seem to deny it when we had coffee?”
“Tom invited her to stay. I didn’t want to mention that, it’s complicated between them. Anyway, she needed a place for a couple of nights, he invited her then I gave up my room after they fought, surprise, surprise. She's leaving Saturday, thank God.”
What I'd been going through. If he knew how ridiculous I have been. All that fuming and fussing for nothing. I forgot she and Tom had a thing. But what a relief. I don't think I could have stood it if my boyfriend was really going out with someone who wears black patent leather leggings with those ankles. She really is a little ditzy. I don’t think she knows where she is anymore. Maybe I’ll invite her for coffee this week to talk girl stuff. Sometimes it's good to be wrong. I was immediately sorry I'd been giving Jimmy such an attitude. To make it up to him, I let him spend the night and help with the cleanup in the morning. It was the least I could do. Now we can once again began repairing our rattled relationship. Of course Makowsky is back. With a little planning we can all come together in harmony. We’ve all known each other forever.
I’d been away from the city for a couple of months and after a little investigating, a few discreet inquiries, I found out who my boyfriend Jimmy has been seeing in my absence. Liz. Not someone I would have expected him to be involved with. She's not really his type and he often said so. She would not find him exactly lovable either. In fact she seemed disdainful of him over the years. Now I'm wondering, was she faking it all this time?
You see I've known her for years: she's been off and on in our circle. She backed off when she quit drinking for awhile but would eventually return to us. By us, I mean Jimmy's circle of friends who all drink quite a bit. Or did.
We were the most interesting company, I thought, but she said no, she had some artist friends in New York far more interesting. Then she would tell us how San Francisco is not at the cutting edge and lives on its past. She said New York still has it but Berlin is the new art capital, and that London has a good scene too.
As a native San Franciscan, Jimmy had disdain for these proclamations and would huff and puff over it the next day. Go to New York he would say. PLEASE go to New York. He would never actually say this in her presence but only to me later.
Liz is also from San Francisco. Roots are roots and she was frolicking in Golden Gate Park when I was still babysitting in rural Michigan. Even I have to admit she got off to a better start than I did by winning the hometown lottery, but that is neither here nor there nor anything to do with this story except that she is a little more sure of herself though my genuine love for San Francisco trumps her art capitals. She was everyone's first crush. I came later, after she moved to New York. A few people compared me to her but we're nothing alike really. I just became the “cool chick” with her departure decades ago.
They've been seen together and it has been hinted that she has emerged from his room in the morning. I can't picture these two in his small bed but then again, can we ever picture these things? I can't even picture myself in that small bed but I've been there, more than a few times. I almost have to see it to believe it. No one is talking much, at least to me. That is to be expected. He has first loyalty with our group, having been here forever and knowing everyone longer.
Maybe it's a flash affair and will play out in a couple of weeks. Maybe I should just bide my time patiently. Maybe I should go out with someone else. Yes, to the Greg Brown show. I could tell him all about it because he would have to hear how beautifully Greg did The Evening Call, lately our song. He will be jealous that he wasn't there with me.
Maybe I should call him. No, I shouldn't give him the satisfaction. Maybe I should just ignore him for a very long time. Maybe I should send him a letter. I'll say I need to know what's what so I can plan accordingly. Maybe I should stop planning; it hasn't gotten me much so far. Now he is lonely and seeking company in the wrong arms while I am busy making plans.
Okay, I've got to stop projecting. Stop this looping of rapid test-fire thinking. I've got to feign nonchalance. It's imperative. I can't let him see me rattled. I've got to play it cool. Yes...cool.
Okay, I couldn't do that: I called him. But I kept it casual and asked about his cat that was missing. I talked around the issues. I mentioned that he hasn't called lately. I listened to him try to fish his way out of any trouble with precise, clipped sentences. He continued playing it offhandedly and so did I.
Thursday he's coming to my place for a party. He can't get out of it; it's for his best friend. I certainly hope he's not bringing her to my dinner. How will I handle that? Would he dare? Yes, he probably would. I've been away more than two months, he will feel justified. And if she’s in town, she’ll want to come; she’s known everyone forever. He won't be quite at ease because she will say things that irk him beyond endurance and he will have to be polite and include her opinions in the conversation which will nearly kill him. Instead he will have to listen to her analysis on the hippest clubs in the world. Liz doesn’t placate. Good! Why is he going out with her anyway?
Maybe he's feeling desperate. He must be. He always said it was not just her stupid opinions but that he couldn't stand her thick ankles. He judged women by their ankles: he told me that when we first met, many years ago. That she wouldn't do, with those ankles, he always said.
I have to have a date helping me in the kitchen the way he always does. This he will most certainly not like. He likes to rule the kitchen at our parties. Maybe I can get Greg Brown to come over. He'll be in town. I'll ask him after the show when he signs my CD. Wouldn't that be just desserts?
Okay, I called him again. Had to ask if he is planning on bringing someone or could I depend on him for some cooking. He hedged horribly.
"Why?" he falteringly asked.
"Just wondering," I hedged even more.
"Well, is it alright if I bring someone?"
The nerve! I thought to myself but said, "Depends on who it is."
He hedged some more.
"So is that a yes, you are bringing someone?"
"Well, if it's alright..."
I had a moment there to stop this but I chickened out. I said, "Sure bring whomever you want." I had my chance...now she's coming and I'll have to see them together. Maybe I'll have a better picture of where things stand. Maybe I'll want to throw the seafood lasagna he's bringing against the wall. We'll see.
I will just have to accept this temporary insanity on Jimmy’s part. I hope she's wearing a skirt, showing off her ankles. I hope she tells us where the music scene is really taking off. That will necessitate his first stiff drink. I hope she gets really drunk and embarrasses him. I'll smile knowingly at his discomfort. Our eyes will lock for more than a few seconds. She'll get jealous. He'll get nervous. Greg Brown won't understand any of it but will be busy serving drinks and appetizers. She'll then come on to Greg Brown which he gets all the time but he won’t know all the history, the subterfuge, the innuendo, and only mutter, It's always weird in San Francisco.
Okay, so except for the phone calls, none of this has happened--it’s endless projection. I haven't even bought my Greg Brown tickets yet. Maybe I'll call him to see if he wants to go to the show. Then I'll have to ask if he's seeing a certain someone which will be painful and maybe he will cry. Maybe I will. He'll remind me of my departure, not his idea, and then he will admit he was thinking of bringing someone and yes...he can't really get out of it at this point...
"Because she leaves your room with the early morning daylight?" I sarcastically ask over coffee at Peet’s.
"Don't start. I can't take any fighting," he moans.
"We won't fight."
"I'm glad. I can't do this stuff. I'm burned out. Be here or there, just don't upset me. I'm not strong anymore."
"What a baby," I say, knowing I’m baiting him.
"Stop it!"
"Okay, okay don't have a stroke."
"God, I hate this. Why did you ask me to meet you?"
"To find out the situation."
"I can't talk about it. I won't."
"You couldn't stand her, if I remember correctly and I do."
"Will you stop, or I'm leaving." He’s starting to get rattled--he hates fighting and being picked on and clams up even more.
"Calm down!” I say a little shrill.
"Look, we all know each other. We're friends.”
Did he really say that? "I'm glad we're so liberal, so modern."
"We're just people. It doesn't get beyond that. Don't make it more than it is"
"Yeah. You're right," I mumble, not really accepting his equation.
That's the thing about him: you know he's in the wrong but somehow you end up mollifying him. So I'll play my part. We'll all talk. I'll be listening to her tell us about the how boring San Francisco is compared to whatever place she's recently been. Jimmy doesn't relate to anything that's not in his immediate sphere. She doesn't know or care. I can tell you I'm a better choice but as he says, "You left."
Okay, I'm still projecting like mad again although we did have coffee at Peet’s with the gnarly conversation. Notice how he didn’t admit to anything. The more I think of them together, the angrier I get. And disappointed. Couldn't he do better than that? So predictable. Maybe I should call her. She'll be easier to talk to. She'll be hesitant at first but she won't have the nerve to dissemble with me. We know each other pretty well. She'll come right out and say she got drunk at a party and he came on to her and she just let it happen even though she has never really been attracted to him. She'll mention how he's a misogynist, arrogant, hates women, blah, blah, blah. I'll then ask her why she's been staying with him for the past week. She'll say she just got involved and now doesn't know what to do.
“Anyway, I'll be leaving soon. I'm going back to New York. San Francisco is so small-town, so not happening unless you're a into gadgets and gimmicks. All the really cool people have long moved on. I can't stay here. There's no energy.”
More projection on my part but it’s a fairly accurate portrayal of her.
What she did say was "You shouldn't have left him. He was miserable. I've never seen him sad; he's always so bloated and full of himself but you’ve managed to make him seem humble somehow.”
So you see, just bide my time. After all, they've never really liked each other. Before you know it, I'll be back in the little bed though I don't think I like following her. It's like old times; first she was the belle of the ball, then me. I suspect I'll always be following her. She was here first and there's nothing I can do about that. I'll always be the gate-crasher with this crowd. Some things you just have to accept.
THE PARTY
The party was quite the success. I outclassed myself by getting beautiful stemware in thrift stores all over the city. I knew everyone would bring really good things to drink; wine, brandy, cordials, more wine...scotch. I served Pastis because a few of us like it. I had a huge tray of mismatched drinking glasses and it made an impressive array on the sideboard for a group largely of antique dealers, artists and musicians. Jimmy came with me on a couple of those treasure hunts as his taste is impeccable in certain areas, stemware being one of them. He's also good with flowers and fruit and sets a fine table. He could make a centerpiece out of a dead leaf if he had to. He meandered around with me the afternoon before the party. We wandered up and down Polk Street twice. He recommended cheese, cold meat, pate; he knows what to serve this crowd, his friends of many years. He told me he would bring flowers from his yard. My party was shaping up nicely except for the dread of seeing them together. Not a word was spoken on this topic.
The night of the party, I paid special attention to my appearance. I had my hair done and bought a 1950’s cocktail dress in a vintage store. I overspent on food and felt no fault could be mine if the party sagged. I did my part. The first to ring the bell was Jimmy with an enormous arrangement of flowers, fruit and branches. It was pivotal in adding to the true party spirit. I thanked him and wondered why he was alone. I didn't have anyone special with me in the kitchen. Greg couldn't make it…okay so I didn’t have the nerve to ask him…but it turns out I didn't really need a prop. It was all in my head. I'm fine. My new stemware sparkled. In fact the entire flat was shining. I told him I wanted to control the music for the most part but he could step in now and again. This is the host's job and as far as I knew he wasn't the host at this juncture.
"I thought you said you were bringing someone?"
"Changed my mind," he said in his most evasive manner, another of his talents.
"So, up for any kitchen work?"
"That's why I'm here so unfashionably early."
"I'm glad you're here, I need your help with the salad.”
We got busy in the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of wine and listened to an old record he’d played on, just re-released. We talked about music then and now.
Liz did arrive only she wasn't alone and had a young (ish) leather guy with his arm around her to balance himself. She was also wearing leather, some of it shiny. Her hair was dyed black and she wore quite a bit of makeup. I did not envy her look: she was trying to look hip and tough. She is tough so she doesn't have to try for it. Hip is a whole subjective category but everyone in our crowd falls somewhere into it. So she arrived on the arms of another man and at first I was confused--she introduced him as Brad and moved in and around the room like a snake ready to pounce. She hugged and kissed, called out to everyone in loud bursts of glee. She grabbed at this one and that, they slightly worried she was going to make them spill their drink which would be a bother.
She ignored Brad for the most part. I felt sorry for him. This crowd does not take to newcomers and wasn't warming to Brad at all. He hid in the kitchen making friends with Jimmy. Liz seemed happy to see me. She begged me to tell her Brad was "really cute" and mentioned that he may be a tad too young but that she found him refreshing. When she asked about me, I had no news worth telling her, but the truth is I didn't feel like telling her anything particular about myself. I didn’t care about her new boyfriend either except that I was mystified.
My party started to sizzle. Brad began to annoy me. He started talking and no one wanted to hear about an underground club he played in Prague. Luckily the food was ready and we could all relax and find new topics of conversation. I changed the music to classical in order to calm everyone down enough to eat. A great deal of alcohol was consumed. The salad was brought in. Liz went giddy over its color and composition and then ate it in two bites. She said she hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday. I didn't care about her dietary habits either. She was a dope, I thought. I briefly wondered if it was always the case or if the years have not been kind to her mind. Jimmy was drunk and wrote her off just as he did years ago when she told us that the only real rock and roll bands were in England that American music had become too commercial; he said he never wanted to talk to her again and he meant it. Luckily she moved to Berlin and he very rarely had to.
Meanwhile the seafood lasagna was finally presented with copious bottles of white Bordeaux. Everyone was uproarious by this time. Toasts were offered and glasses were clinked. More joints were rolled and passed around. Brad was getting really drunk and he told me he didn't usually drink because it affects his meds. I could believe it. Liz was now hanging on Jimmy and when I went up to them she started telling me when she last saw him in Paris during the ’80s and she drove him to the airport and how wasted they were. Ha, ha, ha. I guess she forgot coming out of his room in a state of dishevelment last weekend.
I was a little drunk but only a little. Who could tell me what was happening? Everyone was in deep conversation over Brahms. We had an expert in the house, several musicians and Brad who plays bass in an unknown band in Czechoslovakia. For a moment I stopped listening to the party chatter and enjoyed the smooth voices, oiled from food, from drink, from the promulgation of a cherished viewpoint, the sound of one’s mind working a crowd. The loveliest part of a party; when it dies down, everyone satiated and amiable. The coats are gathered, the candle light is dimming, the smell of wax fills the air and mixes with the smell of the fruit from the centerpiece. It’s a blend of love, gratitude and perfect self-expression and I felt warm and fuzzy.
I'd begun to realize a mistake had been made on my part. I headed to the kitchen to ask Jimmy a few questions without showing how ignorant I'd been. I said, "I thought you were bringing someone? Where is she?" And he replied, " It wasn't a she." And I exclaimed "What do you mean?" And he recognizing my confusion laughed and said "I mean I was planning on bringing Makowsky because he's in town and I didn't want you to freak out so I didn't tell you he was coming but figured once the party was in full swing you wouldn't mind seeing him. I know you two had a thing and he hurt you but he's still our friend. I had to ask him. He wants to see you."
"Makowsky? You were going to bring Makowsky? Why would I mind?"
"I thought you two weren’t speaking."
"That's long over. I never see him. I don't have a problem with him. He could have come to my party."
"Good. Because I think he just arrived."
I tingled for a moment taking that information in. Yes, there he was in the doorway. Why is he so attractive to me? I was instantly buzzing. He was a part of our group but had long ago disappeared. No one really knew where he lived but every five years or so he showed up. I’d had a brief affair with him ten years ago that left me reeling. I was about to greet him when to my right an avalanche of humanity banged into me, knocking me off the path I'd maneuvered to Makowsky. I jumped in irritation as Liz flopped forward and landed on his chest with Brad close behind, landing on the floor with his drink overturned on my recently purchased rug. Makowsky laughed and held her to him and she laughed and said how she hadn't seen him since she left him in London in '85 and how was he...on an on she went as I stood there roiling, ignored, while Brad was attempting to wipe up his spilled drink but was instead grinding it into my carpet. Thanks Brad. Makowsky held out his arms to me and I shyly greeted him, accepted his kiss and invited him in. Everyone was really glad to see him: he’s something of a legend but that is another story.
Jimmy came up behind me and put his arm around me. "Nice party. Everything was perfect, just great. I hope you're not mad at me anymore. What's been with you since you got back? You seem like you're pissed off at me and I didn't do anything. You left."
Boy, if only he knew. “Someone hinted at a fling with Dizzy Lizzy and I’ve been wondering how to handle it,” I admitted.
“Why would I go with her, you know my feelings on her; I think I’ve mentioned them over the years. She's way not my type.” He seemed momentarily derailed.
“I was told she comes out of your room in the morning and you didn’t seem to deny it when we had coffee?”
“Tom invited her to stay. I didn’t want to mention that, it’s complicated between them. Anyway, she needed a place for a couple of nights, he invited her then I gave up my room after they fought, surprise, surprise. She's leaving Saturday, thank God.”
What I'd been going through. If he knew how ridiculous I have been. All that fuming and fussing for nothing. I forgot she and Tom had a thing. But what a relief. I don't think I could have stood it if my boyfriend was really going out with someone who wears black patent leather leggings with those ankles. She really is a little ditzy. I don’t think she knows where she is anymore. Maybe I’ll invite her for coffee this week to talk girl stuff. Sometimes it's good to be wrong. I was immediately sorry I'd been giving Jimmy such an attitude. To make it up to him, I let him spend the night and help with the cleanup in the morning. It was the least I could do. Now we can once again began repairing our rattled relationship. Of course Makowsky is back. With a little planning we can all come together in harmony. We’ve all known each other forever.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
#12 GOOD TO BE BACK
I've been away from the city for almost two months. In my absence, I suspect my boyfriend has found someone new.
He warned me - He would not be alone, could NOT be alone!
What a baby. But we all have our needs. Oh so many needs. One gets weary just enumerating them, just paying them their due. Our needs become our screeds. (We are in hell.)
But yes, I'm certain he's found someone new. I don't know her name yet; it could be someone he met in my absence or someone from the dark, deadly past. Or it could be just a rumor. Maybe it's Christine McVie. He's always had a thing for her. He thought she was better than Stevie Nicks and often said so.
It's possible that I dreamt it so I just gave him a call to see if he still remembers me. Just barely, I can tell you. Something IS up. He didn't answer any of my questions - but just dissembled. While normally so gifted in this art form, he found it was too much work and brushed off any real communication with little useless lemming-like responses. (Admittedly he was caught off guard.)
The call ended on a vague note with ambiguous plans for an ambivalent date. Much can happen in two months. Yes, I'm sure he's found a new girlfriend. I just hope I can find a new boyfriend; I'm not interested in Mick Fleetwood.
He warned me - He would not be alone, could NOT be alone!
What a baby. But we all have our needs. Oh so many needs. One gets weary just enumerating them, just paying them their due. Our needs become our screeds. (We are in hell.)
But yes, I'm certain he's found someone new. I don't know her name yet; it could be someone he met in my absence or someone from the dark, deadly past. Or it could be just a rumor. Maybe it's Christine McVie. He's always had a thing for her. He thought she was better than Stevie Nicks and often said so.
It's possible that I dreamt it so I just gave him a call to see if he still remembers me. Just barely, I can tell you. Something IS up. He didn't answer any of my questions - but just dissembled. While normally so gifted in this art form, he found it was too much work and brushed off any real communication with little useless lemming-like responses. (Admittedly he was caught off guard.)
The call ended on a vague note with ambiguous plans for an ambivalent date. Much can happen in two months. Yes, I'm sure he's found a new girlfriend. I just hope I can find a new boyfriend; I'm not interested in Mick Fleetwood.
Monday, May 24, 2010
#11 BEETHOVEN'S SECRET
Sunday afternoon, we are strangers in a small quaint town. Two strangers crying for comfort and joy. We are out of season, out of reason, out of fashion and out of passion.
When we are in the dumps, or in a dump, as we sometimes are, it takes more than we are capable of to rouse ourselves. We are shackled in circumstances. We would be suffering more rather than less except for the screen of this laptop and the music within it.
Beethoven String Quartets op. 127 in e-flat major, op. 131 in c-sharp minor.
All those minor chords. Beethoven attempting to blend his soul into those chords, at perfect pitch, a perfect pace. For this we are grateful. We are not in the mood for glib, I can tell you.
We were about to squabble about something tedious - when to have dinner - but our individual wills, so battle weary by the weekend, have merged. We are now in perfect pitch with Beethoven's marriage of intellect and heart. For just a few moments we remember that we are capable of reaching the heights; we remember harmony, possibly Oneness. We feel a bout of gaity coming on. We think we might be saved. We agree completely on dinner at eight.
Beethoven was often said to be in a low mood; one after the other. He had his challenges obviously. You can read all about it. Most of us go through periods of blank despair. Black despair, manic despair, slack wretched panic despair. I know you know what I mean.
As the bow scrapes across the strings of the violin, we feel as if our heart has been scraped clean for another week. We will renounce the varieties of Sunday despairing in spite of our lack of worldly success and our seedy surroundings - nothing like Beethoven would ever stay in - and that is the point now isn't it?
Beethoven could possess only the graceful, the sublime and the elegantly structured - Beethoven, naturally, invented these things.
When we are in the dumps, or in a dump, as we sometimes are, it takes more than we are capable of to rouse ourselves. We are shackled in circumstances. We would be suffering more rather than less except for the screen of this laptop and the music within it.
Beethoven String Quartets op. 127 in e-flat major, op. 131 in c-sharp minor.
All those minor chords. Beethoven attempting to blend his soul into those chords, at perfect pitch, a perfect pace. For this we are grateful. We are not in the mood for glib, I can tell you.
We were about to squabble about something tedious - when to have dinner - but our individual wills, so battle weary by the weekend, have merged. We are now in perfect pitch with Beethoven's marriage of intellect and heart. For just a few moments we remember that we are capable of reaching the heights; we remember harmony, possibly Oneness. We feel a bout of gaity coming on. We think we might be saved. We agree completely on dinner at eight.
Beethoven was often said to be in a low mood; one after the other. He had his challenges obviously. You can read all about it. Most of us go through periods of blank despair. Black despair, manic despair, slack wretched panic despair. I know you know what I mean.
As the bow scrapes across the strings of the violin, we feel as if our heart has been scraped clean for another week. We will renounce the varieties of Sunday despairing in spite of our lack of worldly success and our seedy surroundings - nothing like Beethoven would ever stay in - and that is the point now isn't it?
Beethoven could possess only the graceful, the sublime and the elegantly structured - Beethoven, naturally, invented these things.
Friday, May 21, 2010
#10 SEPARATING
Everywhere in the world today couples are splitting up. They're likely to be angry, hurt, disappointed, guilty, relieved, overwhelmed... mentally shaken, according to an article I read in the newspaper.
You are lost and yet have to do more than is in your power to stand firm somehow. Your jaw tightens, maybe you rock on your heels while discussing matters, maybe you feel humiliated and can't make eye contact. Maybe you have already displayed your wrath and are now in some trouble. Maybe you just held it all in like a character in a 19th-century novel or a cowboy movie. Maybe you seek revenge.
Maybe you've been in a war and now you are "useless," which you already know, and still you are to be left alone in your incapacity. Maybe you are the one guilty of leaving someone wounded.
Maybe one of you is secretly relieved and plans on celebrating with a few friends even though you are now possibly homeless. Maybe the other is just as relieved and plans to start redecorating that night. Maybe you are both out on a limb where once you perched as lovebirds.
How can I know how you feel? I myself feel so empty. Certainly no celebrating; conversely, no recriminations toward anyone. A quiet distillation finally. I think I can breathe after all. I expect to laugh at something before the year is over.
I hope that you are navigating to a place of acceptance if you are separating. I wish you good luck. Don't deny your tears, but limit them. This drama is ancient and yet so very freshly felt.
You are lost and yet have to do more than is in your power to stand firm somehow. Your jaw tightens, maybe you rock on your heels while discussing matters, maybe you feel humiliated and can't make eye contact. Maybe you have already displayed your wrath and are now in some trouble. Maybe you just held it all in like a character in a 19th-century novel or a cowboy movie. Maybe you seek revenge.
Maybe you've been in a war and now you are "useless," which you already know, and still you are to be left alone in your incapacity. Maybe you are the one guilty of leaving someone wounded.
Maybe one of you is secretly relieved and plans on celebrating with a few friends even though you are now possibly homeless. Maybe the other is just as relieved and plans to start redecorating that night. Maybe you are both out on a limb where once you perched as lovebirds.
How can I know how you feel? I myself feel so empty. Certainly no celebrating; conversely, no recriminations toward anyone. A quiet distillation finally. I think I can breathe after all. I expect to laugh at something before the year is over.
I hope that you are navigating to a place of acceptance if you are separating. I wish you good luck. Don't deny your tears, but limit them. This drama is ancient and yet so very freshly felt.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
#9 THE STUPIDEST CHICK
Jackson walked into the bar with an arrogant glance, spotted who he thought might be the stupidest chick in the place and sliced a path to her side.
The young woman, waiting for a friend, let him make his opening line and then a followup before her friend arrived and Jackson backed off, thinking, for now.
Her friend was a young Asian man who sliced his path to her side with the precision of a slide rule, bowed to her and with his beautiful smile asked if she had been waiting long.
They began a smart dialogue and if Jackson could have heard any of it, he would have learned that she was not only NOT the stupidest chick in the place, but a nuclear scientist in the making.
The two friends ordered a drink though neither of them drank alcohol as a rule; she a rum and coke, liking cola, and he a beer because that's what he knew, while Jackson ordered Absolut on the rocks, asked for a slice of lime and continued watching what he thought was the stupidest chick in the place as she grew more animated talking to her friend, another scientist with a bent for logarithms.
The friends finished their drink, and still talking, got up to leave while Jackson who happened to be slouching near the door gallantly opened it for them and said, "See you later doll. I'll be there about eleven."
She said a polite thank you, while her friend bowed as they exited the bar, neither Jackson nor the couple realizing that the deeply intrusive barb - the stinging meanness lobbed at them had gone to waste; alas, they only knew a handful of precisely useful phrases in English.
The young woman, waiting for a friend, let him make his opening line and then a followup before her friend arrived and Jackson backed off, thinking, for now.
Her friend was a young Asian man who sliced his path to her side with the precision of a slide rule, bowed to her and with his beautiful smile asked if she had been waiting long.
They began a smart dialogue and if Jackson could have heard any of it, he would have learned that she was not only NOT the stupidest chick in the place, but a nuclear scientist in the making.
The two friends ordered a drink though neither of them drank alcohol as a rule; she a rum and coke, liking cola, and he a beer because that's what he knew, while Jackson ordered Absolut on the rocks, asked for a slice of lime and continued watching what he thought was the stupidest chick in the place as she grew more animated talking to her friend, another scientist with a bent for logarithms.
The friends finished their drink, and still talking, got up to leave while Jackson who happened to be slouching near the door gallantly opened it for them and said, "See you later doll. I'll be there about eleven."
She said a polite thank you, while her friend bowed as they exited the bar, neither Jackson nor the couple realizing that the deeply intrusive barb - the stinging meanness lobbed at them had gone to waste; alas, they only knew a handful of precisely useful phrases in English.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
#8 THE ROCK GUITARIST
Once upon a time there was a rock guitarist named, shall we say, Frank, who started to pay special attention to me at a band rehearsal. Since he was exactly my type, or the type I wished was my type, I encouraged him. The fact that he was drunk or drugged, elusive and essentially benumbed did not matter to me. He was quite attractive in his dog-eyed way: You instantly wanted to pet him. That he had been beaten down by life was obvious though I never knew anything for certain and never asked. I'm not big on details in fleeting affairs, a trait causing me no end of troubles.
The rock guitarist was making his comeback, as all old rock musicians must do though he was not so old. I knew someone in his new band and also his manager. I trailed around in the music business for years and was a fan of many rock bands though I never seemed to date any musicians. I was not a groupie but something of a journalist and they seemed to steer clear. After all, they have easy pickings.
The rock guitarist had been a member of a cult band and was something of a cult hero--certainly not a household name. Though his old band had a place in the annals of rock music, no one cared about them for many years. I happened to have a t-shirt of this band that I'd bought in London where American fringe bands figure more prominently. I got it for a friend who disappeared to New Zealand so I dug it out and wore it to the rehearsal to show support. The rock guitarist acted impressed but I'm sure all he saw was a groupie for all that it's worth. I was looking to interview him for a story but never got around to it, for all that it's worth.
He was a compelling escort though always highly intoxicated. On our first date, he tripped and fell down in a bar full of college students and I thought he might be embarrassed so I fell down with him and laughed hysterically as if we were clowns, the entertainment. I didn't know this was a common occurrence: He fell down often, banged into tables, doors and people and caused a ruckus in bars, concert venues and on the street. None of this bothered me but I did think it was a cry for attention. I enjoyed his antics and he seemed to like me too. He would whisper in my ear and sing little songs. He picked flowers from someone's yard for me and we floated on a raft of zen probability.
I fell a little in love with the rock guitarist with his leather jacket, tight jeans and provocative walk. I wrote him a corny love letter saying as much that later came back to haunt me. He had a way of fluttering his eyes when he talked as if it was too much effort to articulate anything; he was a nihilist and had long given up on familiar means of communication. This suited me fine. There was too much talk in the music world. All that precious hyperbole. I just wanted to gaze at him, trying to read his personae which seemed at once heavy and then as vaporous as the morning fog. It has been said by a rock writer that he had a deeply spiritual component. He was considered by some not only a guitar hero, but a savior. Others less kind said he was a drunk, a bore and a spoilsport. It's all in the interpretation I suppose.
In the end, the rock guitarist did not have enough energy to be a savior. He bolted on his comeback band and married an actress with a name and a house. There is nothing an actress appreciates more than a troublesome boy less famous than herself, and nothing an aging rock star appreciates more than a woman who will hold his back. I was a little jealous but knew he'd found a place in the spotlight. Now he would be a little more stable and could really make a comeback. Instead, he gave up the guitar, she gave up her career and together they retired in familial heaven. Or so the story goes.
I'm sorry to say the rock guitarist is no longer with us. I do not know exactly how he died; it was all very vague. The actress instantly began her comeback using the funeral as a press party. Today her picture is everywhere and her autobiography a best-seller.
A lot of years have passed since the rock guitarist and I went on our three or four dates. One night not long after he went off with the actress I ran into him in a punk club. His eyes were watery, he had a mean glance and a dazed demeanor. Eventually he fell down but it wasn't particularly funny and since he seemed to be alone I went over and helped him up. He did not recognize me at first glance but when he did, he grabbed me fast and held me tight. I thought he might be crying as he breathed my name. I've never been held with such a fervor. I got him into a cab as he murmured something about someone waiting somewhere for him. It was at this point he asked me how I was doing. How was my family? He was clutching my hand as he fell into the taxi.
"I'm fine," I said. "Everyone's good. How are you?"
He replied in his most reverential manner, "I had to change my life, sometimes we have to change. I wish people understood that." It was our last meeting.
I've often wondered if the rock guitarist was happy with his changes. The actress delivered an occasional interview from her post in exile over the years. She was in love and worshiped her husband, was the usual take. They would soon release a collaborative album/film/book. His talent was too great to go unexpressed. I hoped he was as happy as his wife appeared to be though these things are not always as they seem.
Today the rock guitarist is a footnote--as a member of a once infamous band and another for his participation in the life of the actress. He did not figure in my life in a big way, nor I in his but I would not consider him a footnote. I know he would not care to be a footnote even though he distrusted fame and feigned indifference. What I saw was an individual acting in his own drama trying to beat the devil. He did not hold cult status in this script but was a shining star and to that I dedicate my little story.
The rock guitarist was making his comeback, as all old rock musicians must do though he was not so old. I knew someone in his new band and also his manager. I trailed around in the music business for years and was a fan of many rock bands though I never seemed to date any musicians. I was not a groupie but something of a journalist and they seemed to steer clear. After all, they have easy pickings.
The rock guitarist had been a member of a cult band and was something of a cult hero--certainly not a household name. Though his old band had a place in the annals of rock music, no one cared about them for many years. I happened to have a t-shirt of this band that I'd bought in London where American fringe bands figure more prominently. I got it for a friend who disappeared to New Zealand so I dug it out and wore it to the rehearsal to show support. The rock guitarist acted impressed but I'm sure all he saw was a groupie for all that it's worth. I was looking to interview him for a story but never got around to it, for all that it's worth.
He was a compelling escort though always highly intoxicated. On our first date, he tripped and fell down in a bar full of college students and I thought he might be embarrassed so I fell down with him and laughed hysterically as if we were clowns, the entertainment. I didn't know this was a common occurrence: He fell down often, banged into tables, doors and people and caused a ruckus in bars, concert venues and on the street. None of this bothered me but I did think it was a cry for attention. I enjoyed his antics and he seemed to like me too. He would whisper in my ear and sing little songs. He picked flowers from someone's yard for me and we floated on a raft of zen probability.
I fell a little in love with the rock guitarist with his leather jacket, tight jeans and provocative walk. I wrote him a corny love letter saying as much that later came back to haunt me. He had a way of fluttering his eyes when he talked as if it was too much effort to articulate anything; he was a nihilist and had long given up on familiar means of communication. This suited me fine. There was too much talk in the music world. All that precious hyperbole. I just wanted to gaze at him, trying to read his personae which seemed at once heavy and then as vaporous as the morning fog. It has been said by a rock writer that he had a deeply spiritual component. He was considered by some not only a guitar hero, but a savior. Others less kind said he was a drunk, a bore and a spoilsport. It's all in the interpretation I suppose.
In the end, the rock guitarist did not have enough energy to be a savior. He bolted on his comeback band and married an actress with a name and a house. There is nothing an actress appreciates more than a troublesome boy less famous than herself, and nothing an aging rock star appreciates more than a woman who will hold his back. I was a little jealous but knew he'd found a place in the spotlight. Now he would be a little more stable and could really make a comeback. Instead, he gave up the guitar, she gave up her career and together they retired in familial heaven. Or so the story goes.
I'm sorry to say the rock guitarist is no longer with us. I do not know exactly how he died; it was all very vague. The actress instantly began her comeback using the funeral as a press party. Today her picture is everywhere and her autobiography a best-seller.
A lot of years have passed since the rock guitarist and I went on our three or four dates. One night not long after he went off with the actress I ran into him in a punk club. His eyes were watery, he had a mean glance and a dazed demeanor. Eventually he fell down but it wasn't particularly funny and since he seemed to be alone I went over and helped him up. He did not recognize me at first glance but when he did, he grabbed me fast and held me tight. I thought he might be crying as he breathed my name. I've never been held with such a fervor. I got him into a cab as he murmured something about someone waiting somewhere for him. It was at this point he asked me how I was doing. How was my family? He was clutching my hand as he fell into the taxi.
"I'm fine," I said. "Everyone's good. How are you?"
He replied in his most reverential manner, "I had to change my life, sometimes we have to change. I wish people understood that." It was our last meeting.
I've often wondered if the rock guitarist was happy with his changes. The actress delivered an occasional interview from her post in exile over the years. She was in love and worshiped her husband, was the usual take. They would soon release a collaborative album/film/book. His talent was too great to go unexpressed. I hoped he was as happy as his wife appeared to be though these things are not always as they seem.
Today the rock guitarist is a footnote--as a member of a once infamous band and another for his participation in the life of the actress. He did not figure in my life in a big way, nor I in his but I would not consider him a footnote. I know he would not care to be a footnote even though he distrusted fame and feigned indifference. What I saw was an individual acting in his own drama trying to beat the devil. He did not hold cult status in this script but was a shining star and to that I dedicate my little story.
#7 ART IS LIFE
We have been here in the wine country for the summer months, it is screeching into autumn and still we are here. I take note of this because it is a temporary location, not my usual habitat. I'm packing for the city, eager to say farewell and go it alone.
Since we have been here the trees in the yard have yielded oranges, lemons, pears, peaches, apples, plums and persimmons. None of the fruit tastes exactly like what you are used to from the grocery store. It all has an unfamiliar flavor that makes you wonder about soil composition and air; things I do not as a rule, think about.
We have a small yard where we are staying with two junk cars, one abused pickup, a rotting boat, several rusty bikes with flat tires, broken patio furniture, some old cupboards and the remains of various unfinished projects. Interspersed amongst the discarded metal the fruit trees flourish despite the less than eco-friendly environment. What one has to do with the other, you may ask--or not--is my small point; something to do with organics coexisting with industrial decomposition. Life and death, if you will tolerate such banality. But let's move on.
There has been plenty of fruit for eating and if so desired, for baking. I made my favorite apple pie and a peach tart, both thoroughly riveting. My secret: Butter crust, unadorned fruit with just enough sugar to balance any tartness edging into sweet ever so slightly. Cinnamon for apples only.
We also use the fruit as models for still-life painting. They pose for hours without a complaint. I try to capture their exact color(s), and more subjectively, their mood. In this I portray the essentialness of say, a pear, if all goes well. Let's face it, it's not the most complicated thing to draw fruit so a painter can concentrate on complexity through color and the dissonance within. For this you have to relax and allow things to happen.
The fruit in a visual composition, as in a pie, whether a pear or a persimmon, does not require precision or fuss, and here is where art enters of its own accord--a simple portrayal of a piece of fruit can glow like the Madonna or shimmer like Napa's sun-washed fields. A homemade pie, while not art per se, can take away those junkyard blues and restore an easy countenance.
Since we have been here the trees in the yard have yielded oranges, lemons, pears, peaches, apples, plums and persimmons. None of the fruit tastes exactly like what you are used to from the grocery store. It all has an unfamiliar flavor that makes you wonder about soil composition and air; things I do not as a rule, think about.
We have a small yard where we are staying with two junk cars, one abused pickup, a rotting boat, several rusty bikes with flat tires, broken patio furniture, some old cupboards and the remains of various unfinished projects. Interspersed amongst the discarded metal the fruit trees flourish despite the less than eco-friendly environment. What one has to do with the other, you may ask--or not--is my small point; something to do with organics coexisting with industrial decomposition. Life and death, if you will tolerate such banality. But let's move on.
There has been plenty of fruit for eating and if so desired, for baking. I made my favorite apple pie and a peach tart, both thoroughly riveting. My secret: Butter crust, unadorned fruit with just enough sugar to balance any tartness edging into sweet ever so slightly. Cinnamon for apples only.
We also use the fruit as models for still-life painting. They pose for hours without a complaint. I try to capture their exact color(s), and more subjectively, their mood. In this I portray the essentialness of say, a pear, if all goes well. Let's face it, it's not the most complicated thing to draw fruit so a painter can concentrate on complexity through color and the dissonance within. For this you have to relax and allow things to happen.
The fruit in a visual composition, as in a pie, whether a pear or a persimmon, does not require precision or fuss, and here is where art enters of its own accord--a simple portrayal of a piece of fruit can glow like the Madonna or shimmer like Napa's sun-washed fields. A homemade pie, while not art per se, can take away those junkyard blues and restore an easy countenance.
Monday, May 17, 2010
#6 LEAVING HOME
Joshua Tucker planned to join the army in five weeks having attended a recruiter's presentation in his junior year in high school without telling anyone. He wanted time to distill the information, let it seep in. He dreamnt about it every night. Now he was about to graduate and was firmly resolved on a military career. His father would have to sign the papers because Joshua would only be seventeen when he graduated having started school early on a fast-track to college based on a high IQ score.
The problem was Joshua's parents were sixties leftists, his father still a Marxist with a shaken worldview, and he couldn't quite bring himself to tell them about the army. He knew his mother would go insane while his father would remain silent until he summoned the proper words to dissuade his son from this deranged idea, this faulty dream, that no doubt he could derail just as sure as his students were parted from their asinine views before they finished his course in political science at the university.
Joshua could picture clearly the scene that would ensue because he grew up hearing their views on the military, members of the military, the United States government, its reach into innocent countries just trying to farm and make baskets, the CIA, the FBI and lately Dick Cheney, the personification of everything evil in the world, but he would not be dissuaded.
Joshua was not rebelling against them; he would like to please his father but ever since he was a small boy he wanted to be a soldier although he was not allowed to have toy guns, play war games or anything related to hunting or cowboys in general though he had a a secret stash of toy soldiers given to him by an uncle that his mother thought had long been given away. He painstakingly painted the soldier's uniforms and rifles with enamel paint taking great care with authenticity. He wasn't sure what his mother would object to most: the soldiers or the chemicals in the paint but she never knew of either.
It was during dinner that evening Joshua told them his plans, brought out the paperwork with rehearsed calm, the fortitude of a soldier, before his mother went to her room hysterically bawling that her beloved son, whom she has cherished from day one, had somehow been lead astray, in fact was no longer the son she had so cushioned and protected from just this type of eventuality. "You are NOT a killer, I did not raise a killer!" she shrieked as she ran up the stairs. Joshua was prepared for this though he wished he could talk to her about his leaving home.
His father quietly poured a triple shot of whiskey from the bottle hidden in the sideboard and returned to his study muttering profanities against the ROTC in schools, crumpling the paper in his fist, tossing it against the wall vowing to never sign a document based on an absurdity as this surely was. He remained in his study drinking for twenty minutes before Joshua knocked on his door holding the form and a pen.
"With all due respect, sir, you need to sign this form."
"Don't give me that respect bullshit. You don't respect me. So be it. That's what I get for leniency; let that goddamn industrial military complex have you. Give me your paper, I'll sign. Go ahead and kill your mother. Kill yourself! Have you thought of that, soldier boy? Have you thought of college?"
"It's only for four years, sir. I'll be back and be able to go to college on the government if I want to."
"If you want to! Are you crazy? You mean if you're not dead or mangled. Thanks a lot. I've got one son and he wants to join the enemy."
"Come on Dad. Stop dramatizing. Forget the past. This is a new army."
"Utter BULLSHIT! Rubbish. That recruiter must have really done a number on you kids. In my day we would have laughed him out of the building."
"He was in a booth outside, sir."
"Cut the crap, Josh. And save the 'sir' for your commanding officers. Fuck that and fuck you. You will be sorry one day for this childish naive bullshit. When you come home without legs. Have you thought of that?" Joshua never blinked an eye; he knew he had to stand guard against emotional badgering to see this through.
After what seemed an eternity, his father grabbed the form, scribbled his name and shoved it into his son's so vulnerable chest. He thought he might cry; he somehow knew he couldn't fight this. How had he lost his only son? What could he do? Nothing. He recognized determination when he was up against it; his own father was a WWII veteran and Josh was made of the same stuff. Implacable. He couldn't fight either of them. His battles were fought over ideals, not raw power.
Joshua took the form, held out his hand to his father but his father brushed it away as if he were a pesky insect interrupting his reading. Joshua didn't press him. He didn't lose his cool and as he left his father's study he was feeling like a man of some courage. It was his first victory and it felt good.
Back in the dining room, Joshua smiled and poured himself a glass of his father's whiskey--his first ever. He had to add water to get it down. The house was now eerily quiet except for the familiar hum of the ancient refrigerator in the kitchen as he pondered the remains of the veggie burgers, the miso salad and Tofu Surprise--maybe for the last time.
The problem was Joshua's parents were sixties leftists, his father still a Marxist with a shaken worldview, and he couldn't quite bring himself to tell them about the army. He knew his mother would go insane while his father would remain silent until he summoned the proper words to dissuade his son from this deranged idea, this faulty dream, that no doubt he could derail just as sure as his students were parted from their asinine views before they finished his course in political science at the university.
Joshua could picture clearly the scene that would ensue because he grew up hearing their views on the military, members of the military, the United States government, its reach into innocent countries just trying to farm and make baskets, the CIA, the FBI and lately Dick Cheney, the personification of everything evil in the world, but he would not be dissuaded.
Joshua was not rebelling against them; he would like to please his father but ever since he was a small boy he wanted to be a soldier although he was not allowed to have toy guns, play war games or anything related to hunting or cowboys in general though he had a a secret stash of toy soldiers given to him by an uncle that his mother thought had long been given away. He painstakingly painted the soldier's uniforms and rifles with enamel paint taking great care with authenticity. He wasn't sure what his mother would object to most: the soldiers or the chemicals in the paint but she never knew of either.
It was during dinner that evening Joshua told them his plans, brought out the paperwork with rehearsed calm, the fortitude of a soldier, before his mother went to her room hysterically bawling that her beloved son, whom she has cherished from day one, had somehow been lead astray, in fact was no longer the son she had so cushioned and protected from just this type of eventuality. "You are NOT a killer, I did not raise a killer!" she shrieked as she ran up the stairs. Joshua was prepared for this though he wished he could talk to her about his leaving home.
His father quietly poured a triple shot of whiskey from the bottle hidden in the sideboard and returned to his study muttering profanities against the ROTC in schools, crumpling the paper in his fist, tossing it against the wall vowing to never sign a document based on an absurdity as this surely was. He remained in his study drinking for twenty minutes before Joshua knocked on his door holding the form and a pen.
"With all due respect, sir, you need to sign this form."
"Don't give me that respect bullshit. You don't respect me. So be it. That's what I get for leniency; let that goddamn industrial military complex have you. Give me your paper, I'll sign. Go ahead and kill your mother. Kill yourself! Have you thought of that, soldier boy? Have you thought of college?"
"It's only for four years, sir. I'll be back and be able to go to college on the government if I want to."
"If you want to! Are you crazy? You mean if you're not dead or mangled. Thanks a lot. I've got one son and he wants to join the enemy."
"Come on Dad. Stop dramatizing. Forget the past. This is a new army."
"Utter BULLSHIT! Rubbish. That recruiter must have really done a number on you kids. In my day we would have laughed him out of the building."
"He was in a booth outside, sir."
"Cut the crap, Josh. And save the 'sir' for your commanding officers. Fuck that and fuck you. You will be sorry one day for this childish naive bullshit. When you come home without legs. Have you thought of that?" Joshua never blinked an eye; he knew he had to stand guard against emotional badgering to see this through.
After what seemed an eternity, his father grabbed the form, scribbled his name and shoved it into his son's so vulnerable chest. He thought he might cry; he somehow knew he couldn't fight this. How had he lost his only son? What could he do? Nothing. He recognized determination when he was up against it; his own father was a WWII veteran and Josh was made of the same stuff. Implacable. He couldn't fight either of them. His battles were fought over ideals, not raw power.
Joshua took the form, held out his hand to his father but his father brushed it away as if he were a pesky insect interrupting his reading. Joshua didn't press him. He didn't lose his cool and as he left his father's study he was feeling like a man of some courage. It was his first victory and it felt good.
Back in the dining room, Joshua smiled and poured himself a glass of his father's whiskey--his first ever. He had to add water to get it down. The house was now eerily quiet except for the familiar hum of the ancient refrigerator in the kitchen as he pondered the remains of the veggie burgers, the miso salad and Tofu Surprise--maybe for the last time.
#5 ANOTHER AWFUL COUPLE
He said he wanted to visit me in the city. Said he has a little money and would like to buy some books, some CDs, eat and have a nice time. As it happened, I was down in the dumps and in need of company. We both harbor hopes that things can go back to where they were when we were happy, three years ago when circumstances brought us together. Before.
Before what? What is that "what" we carry a vague notion of but can't really describe? We only know that once we were content in each other's company and now we fight after two days together. We squabble, we argue, we call names, we bring up the past, we try to articulate our disdain for each other's behavior and actions. He presses my buttons, I get vexed and stop placating him. I say things he doesn't understand, he sulks, throws tantrums and fills the air with enough blather to sink us, and our surroundings. We are the classic case of a couple who can no longer abide each other but fervently hope that is not the case because we still think we are in love. We are not original or particularly amusing; there's nothing amusing about such a terrible display. Our manners run and hide and we are left with embarrassing aftershock.
Or at least I am. I'm conscious of everything that is going on and am often looking on as a third person. I could easily write this story in a third-person narrative as I sometimes feel quite removed from the drama. That is not really me having this ridiculous shouting match on the street, is it? Definitely not me exchanging barbs in Whole Foods for everyone to hear. No, that's not D. and G. unable to control themselves on the street corner; they are too cool for that.
For his part, he is not conscious. With him it is always first-person, unable to come out of himself, he sees nothing, is aware of no one, his anger a molten hot lava of irritation. He never feels embarrassment at these times as I do. The other shoppers do not exist for him. He is the great I AM.
"I am a musician, I am an artist, I am literate, I am a nice guy, always looking out for my friends, I am just trying to make you happy, I am just trying to have a nice time, I am a man." I am, I am, I am...and then there is the I am not..."I am not an idiot, I am not a fag, I am not an ape, I am not a slob, I am not trying to upset you." It goes on and on, the litany of his attributes followed by the disclaimers.
This is only a sampling of today's diatribe and you are lucky to have missed it. It went on for forty-five minutes before I broke in with a weak rejoinder and he told me to "shut the fuck up, I am talking. Why do you need to talk?" He absolutely loves to hear his voice ring out. Most of his friends are also big talkers and there is always a fight for the floor especially when they have had quite a bit to drink which is any time they get together. I have learned to say little. I enjoy intelligent conversation but that is not the point. It is to fill the air and exercise the vocal chords. Possibly the ego. My role is as listener and my contributions can go ignored unless they are in agreement with some view being put forth.
In all honesty, I really rail on his alleged faults and he never counters with the level of vitriol I can produce. He is the more intense, but alas, cannot articulate as well and resorts to profanity. An outside observer might say I am the more vicious of the two--I can really call names, like; "self-absorbed," "moron," "blathering drunk," "big baby" and "gasbag;" invectives that easily reach the tip of my tongue. For his part, all he comes up with is "weird," or "cold." He appears to be a little less ruthless but the real story is that he can't quite get a handle on me and is left with "weird" which is not something that is necessarily very insulting.
To pile an equal amount of scorn on me, he would have to have taken a good look at me, my behavior and have listened to what I've said. Here is where he comes up short during fights. He just doesn't get outside of himself enough; he is fighting a battle with no knowledge of the enemy. He knows there is a possible enemy but can't be bothered to wrap his brain around the particulars. The enemy just isn't as important as himself.
Once he leaves I feel an uncomfortable tinge of guilt. I am sorry for the things I said. I do not dislike him after all and I know that he is hurt. He needs approval more than I do. I chastise myself for losing my temper. I wonder why I have stopped humoring him, why not let him alone with his bluster. It doesn't really mean anything. Don't provoke him so much. For the first two years of our relationship this was my stance. Just smile, ignore the nonsense and let him back into the fold with grace. This strategy worked out fine. I was a veritable Edith Bunker. It was my way of sustaining a relationship, one that was important to me. Perhaps in those early days he was more entertaining, less draining.
But one day I cracked. We were on the bus. He went into a rant, complete with profanity which often happened but usually we were on one of the more downtrodden lines where his behavior was just more of the same. That day, we were on an upscale line with mothers taking children to nursery school and I could hear his angry voice forgetting himself and using words a mother would not care to have her child hear on the way to school. I pulled him off the bus and let him have it right on the street in front of those waiting to board. His grace period was over. From that day, a different mode was established. We became each other's hell.
When we separate in horror, he returning to his home and I to mine, he bristles for an hour or so before settling back into his routine. When I am finally alone, I feel remorse and confusion for a day, maybe two, and then settle back into my routine. We are both certain it is the end of this gnarly relationship and vow to let it go.
In a month he will call and I will be lonely. We will plan to spend a weekend together. We will look forward to seeing each other and again harbor hopes of making it all better. He can be said to be "hopeful" and the same can be said for me; hoping I can be still and know that he is God. That I probably won't be able to pull this off will result in more battles but I am confident of winning most of them. I know the enemy and he is easily drubbed.
Before what? What is that "what" we carry a vague notion of but can't really describe? We only know that once we were content in each other's company and now we fight after two days together. We squabble, we argue, we call names, we bring up the past, we try to articulate our disdain for each other's behavior and actions. He presses my buttons, I get vexed and stop placating him. I say things he doesn't understand, he sulks, throws tantrums and fills the air with enough blather to sink us, and our surroundings. We are the classic case of a couple who can no longer abide each other but fervently hope that is not the case because we still think we are in love. We are not original or particularly amusing; there's nothing amusing about such a terrible display. Our manners run and hide and we are left with embarrassing aftershock.
Or at least I am. I'm conscious of everything that is going on and am often looking on as a third person. I could easily write this story in a third-person narrative as I sometimes feel quite removed from the drama. That is not really me having this ridiculous shouting match on the street, is it? Definitely not me exchanging barbs in Whole Foods for everyone to hear. No, that's not D. and G. unable to control themselves on the street corner; they are too cool for that.
For his part, he is not conscious. With him it is always first-person, unable to come out of himself, he sees nothing, is aware of no one, his anger a molten hot lava of irritation. He never feels embarrassment at these times as I do. The other shoppers do not exist for him. He is the great I AM.
"I am a musician, I am an artist, I am literate, I am a nice guy, always looking out for my friends, I am just trying to make you happy, I am just trying to have a nice time, I am a man." I am, I am, I am...and then there is the I am not..."I am not an idiot, I am not a fag, I am not an ape, I am not a slob, I am not trying to upset you." It goes on and on, the litany of his attributes followed by the disclaimers.
This is only a sampling of today's diatribe and you are lucky to have missed it. It went on for forty-five minutes before I broke in with a weak rejoinder and he told me to "shut the fuck up, I am talking. Why do you need to talk?" He absolutely loves to hear his voice ring out. Most of his friends are also big talkers and there is always a fight for the floor especially when they have had quite a bit to drink which is any time they get together. I have learned to say little. I enjoy intelligent conversation but that is not the point. It is to fill the air and exercise the vocal chords. Possibly the ego. My role is as listener and my contributions can go ignored unless they are in agreement with some view being put forth.
In all honesty, I really rail on his alleged faults and he never counters with the level of vitriol I can produce. He is the more intense, but alas, cannot articulate as well and resorts to profanity. An outside observer might say I am the more vicious of the two--I can really call names, like; "self-absorbed," "moron," "blathering drunk," "big baby" and "gasbag;" invectives that easily reach the tip of my tongue. For his part, all he comes up with is "weird," or "cold." He appears to be a little less ruthless but the real story is that he can't quite get a handle on me and is left with "weird" which is not something that is necessarily very insulting.
To pile an equal amount of scorn on me, he would have to have taken a good look at me, my behavior and have listened to what I've said. Here is where he comes up short during fights. He just doesn't get outside of himself enough; he is fighting a battle with no knowledge of the enemy. He knows there is a possible enemy but can't be bothered to wrap his brain around the particulars. The enemy just isn't as important as himself.
Once he leaves I feel an uncomfortable tinge of guilt. I am sorry for the things I said. I do not dislike him after all and I know that he is hurt. He needs approval more than I do. I chastise myself for losing my temper. I wonder why I have stopped humoring him, why not let him alone with his bluster. It doesn't really mean anything. Don't provoke him so much. For the first two years of our relationship this was my stance. Just smile, ignore the nonsense and let him back into the fold with grace. This strategy worked out fine. I was a veritable Edith Bunker. It was my way of sustaining a relationship, one that was important to me. Perhaps in those early days he was more entertaining, less draining.
But one day I cracked. We were on the bus. He went into a rant, complete with profanity which often happened but usually we were on one of the more downtrodden lines where his behavior was just more of the same. That day, we were on an upscale line with mothers taking children to nursery school and I could hear his angry voice forgetting himself and using words a mother would not care to have her child hear on the way to school. I pulled him off the bus and let him have it right on the street in front of those waiting to board. His grace period was over. From that day, a different mode was established. We became each other's hell.
When we separate in horror, he returning to his home and I to mine, he bristles for an hour or so before settling back into his routine. When I am finally alone, I feel remorse and confusion for a day, maybe two, and then settle back into my routine. We are both certain it is the end of this gnarly relationship and vow to let it go.
In a month he will call and I will be lonely. We will plan to spend a weekend together. We will look forward to seeing each other and again harbor hopes of making it all better. He can be said to be "hopeful" and the same can be said for me; hoping I can be still and know that he is God. That I probably won't be able to pull this off will result in more battles but I am confident of winning most of them. I know the enemy and he is easily drubbed.
Friday, May 14, 2010
#4 CHANGE OF PLANS
This is a story in six sentences, an idea I got from sixsentences.blogspot.com. There is also a site called Narrative.com that publishes stories of six words but that's going too far, don't you think?
Mary was briskly approaching Harrods food emporium eager to choose from the vast array of gourmet luxuries for her luncheon with her lover, Bernard, a scientist working for the government, when she felt someone or something grab her ankle.
Startled, she looked down at a greasy-looking woman sitting on a tattered blanket with a baby, perhaps 18 months old, murmuring a plea for milk for the child preferably in the form of spare change.
Slightly rattled by her near fall, Mary entered Harrods and began filling her basket with all the delicacies Bernard loved, buoyant in the certainty that he was finally going to propose, blissfully unaware that he was planning to end their two-year affair that afternoon if he could muster the courage which he must.
As she hummed a tune going through the checkout, packing her large shopping bag with loving care, her cell phone rang and it was Bernard himself ringing to say he was sorry to have to cancel their luncheon that in fact he was leaving for the states that night with his wife and daughter for an extended stay, all very sudden, yes unexpected, nerve-wracking actually but what could he do?
Mary bit her lip to keep from screaming in such an imposing milieu realizing she couldn't retrace her steps and undo the shopping, the foolish sentiment put into it, or the hefty charge on her credit card and was in fact arranging his favorite smoked herring on the top of the bag next to the out-of-season strawberries and a selection of imported cheeses.
She knew she had to stay poised until she got into a taxi and reached her own doorstep and was hastily exiting the store when she heard the familiar refrain from the greasy-looking woman on the blanket begging for spare change for the child's milk, and Mary thinking it was years ago when she first heard this mewling, looked down, a mangled bawl escaping her throat, and dropped her shopping bag with the expensive items bought especially for her lover who would never know what he missed onto the wretched blanket much to the surprise of the woman and the delight of the child.
Mary was briskly approaching Harrods food emporium eager to choose from the vast array of gourmet luxuries for her luncheon with her lover, Bernard, a scientist working for the government, when she felt someone or something grab her ankle.
Startled, she looked down at a greasy-looking woman sitting on a tattered blanket with a baby, perhaps 18 months old, murmuring a plea for milk for the child preferably in the form of spare change.
Slightly rattled by her near fall, Mary entered Harrods and began filling her basket with all the delicacies Bernard loved, buoyant in the certainty that he was finally going to propose, blissfully unaware that he was planning to end their two-year affair that afternoon if he could muster the courage which he must.
As she hummed a tune going through the checkout, packing her large shopping bag with loving care, her cell phone rang and it was Bernard himself ringing to say he was sorry to have to cancel their luncheon that in fact he was leaving for the states that night with his wife and daughter for an extended stay, all very sudden, yes unexpected, nerve-wracking actually but what could he do?
Mary bit her lip to keep from screaming in such an imposing milieu realizing she couldn't retrace her steps and undo the shopping, the foolish sentiment put into it, or the hefty charge on her credit card and was in fact arranging his favorite smoked herring on the top of the bag next to the out-of-season strawberries and a selection of imported cheeses.
She knew she had to stay poised until she got into a taxi and reached her own doorstep and was hastily exiting the store when she heard the familiar refrain from the greasy-looking woman on the blanket begging for spare change for the child's milk, and Mary thinking it was years ago when she first heard this mewling, looked down, a mangled bawl escaping her throat, and dropped her shopping bag with the expensive items bought especially for her lover who would never know what he missed onto the wretched blanket much to the surprise of the woman and the delight of the child.
Monday, May 10, 2010
#3 EXCITEMENT
Magda sat rocking ferociously on her small antique rocker and to the outside observer, she might seem tense. Her flatmates thought her so, and sometimes she was.
But not today. Today's rocking had to do with something more exquisite; a glorious release of tension that Magda herself had no real idea of except that she was dreaming hard all night and in those dreams, things were resolving.
She knew about about a deep-seated issue that had possibly been plaguing her for years but she could not be certain if it had really been quelled, or if she was just a little keyed-up for a Tuesday morning in general.
Despite the rocking, that to an outside observer might seem overly energetic, her head was strangely calm while her body and heart roiled with excitement. Her boyfriend asked her if she wanted to go to the store but she couldn't concentrate on groceries even though she knew she needed them. She kept rocking and staring at the blank wall, recently painted a soft gray, enjoying the calm in her head thinking that it is so rare to to get the brain to shut up it feels like a miracle. Or at the very least, a fantastic new drug.
People came and went; the landlord, the electrician, her boyfriend's aunt. Eventually she went to the computer and paid a bill and felt excited about that and decided to go for a walk. The day was chilly and overcast but the air was invigorating causing Magda's body to move with a distinct swagger. She dialed her sister and they had an voluble conversation about money, the economy and the state of the nation. She thought of telling her about the dreams and her excitement and what it might mean but didn't want her high spirit defused by excess verbiage; especially from a stockbroker.
Magda didn't really know, but wondered, what was going on in her subconscious mind and if the calm excitement represents more of the same, or a reversal...the ever-tardy removal of the thorn.
But not today. Today's rocking had to do with something more exquisite; a glorious release of tension that Magda herself had no real idea of except that she was dreaming hard all night and in those dreams, things were resolving.
She knew about about a deep-seated issue that had possibly been plaguing her for years but she could not be certain if it had really been quelled, or if she was just a little keyed-up for a Tuesday morning in general.
Despite the rocking, that to an outside observer might seem overly energetic, her head was strangely calm while her body and heart roiled with excitement. Her boyfriend asked her if she wanted to go to the store but she couldn't concentrate on groceries even though she knew she needed them. She kept rocking and staring at the blank wall, recently painted a soft gray, enjoying the calm in her head thinking that it is so rare to to get the brain to shut up it feels like a miracle. Or at the very least, a fantastic new drug.
People came and went; the landlord, the electrician, her boyfriend's aunt. Eventually she went to the computer and paid a bill and felt excited about that and decided to go for a walk. The day was chilly and overcast but the air was invigorating causing Magda's body to move with a distinct swagger. She dialed her sister and they had an voluble conversation about money, the economy and the state of the nation. She thought of telling her about the dreams and her excitement and what it might mean but didn't want her high spirit defused by excess verbiage; especially from a stockbroker.
Magda didn't really know, but wondered, what was going on in her subconscious mind and if the calm excitement represents more of the same, or a reversal...the ever-tardy removal of the thorn.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
#2 UNEMPLOYMENT BLUES
There comes a time when some of us hit the wall. We go through a bad spell...we break down, a shift takes place and we go from being what we think of as ourselves and turn uncomfortably into someone else. We may be the same on the outside, but inside, we are this other person we really can't stand.
There are any number of reasons why this could be happening and we can examine all of them at our leisure if we so desire but for Billie McInery, sudden unemployment was the catalyst. In this, she was not alone. We are, as the media says, in a recession. Quite severe, they say, though not as fatal as a depression such as the one in 1929.
Billie began this recession thinking it only a small glitch and she would glide through it. She would most certainly find another job without too much trouble. She had, after all, marketable skills, an impressive degree and a sharp professional appearance.
Despite Billie's upbeat attitude, she realized that to get through this recession she would need to watch her spending; an innocent enough phrase, "watch your spending," that turned into a sort of death watch; death of life as she knew it. As the weeks went by and a job did not turn up, every cent had to be accounted for. Gone were the days of spontaneous spending with nary a thought. It started with no more innocent cups of coffee in a cafe and cutting down on the cable bill. Then dry cleaning had to go, taxis, forget about it, new clothes, a thing of the past, a drink in a bar, I don't think so, lunch in her favorite restaurant, better not. Magazine and newspaper subscriptions lie fallow, cell phone use limited but still a necessity. She was reduced to fretting about extra time in the dryer in the laundromat which she now had to use.
While in the laundromat, a derelict asked her for money and she broke down and cried while adding the fabric softener. In better days she might have given him a dollar or some change but now he ended up asking if he could help her. He offered to carry home her laundry but this she politely declined - he then witnessed the container of detergent bounced onto the sidewalk while she struggled to get out of the door. He looked at her with pity and she knew she had traversed another world.
After five months, her funds got so low she not only had to take the bus everywhere, but worried if she could even afford that. Her previous business attire, which served her so well for the past year was looking ever so slightly shabby and dated and she pondered whether a new suit or a dress for job interviews should be charged on her credit card but couldn't decide if this was a necessity or a gamble. She was in an endless cycle of worry that she knew from reading self-help books was not productive but had to let her therapist go as well as the yoga class.
What Billie dreaded most were the calls from her mother. Always slightly overwrought in the best of times, she now had a new excuse for it; her daughter being unemployment in an expensive city with only a pittance in unemployment compensation, a lease on an apartment and a boyfriend who left town. She called daily to see if Billie wanted to come home, something Billie was definitely not ready to do. Moving from home had been the happiest day of her life and whenever she felt a bit battered by life, she would relive the exhilaration she experienced the day she rented a U-Haul van and moved her things to the college dorm with the help of her brother. As the rental pulled away, she felt nothing but relief and vowed never to live with her mother again. She would do well at school and later in her chosen career to make sure she kept this vow. It wasn't that she hated her mother, she just did not admire her and could no longer tolerate her theatrics. They had never been close and when she remarried when Billie was in high school, a man Billie secretly called the Toad, it was the official end of mother/daughter closeness. She knew she might be cold, her mother said so, but so be it. Billie had her dream; to wheel and deal in the financial sector and buy a beautiful apartment with a terrace and a fireplace. She was only three years into her career when the recession put her dreams in a no-man's land of uncertainty.
She was not the only one in this dilemma; many were unemployed due to a human glut of college-educated paper pushers although very little paper is used in most professions today. We are now word or number processors but there is a convulsive force decreeing that all the words and numbers have been over processed and now we need less processors, less words, less numbers--in fact, less of everything. What are all the former processors, some with families and pets supposed to do? Even Billie's cat was now in dire need.
Billie visited a support group for the newly unemployed the day after the incident in the laundromat. There are options, said the hail and hearty career counselor. Billie was advised to: retrain, start a business, go for an advanced degree, consider relocating to a different job market, move into cheaper digs in a cheaper town and if necessary, move in with relatives. As a bonus on how to weather the days ahead, she was told to eat at home, clip coupons, avoid department stores, make her gifts, share child care and transportation, read more, watch TV less, use the public library, walk more, it's good exercise and the gym is too expensive anyway, and when all else fails talk to God. Or a higher power if the word "God" makes you nervous.
Billie recoiled into a ball and stayed in bed the rest of the day digesting all that had been said and then trying to forget all that had been said. That is not the way to live, she lamented. Being cheap is not God's way she wouldn't think, but couldn't be sure because she had been thinking so much she could no longer think straight. Her momentum had dried up as well as her cheerful outlook and she knew she was sinking and didn't even mind so much if only others were not looking down on her. She actually considered talking to God because she somehow thought she was in the wrong and she wanted to be right; as she always had been. She did talk to God after her father's death and was exasperated with her mother but she grew out of it and concentrated on planning a life that was independent of everything and everyone. Demeaning wasn't her style.
Sudden unemployment reminds us that we are disposable, not in control of our destiny and if there is a family, other things factor in; things that verge on the emotional that really shouldn't be bothering us at this crucial time. But in the end we find emotions are almost the entire picture. Where did they come from? Billie had been proud that she had established her orderly life in the city and was away from drama, trauma and the ridiculousness that had constituted her family life in the suburbs. Her mother and stepfather smoked pot regularly; drank wine all night and listened to disheartening old rock records from the '60s that made Billie want to wretch with disdain. Things weren't like this when her father was alive. He was an adult and she missed him sorely after he died when she was in junior high. She knew she would now have to be the adult but could manage her mother until the Toad came along and turned their home into a shrine of his counterculture past. There was a framed poster of Jim Morrison in the foyer where once a pleasing landscape painted by her great grandmother during a trip to France in the 1920s had hung. Billie retrieved it from the basement storage room and it now hung in her studio apartment above the un-working, ornamental fireplace. Someday, she thought, it would hang above a real fireplace.
Billie was past the stage of spending in a rebellious spirit. She bought those new shoes, had that really pricey lunch to cheer herself up and brought a really good bottle of wine to a family gathering where no one knew or cared how much better it was than what they usually drank. Afterward she felt guilty or sad over her solitary weaknesses and angry because the shoes weren't really comfortable and she hadn't saved the receipt and now would have to go back to the store in a pleading position which is a huge drain on the spirit. The salesman has seen an increased influx of returns and knew what she was about, making Billie feel even smaller.
Without working, shopping, bars, cafes or movies, time begins to hang heavy. If you're lucky you find a newspaper on the bus and can sit in the square and read for a half hour. Maybe you will read something pertinent to your situation. You could look for a job but everyone says there's nothing out there and you sort of want to believe them but know in your soul that there is something for you personally because you are special. You then feel guilty because you haven't found it and then erratically think I have got to start buying lottery tickets and then realize they cost money too. You laugh at yourself because you are so desperate and you wonder who else knows it and how you can either repair or hide your beleaguered self-image. Your thinking is getting more woeful with each day and you'd like to have a drink by four in the afternoon but are watching those pennies and the equilibrium. One day Billie broke down and bought something cheap that gave her a headache and wasn't worth it after all. She decided not to succumb to such weakness in the future and hoped she could keep this resolution. Even cruising Bloomingdale's was better as long as she didn't buy anything.
After a small fortune spent from her father's legacy for a good university education, she is in the same boat with waiters, store clerks, fitness instructors and personal shoppers. Her brother with half her brains went to refrigeration school and just bought a cabin on a lake for summer use, paid off his house and is not only employed with overtime, but has side work that he can't keep up with. He threatens, with a hearty laugh, to take time off someday to have some fun. His wife stays at home and takes flower arranging classes, gardens and shops. She sort of pities Billie but tries not to say anything offensive. Bitter chagrin, that one.
Billie has not hit the proverbial wall yet though her mood is gloomy and her rent is past due. She does not recognize herself these days and avoids old friends. She feels very sorry for those with children and mortgages going through this. The guy she was seeing who seemed to have so much promise as a trader had to move back home and is now working as a manager of his uncle's video store that is not doing so well because of Netflix and other online options and will soon close. He is now history but she misses companionship and intimacy. She did consider buying a lottery ticket yesterday but chided herself and gave up the idea as fantastical and not her thing at all. She had a fleeting thought she might become flaky like her mother and made an appointment at still another employment agency as soon as the thought crossed her mind. When she ran into a friend on the street who was wearing the dress Billie had hoped to buy when it went on sale, she wanted to run the other way but decided to take it in stride.
"Coffee? I'd love to but I'm afraid I've got to run. Maybe another time. No I haven't found a job yet so if you hear of anything...no, I'm fine. Busy, you know. Hey, congratulations on your promotion. No, we broke up. He moved back to Ohio. Yeah, I'll call you soon. No, I'm fine really..."
There are any number of reasons why this could be happening and we can examine all of them at our leisure if we so desire but for Billie McInery, sudden unemployment was the catalyst. In this, she was not alone. We are, as the media says, in a recession. Quite severe, they say, though not as fatal as a depression such as the one in 1929.
Billie began this recession thinking it only a small glitch and she would glide through it. She would most certainly find another job without too much trouble. She had, after all, marketable skills, an impressive degree and a sharp professional appearance.
Despite Billie's upbeat attitude, she realized that to get through this recession she would need to watch her spending; an innocent enough phrase, "watch your spending," that turned into a sort of death watch; death of life as she knew it. As the weeks went by and a job did not turn up, every cent had to be accounted for. Gone were the days of spontaneous spending with nary a thought. It started with no more innocent cups of coffee in a cafe and cutting down on the cable bill. Then dry cleaning had to go, taxis, forget about it, new clothes, a thing of the past, a drink in a bar, I don't think so, lunch in her favorite restaurant, better not. Magazine and newspaper subscriptions lie fallow, cell phone use limited but still a necessity. She was reduced to fretting about extra time in the dryer in the laundromat which she now had to use.
While in the laundromat, a derelict asked her for money and she broke down and cried while adding the fabric softener. In better days she might have given him a dollar or some change but now he ended up asking if he could help her. He offered to carry home her laundry but this she politely declined - he then witnessed the container of detergent bounced onto the sidewalk while she struggled to get out of the door. He looked at her with pity and she knew she had traversed another world.
After five months, her funds got so low she not only had to take the bus everywhere, but worried if she could even afford that. Her previous business attire, which served her so well for the past year was looking ever so slightly shabby and dated and she pondered whether a new suit or a dress for job interviews should be charged on her credit card but couldn't decide if this was a necessity or a gamble. She was in an endless cycle of worry that she knew from reading self-help books was not productive but had to let her therapist go as well as the yoga class.
What Billie dreaded most were the calls from her mother. Always slightly overwrought in the best of times, she now had a new excuse for it; her daughter being unemployment in an expensive city with only a pittance in unemployment compensation, a lease on an apartment and a boyfriend who left town. She called daily to see if Billie wanted to come home, something Billie was definitely not ready to do. Moving from home had been the happiest day of her life and whenever she felt a bit battered by life, she would relive the exhilaration she experienced the day she rented a U-Haul van and moved her things to the college dorm with the help of her brother. As the rental pulled away, she felt nothing but relief and vowed never to live with her mother again. She would do well at school and later in her chosen career to make sure she kept this vow. It wasn't that she hated her mother, she just did not admire her and could no longer tolerate her theatrics. They had never been close and when she remarried when Billie was in high school, a man Billie secretly called the Toad, it was the official end of mother/daughter closeness. She knew she might be cold, her mother said so, but so be it. Billie had her dream; to wheel and deal in the financial sector and buy a beautiful apartment with a terrace and a fireplace. She was only three years into her career when the recession put her dreams in a no-man's land of uncertainty.
She was not the only one in this dilemma; many were unemployed due to a human glut of college-educated paper pushers although very little paper is used in most professions today. We are now word or number processors but there is a convulsive force decreeing that all the words and numbers have been over processed and now we need less processors, less words, less numbers--in fact, less of everything. What are all the former processors, some with families and pets supposed to do? Even Billie's cat was now in dire need.
Billie visited a support group for the newly unemployed the day after the incident in the laundromat. There are options, said the hail and hearty career counselor. Billie was advised to: retrain, start a business, go for an advanced degree, consider relocating to a different job market, move into cheaper digs in a cheaper town and if necessary, move in with relatives. As a bonus on how to weather the days ahead, she was told to eat at home, clip coupons, avoid department stores, make her gifts, share child care and transportation, read more, watch TV less, use the public library, walk more, it's good exercise and the gym is too expensive anyway, and when all else fails talk to God. Or a higher power if the word "God" makes you nervous.
Billie recoiled into a ball and stayed in bed the rest of the day digesting all that had been said and then trying to forget all that had been said. That is not the way to live, she lamented. Being cheap is not God's way she wouldn't think, but couldn't be sure because she had been thinking so much she could no longer think straight. Her momentum had dried up as well as her cheerful outlook and she knew she was sinking and didn't even mind so much if only others were not looking down on her. She actually considered talking to God because she somehow thought she was in the wrong and she wanted to be right; as she always had been. She did talk to God after her father's death and was exasperated with her mother but she grew out of it and concentrated on planning a life that was independent of everything and everyone. Demeaning wasn't her style.
Sudden unemployment reminds us that we are disposable, not in control of our destiny and if there is a family, other things factor in; things that verge on the emotional that really shouldn't be bothering us at this crucial time. But in the end we find emotions are almost the entire picture. Where did they come from? Billie had been proud that she had established her orderly life in the city and was away from drama, trauma and the ridiculousness that had constituted her family life in the suburbs. Her mother and stepfather smoked pot regularly; drank wine all night and listened to disheartening old rock records from the '60s that made Billie want to wretch with disdain. Things weren't like this when her father was alive. He was an adult and she missed him sorely after he died when she was in junior high. She knew she would now have to be the adult but could manage her mother until the Toad came along and turned their home into a shrine of his counterculture past. There was a framed poster of Jim Morrison in the foyer where once a pleasing landscape painted by her great grandmother during a trip to France in the 1920s had hung. Billie retrieved it from the basement storage room and it now hung in her studio apartment above the un-working, ornamental fireplace. Someday, she thought, it would hang above a real fireplace.
Billie was past the stage of spending in a rebellious spirit. She bought those new shoes, had that really pricey lunch to cheer herself up and brought a really good bottle of wine to a family gathering where no one knew or cared how much better it was than what they usually drank. Afterward she felt guilty or sad over her solitary weaknesses and angry because the shoes weren't really comfortable and she hadn't saved the receipt and now would have to go back to the store in a pleading position which is a huge drain on the spirit. The salesman has seen an increased influx of returns and knew what she was about, making Billie feel even smaller.
Without working, shopping, bars, cafes or movies, time begins to hang heavy. If you're lucky you find a newspaper on the bus and can sit in the square and read for a half hour. Maybe you will read something pertinent to your situation. You could look for a job but everyone says there's nothing out there and you sort of want to believe them but know in your soul that there is something for you personally because you are special. You then feel guilty because you haven't found it and then erratically think I have got to start buying lottery tickets and then realize they cost money too. You laugh at yourself because you are so desperate and you wonder who else knows it and how you can either repair or hide your beleaguered self-image. Your thinking is getting more woeful with each day and you'd like to have a drink by four in the afternoon but are watching those pennies and the equilibrium. One day Billie broke down and bought something cheap that gave her a headache and wasn't worth it after all. She decided not to succumb to such weakness in the future and hoped she could keep this resolution. Even cruising Bloomingdale's was better as long as she didn't buy anything.
After a small fortune spent from her father's legacy for a good university education, she is in the same boat with waiters, store clerks, fitness instructors and personal shoppers. Her brother with half her brains went to refrigeration school and just bought a cabin on a lake for summer use, paid off his house and is not only employed with overtime, but has side work that he can't keep up with. He threatens, with a hearty laugh, to take time off someday to have some fun. His wife stays at home and takes flower arranging classes, gardens and shops. She sort of pities Billie but tries not to say anything offensive. Bitter chagrin, that one.
Billie has not hit the proverbial wall yet though her mood is gloomy and her rent is past due. She does not recognize herself these days and avoids old friends. She feels very sorry for those with children and mortgages going through this. The guy she was seeing who seemed to have so much promise as a trader had to move back home and is now working as a manager of his uncle's video store that is not doing so well because of Netflix and other online options and will soon close. He is now history but she misses companionship and intimacy. She did consider buying a lottery ticket yesterday but chided herself and gave up the idea as fantastical and not her thing at all. She had a fleeting thought she might become flaky like her mother and made an appointment at still another employment agency as soon as the thought crossed her mind. When she ran into a friend on the street who was wearing the dress Billie had hoped to buy when it went on sale, she wanted to run the other way but decided to take it in stride.
"Coffee? I'd love to but I'm afraid I've got to run. Maybe another time. No I haven't found a job yet so if you hear of anything...no, I'm fine. Busy, you know. Hey, congratulations on your promotion. No, we broke up. He moved back to Ohio. Yeah, I'll call you soon. No, I'm fine really..."
#1 LOSS TIMES TWO
This morning my husband came out of his usual ennui and made a go of doing some household chores. He brought the trash and recycling bins from the street, swept the sidewalks, tidied up the porch, raked a few leaves from under the orange tree and chopped a small pile of wood.
He loaded the dishwasher, cleaned all the pots and pans, swept the kitchen floor, threw out all of the old food in the refrigerator, took a chicken from the freezer for dinner and looked up a recipe for coq au vin, alphabetized the spices and threw away those at least five years old and made a new shopping list.
He washed the sheets, hung them to dry, dusted the telephone table and removed all excess clutter and paper, rearranged the bookshelves, took up the rug in his den and beat it, put all of his archeology magazines in order and made a display, picked some odd flowers and arranged them in a vase for his desk. He then sat down to watch TV and drink a beer.
I sent one e-mail, checked my bank balances and drank two cups of coffee while reading The Wall Street Journal, all sections from front to back.
And still I complain of him. What is this mysterious fission that runs through our days? And more important, can the divide ever be traversed?
I don't know when exactly I fell out of love. One year I was exuberant, joyous I might even say, and the next year wildly vexed although I have not yet left him.
He is confused, as anyone would be, and at times lashes out at me. I lash back at him and for a moment or two I am adamant that I must find my way out of this disturbing relationship. He throws things and I slam doors.
Three time, so far, I did try to leave, went back to the city, but after two weeks missed familiar companionship and what once was. He takes me back freely without recrimination until we have another squabble and he flings my various departures back at me with scorn. He is holding a grudge but I am none too cool myself.
Yesterday his mood was bad and mine was good. Saturday he felt fine and I was a witch. Sunday I'm okay again, he's in the dumps. We seem unable to synchronize our highs and lows.
I wonder where it all went, what it all means and when it all ends. He just fulminates and blusters, which sets me off again. I need his guidance for our break--I can't seem to do it alone. He refuses to acknowledge the impending break or help me with decisions. We are at an impasse or possibly and abyss.
Today we picked persimmons from the tree and each of us did a rather good drawing of them. He framed his and presented it to me like a proud child wanting to impress his mother. Mine remains in my sketchbook but I keep it open for viewing. His style is whimsical while mine is naturalistic and somewhere in this comparison I know the key to our differences can be discerned but that is a long shot.
Last night we popped popcorn in the microwave and watched "The Guns of Navarone." Lately it has come to our attention that we do not, as a rule, like the same movies. We've stopped sleeping together though we both think it is temporary.
He says I am growing colder by the day, and I think, but do not say, he has always been somewhat cold. Nevertheless, he is right and I suppose that makes me wrong.
No, I don't know when exactly I fell out of love...tomorrow we will visit friends in the city who knew us when we were happy.
He loaded the dishwasher, cleaned all the pots and pans, swept the kitchen floor, threw out all of the old food in the refrigerator, took a chicken from the freezer for dinner and looked up a recipe for coq au vin, alphabetized the spices and threw away those at least five years old and made a new shopping list.
He washed the sheets, hung them to dry, dusted the telephone table and removed all excess clutter and paper, rearranged the bookshelves, took up the rug in his den and beat it, put all of his archeology magazines in order and made a display, picked some odd flowers and arranged them in a vase for his desk. He then sat down to watch TV and drink a beer.
I sent one e-mail, checked my bank balances and drank two cups of coffee while reading The Wall Street Journal, all sections from front to back.
And still I complain of him. What is this mysterious fission that runs through our days? And more important, can the divide ever be traversed?
I don't know when exactly I fell out of love. One year I was exuberant, joyous I might even say, and the next year wildly vexed although I have not yet left him.
He is confused, as anyone would be, and at times lashes out at me. I lash back at him and for a moment or two I am adamant that I must find my way out of this disturbing relationship. He throws things and I slam doors.
Three time, so far, I did try to leave, went back to the city, but after two weeks missed familiar companionship and what once was. He takes me back freely without recrimination until we have another squabble and he flings my various departures back at me with scorn. He is holding a grudge but I am none too cool myself.
Yesterday his mood was bad and mine was good. Saturday he felt fine and I was a witch. Sunday I'm okay again, he's in the dumps. We seem unable to synchronize our highs and lows.
I wonder where it all went, what it all means and when it all ends. He just fulminates and blusters, which sets me off again. I need his guidance for our break--I can't seem to do it alone. He refuses to acknowledge the impending break or help me with decisions. We are at an impasse or possibly and abyss.
Today we picked persimmons from the tree and each of us did a rather good drawing of them. He framed his and presented it to me like a proud child wanting to impress his mother. Mine remains in my sketchbook but I keep it open for viewing. His style is whimsical while mine is naturalistic and somewhere in this comparison I know the key to our differences can be discerned but that is a long shot.
Last night we popped popcorn in the microwave and watched "The Guns of Navarone." Lately it has come to our attention that we do not, as a rule, like the same movies. We've stopped sleeping together though we both think it is temporary.
He says I am growing colder by the day, and I think, but do not say, he has always been somewhat cold. Nevertheless, he is right and I suppose that makes me wrong.
No, I don't know when exactly I fell out of love...tomorrow we will visit friends in the city who knew us when we were happy.
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