Thursday, March 31, 2011
# 74 CAUSE AND EFFECT
Her dress was so sheer she had been raped several times without being made aware.
Monday, March 28, 2011
#73 MADAME MERLE'S RETURN
This is a chapter from my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady." I think it works as a short story, singular yet part of a whole. In any case, Madame Merle has been suitably recalled to action.
Isabel Osmond and her stepdaughter Pansy were seated in the lobby of the Hotel de Londres waiting for Isabel’s friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling. Mrs. Bantling had been detained by a telegram from her paper, The Interviewer on her latest submission. The paper wanted a more extensive coverage of a museum theft that had taken place in the last week. It tied in with Mrs. Bantling’s feature on small out-of-the-way art museums of Italy. The theft of an important Titian was big news, a sign that art was no longer of interest to a few well-traveled highbrows and was gaining not only in viewers but in that most respected of entities, the American dollar.
While the two women waited, seated on a lounge in the front of the lobby, not at all impatient, Isabel surveyed the lively atmosphere and was startled to see leaving the dining room the personage of Madame Merle, an entirely unexpected sight though not completely a surprise. Isabel had heard that Madame Merle was back in Europe though she had not heard she was at this particular hotel in Rome and wondered if Henrietta knew and why she hadn’t mentioned it. The two women had never got on in a big way; Henrietta thought Madame Merle affected and Madame Merle did not think of Henrietta in any way at all but if she were forced to make an assessment, she would say the lady journalist could do with a bit more subtlety, a little more seasoning but that if she remained in Europe for any time, these things would come. She would lose some of her American brashness and all to the better would be the lady of high culture’s opinion.
Isabel was thankful Pansy was in the enthrall of a Mr. Harold Ludlow, her nephew who was touring Italy with group of fellow-medical students from Oxford, residing in a small pension nearby. Pansy was oblivious to Madame Merle’s presence. Mr. Ludlow was busy paying the utmost attention to Miss Osmond: a young woman whose likeness he had heretofore never encountered. This was the second meeting with Miss Osmond--they had been introduced the previous day in St. Peter’s Square where the students were sightseeing and happened upon Pansy and Mrs. Osmond, Mr. and Mrs. Bantling and an elderly Italian by the name of Signor Castellini whose business was in art restoration and authentication though his opinion could not be taken to the bank, did not carry that sort of weight a professional curator or scholar would carry.
To say Harold Ludlow was enthralled would not do him justice: He was a man of thoughtful disposition, not subject to whimsical notions or unattainable ideals. What he saw in Pansy Osmond was not a flight of fancy or a romantic interlude pressed upon him that lacked grounding. Without making the young man sound brittle, what he saw in this young lady was his future wife, a helpmate, a partner with whom he could live his life, in his chosen occupation with as little turmoil or dalliance as his nature required though to say that he was impervious to the young lady’s charm was to do him another injustice. He was as susceptible to grace as any other man of two and twenty, to what the Romantics call inspiration. He was likewise not immune to Italy’s golden sway.
On this second meeting, not altogether unplanned by Mr. Ludlow, with his attention solely placed on Miss Osmond, Isabel was quick to note that Madame Merle had been observing the young couple from a distance, in fact was quite enthralled herself by the spectacle of her daughter and the young man though she dared not prolong her viewing: she wished not to be noticed by Isabel Osmond or Pansy herself at this time. But she saw what she saw and there was no mistaking exactly what it was she saw: Her daughter and a young, good-looking, polite American were absorbed completely in each other in a way that precluded any other deduction than that the two young people could only be described as wholly in a state of adoration. Madame Merle recognized that exalted state when it was presented in its naked form and she drew into the shadow of a hallway and out of sight, unable to add anything to this tableau that could in any way beautify it. She would have to find out who the young man’s antecedents were but despite his background, she suspected Pansy would not be talked out of this relationship so easily by her father. She wondered if Isabel, who seemed unruffled by this scene of easy compatibility had her hand in it.
Madame Merle thought she may have to write Osmond but then decided against it. She would wait and see what transpired. She could do nothing else and entered her suite with a renewed sense of purpose though what that purpose was, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that her daughter had grown into a remarkable woman and this realization made her heart sing for the first time since the girl’s unlikely birth twenty years ago and many lifetimes, or so it seemed to the grand signora in the most lavish suite in a hotel catering to the English, and more recently, the Americans. She had never looked or felt better. Her spirit was a marvel of grand inspiration and capability. One could not argue with wealth, she thought, it beats just about everything and she spent her days being grateful to a Schubert sonata that melted the heart of an American businessman and allowed fate to intervene in a life that had grown wearisome indeed.
It turns out that writing Osmond would not necessary. Serena Merle Halpern was entering a palatial drawing room of an old friend with much of the Eternal City’s recently displaced nobility in attendance. Mrs. Halpern as Madame Merle, was well-known in this tight circle and was frequently invited but she had been away, in America, and as she’d only recently arrived back in Rome, unexpectedly early, found a surprising invitation, thinking not a soul knew of her recent reoccupation of the city she calls home although as a world traveler, home is not an apt description except to say that it is the city where she holds the lease on a small apartment filled with her collection of lace and porcelain, much of it quite valuable, samples of her watercolour attempts, including a pleasing one of Gardencourt, two sketches by Gilbert Osmond of herself seated on a chair in the garden in his Florentine villa when she was younger and one of the Roman Campagna.
Her gown was a deep burgundy velvet recently purchased in Paris and over it was an ivory lace mantel with the smallest of filigree beading to enhance its sheen. As a rule, she wore no jewelry but tonight there could be seen on her left hand a band of gold with two small flawless diamonds flanking a deep blue sapphire in a bezel setting, a gift from her husband of ten weeks, also purchased in Paris where the couple spent a month, a honeymoon, if you will.
As Mrs. Halpern adjusted her eyes to the ornate décor of the splendid room it took her only the briefest moment to note that her old lover and co-conspirator, Gilbert Osmond was seated in the far west corner beside the fireplace. He was talking to Prince Viticonti, a nephew of the Marchesa Viticonti who could be seen at the other end of the setee the prince was seated on. Slightly taken aback, Mrs. Halpern registered only the smallest reaction before she regained her composure enough to greet several acquaintances, accepted congratulations on her marriage and was forced to explain why her husband was not with them that evening. "Mr. Halpern left for Milan on business to return in one week. I stayed in Rome to oversee the packing up of my apartment; we are to move into more spacious accommodations in the Palazzo Michelangeli on the via Conditti." Though the newlyweds would be only a year at most in Italy, it was to be a luxurious year and she planned to reciprocate all the many invitations she’d received over the years; her spacious new palazzo to host an open house each Saturday. Madame Merle was not above wanting to show her success to the world that had written her off as not quite up to the standards of entertaining Roman society generally favored. Unlike Osmond, she was not seeking envy, she was not egotistical in that way, but she did want respect and having money, a lot of it, would garner her that.
She swelled inside thinking of it as she had ever since her precipitant and unforeseen marriage to an American manufacturer took place. How could she have known when boarding the ship in Liverpool last spring, in heavy-hearted exile, that she would return shortly thereafter a rich woman with a generous husband. It made her dizzy thinking of it, a still so very unlikely a prospect at her age. She’d given up that ambition; marriage to a man of substance, battered by the forces that had played out in her life. That she had played all the wrong cards did not escape the mind this introspective woman of forty-eight. But it is said that America is the land of opportunity and that is just what happened upon Madame Merle as she played a resonate trio of piano pieces from Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart for a party of placid though exceedingly well-to-do citizens of New York.
Mr. Gerald Halpern was of the audience and found himself stimulated by the music in a way he had never been before. It was something quite unexpected and opened a place in his mind or was it his heart, he wasn’t quite sure but it left him feeling strangely uplifted. Before leaving, he made a point of thanking the lady recently arrived from Europe for her playing, intent on telling her how much it moved him though he felt shy admitting to such an unmanly reaction. That she was almost diffident to his compliment stirred something else in him. Were all Europeans so casual about their superior attributes? Was it a commonplace to be able to so skillfully play what Halpern thought surely complicated scores, more complex than anything he’d ever heard played in Chicago or even here in New York? What Madame Merle did for our manufacturer of wheels was to increase his awareness and bring to light a world he had heretofore been too busy to take part in, a world he thought might hold some interest for him. He left the party in a state of a mind quite inexplicable to him--one of expansion. He called on the stunning European lady the next day. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might hold the key to his future.
Mrs. Halpern found herself next to Osmond as they made their way into the dining room and did not hesitate to greet him formally. “Good evening, Mr. Osmond. You are alone tonight?” she began.
“As you can see Madame, I am distinctly not alone this evening,” he said with a gesture to indicate the array of people now waiting to be seated in the elaborate marble and mirrored dining room.
Mrs. Halpern looked directly into his eyes but said no more. She was not ready for Osmond’s glib phraseology, in fact had lost her taste for what passed as conversation in Europe, her husband being a straightforward man with little need for irony or riddles.
The two stared rather gloomily at nothing in particular before he said “I haven’t congratulated you yet on your marriage. I do so now.”
Mrs. Halpern nodded but did not reply.
“I don’t believe I’ve known you to be so reticent, Madame…,what is it now, your name, I believe I haven’t heard of it.”
“Halpern. Mrs. Gerald Halpern.”
“Ah, I think I should prefer Madame Halpern. It suits you better.”
“As you wish. But as the wife of an American gentleman, I believe Mrs. Halpern is correct.”
“I stand corrected, Mrs. Halpern.”
“I see your wife is not with us, she’s not ill I hope?”
“No, my wife is not ill but she is being entertained by her friends from England and as we seemed to have conflicting invitations and I could not convince her to change hers I chose to come alone as the Marchesa Viticonti is a dear friend.”
“Is your wife with the Bantlings? We are at the same hotel. I’ve actually seen Mrs. Osmond in the lobby though she did not see me and I thought it best that way.”
“Yes, she’s forever with the Bantlings. What she finds in their company I’m sure I don’t know but to each his own.”
“This is a new attitude Mr. Osmond. I remember a time when…” She stopped her sentence realizing she was taking the conversation in a direction that could not be brought to a distinct conclusion.
“Yes, well Mrs. Halpern, you see we can change, we are all capable of it sometimes, even me.”
Mrs. Halpern said nothing more. She could imagine the changes her former lover might have adopted. “And Pansy? Is she well?”
“Very much so.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. She’s very tied up these days.”
“Very well. I won’t see her if you object.”
“Oh it’s not for me to object. She always with my wife, doing I’m not sure what. And when she isn’t with Isabel, she is entertaining Prince Viticonti in our home. They have struck up a friendship. We see the Prince regularly these days, he seems to find the Palazzo Roccanera quite to his taste.”
Mrs. Halpern looked hard at Osmond and then turned abruptly away, to be seated next to an ancient baron who immediately brightened at having the fascinating Madame Merle at his right, a name not likely to be replaced by another in his settled mind.
She was glad to end the conversation with her former lover. She hadn’t mentioned that she in fact, had seen Pansy in the hotel lobby with his wife. Or that she also saw a young, good-looking American boy in attendance to the two ladies, related somehow to the Archers, she had already ascertained. She also distinguished the glow on Pansy’s face as she gazed at the young man.
Mrs. Halpern indeed knew much more than Mr. Osmond regarding their daughter. Nevertheless, she would have to learn what Osmond was up to with the Viticonti clan. The prince was no suitable match for Pansy and the sooner Osmond learned that the better. He hated disappointment, couldn't abide being proved wrong, but would have to, once again, face just that.
Madame Merle left immediately after dinner, declining to play for the audience of noble breeding. Never had she the wherewithal to refuse in the past. She could thank her husband for that. She could now practice the arts when and for whom she chose. For this she would be eternally grateful to Mr. Halpern. That he could be somewhat dense on occasion, somewhat over-ebullient on others was at times vexing to a lady so fastidiously nuanced but she could recognize and welcome recompense when it had been dropped freely from the heavens.
Isabel Osmond and her stepdaughter Pansy were seated in the lobby of the Hotel de Londres waiting for Isabel’s friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling. Mrs. Bantling had been detained by a telegram from her paper, The Interviewer on her latest submission. The paper wanted a more extensive coverage of a museum theft that had taken place in the last week. It tied in with Mrs. Bantling’s feature on small out-of-the-way art museums of Italy. The theft of an important Titian was big news, a sign that art was no longer of interest to a few well-traveled highbrows and was gaining not only in viewers but in that most respected of entities, the American dollar.
While the two women waited, seated on a lounge in the front of the lobby, not at all impatient, Isabel surveyed the lively atmosphere and was startled to see leaving the dining room the personage of Madame Merle, an entirely unexpected sight though not completely a surprise. Isabel had heard that Madame Merle was back in Europe though she had not heard she was at this particular hotel in Rome and wondered if Henrietta knew and why she hadn’t mentioned it. The two women had never got on in a big way; Henrietta thought Madame Merle affected and Madame Merle did not think of Henrietta in any way at all but if she were forced to make an assessment, she would say the lady journalist could do with a bit more subtlety, a little more seasoning but that if she remained in Europe for any time, these things would come. She would lose some of her American brashness and all to the better would be the lady of high culture’s opinion.
Isabel was thankful Pansy was in the enthrall of a Mr. Harold Ludlow, her nephew who was touring Italy with group of fellow-medical students from Oxford, residing in a small pension nearby. Pansy was oblivious to Madame Merle’s presence. Mr. Ludlow was busy paying the utmost attention to Miss Osmond: a young woman whose likeness he had heretofore never encountered. This was the second meeting with Miss Osmond--they had been introduced the previous day in St. Peter’s Square where the students were sightseeing and happened upon Pansy and Mrs. Osmond, Mr. and Mrs. Bantling and an elderly Italian by the name of Signor Castellini whose business was in art restoration and authentication though his opinion could not be taken to the bank, did not carry that sort of weight a professional curator or scholar would carry.
To say Harold Ludlow was enthralled would not do him justice: He was a man of thoughtful disposition, not subject to whimsical notions or unattainable ideals. What he saw in Pansy Osmond was not a flight of fancy or a romantic interlude pressed upon him that lacked grounding. Without making the young man sound brittle, what he saw in this young lady was his future wife, a helpmate, a partner with whom he could live his life, in his chosen occupation with as little turmoil or dalliance as his nature required though to say that he was impervious to the young lady’s charm was to do him another injustice. He was as susceptible to grace as any other man of two and twenty, to what the Romantics call inspiration. He was likewise not immune to Italy’s golden sway.
On this second meeting, not altogether unplanned by Mr. Ludlow, with his attention solely placed on Miss Osmond, Isabel was quick to note that Madame Merle had been observing the young couple from a distance, in fact was quite enthralled herself by the spectacle of her daughter and the young man though she dared not prolong her viewing: she wished not to be noticed by Isabel Osmond or Pansy herself at this time. But she saw what she saw and there was no mistaking exactly what it was she saw: Her daughter and a young, good-looking, polite American were absorbed completely in each other in a way that precluded any other deduction than that the two young people could only be described as wholly in a state of adoration. Madame Merle recognized that exalted state when it was presented in its naked form and she drew into the shadow of a hallway and out of sight, unable to add anything to this tableau that could in any way beautify it. She would have to find out who the young man’s antecedents were but despite his background, she suspected Pansy would not be talked out of this relationship so easily by her father. She wondered if Isabel, who seemed unruffled by this scene of easy compatibility had her hand in it.
Madame Merle thought she may have to write Osmond but then decided against it. She would wait and see what transpired. She could do nothing else and entered her suite with a renewed sense of purpose though what that purpose was, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that her daughter had grown into a remarkable woman and this realization made her heart sing for the first time since the girl’s unlikely birth twenty years ago and many lifetimes, or so it seemed to the grand signora in the most lavish suite in a hotel catering to the English, and more recently, the Americans. She had never looked or felt better. Her spirit was a marvel of grand inspiration and capability. One could not argue with wealth, she thought, it beats just about everything and she spent her days being grateful to a Schubert sonata that melted the heart of an American businessman and allowed fate to intervene in a life that had grown wearisome indeed.
It turns out that writing Osmond would not necessary. Serena Merle Halpern was entering a palatial drawing room of an old friend with much of the Eternal City’s recently displaced nobility in attendance. Mrs. Halpern as Madame Merle, was well-known in this tight circle and was frequently invited but she had been away, in America, and as she’d only recently arrived back in Rome, unexpectedly early, found a surprising invitation, thinking not a soul knew of her recent reoccupation of the city she calls home although as a world traveler, home is not an apt description except to say that it is the city where she holds the lease on a small apartment filled with her collection of lace and porcelain, much of it quite valuable, samples of her watercolour attempts, including a pleasing one of Gardencourt, two sketches by Gilbert Osmond of herself seated on a chair in the garden in his Florentine villa when she was younger and one of the Roman Campagna.
Her gown was a deep burgundy velvet recently purchased in Paris and over it was an ivory lace mantel with the smallest of filigree beading to enhance its sheen. As a rule, she wore no jewelry but tonight there could be seen on her left hand a band of gold with two small flawless diamonds flanking a deep blue sapphire in a bezel setting, a gift from her husband of ten weeks, also purchased in Paris where the couple spent a month, a honeymoon, if you will.
As Mrs. Halpern adjusted her eyes to the ornate décor of the splendid room it took her only the briefest moment to note that her old lover and co-conspirator, Gilbert Osmond was seated in the far west corner beside the fireplace. He was talking to Prince Viticonti, a nephew of the Marchesa Viticonti who could be seen at the other end of the setee the prince was seated on. Slightly taken aback, Mrs. Halpern registered only the smallest reaction before she regained her composure enough to greet several acquaintances, accepted congratulations on her marriage and was forced to explain why her husband was not with them that evening. "Mr. Halpern left for Milan on business to return in one week. I stayed in Rome to oversee the packing up of my apartment; we are to move into more spacious accommodations in the Palazzo Michelangeli on the via Conditti." Though the newlyweds would be only a year at most in Italy, it was to be a luxurious year and she planned to reciprocate all the many invitations she’d received over the years; her spacious new palazzo to host an open house each Saturday. Madame Merle was not above wanting to show her success to the world that had written her off as not quite up to the standards of entertaining Roman society generally favored. Unlike Osmond, she was not seeking envy, she was not egotistical in that way, but she did want respect and having money, a lot of it, would garner her that.
She swelled inside thinking of it as she had ever since her precipitant and unforeseen marriage to an American manufacturer took place. How could she have known when boarding the ship in Liverpool last spring, in heavy-hearted exile, that she would return shortly thereafter a rich woman with a generous husband. It made her dizzy thinking of it, a still so very unlikely a prospect at her age. She’d given up that ambition; marriage to a man of substance, battered by the forces that had played out in her life. That she had played all the wrong cards did not escape the mind this introspective woman of forty-eight. But it is said that America is the land of opportunity and that is just what happened upon Madame Merle as she played a resonate trio of piano pieces from Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart for a party of placid though exceedingly well-to-do citizens of New York.
Mr. Gerald Halpern was of the audience and found himself stimulated by the music in a way he had never been before. It was something quite unexpected and opened a place in his mind or was it his heart, he wasn’t quite sure but it left him feeling strangely uplifted. Before leaving, he made a point of thanking the lady recently arrived from Europe for her playing, intent on telling her how much it moved him though he felt shy admitting to such an unmanly reaction. That she was almost diffident to his compliment stirred something else in him. Were all Europeans so casual about their superior attributes? Was it a commonplace to be able to so skillfully play what Halpern thought surely complicated scores, more complex than anything he’d ever heard played in Chicago or even here in New York? What Madame Merle did for our manufacturer of wheels was to increase his awareness and bring to light a world he had heretofore been too busy to take part in, a world he thought might hold some interest for him. He left the party in a state of a mind quite inexplicable to him--one of expansion. He called on the stunning European lady the next day. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might hold the key to his future.
Mrs. Halpern found herself next to Osmond as they made their way into the dining room and did not hesitate to greet him formally. “Good evening, Mr. Osmond. You are alone tonight?” she began.
“As you can see Madame, I am distinctly not alone this evening,” he said with a gesture to indicate the array of people now waiting to be seated in the elaborate marble and mirrored dining room.
Mrs. Halpern looked directly into his eyes but said no more. She was not ready for Osmond’s glib phraseology, in fact had lost her taste for what passed as conversation in Europe, her husband being a straightforward man with little need for irony or riddles.
The two stared rather gloomily at nothing in particular before he said “I haven’t congratulated you yet on your marriage. I do so now.”
Mrs. Halpern nodded but did not reply.
“I don’t believe I’ve known you to be so reticent, Madame…,what is it now, your name, I believe I haven’t heard of it.”
“Halpern. Mrs. Gerald Halpern.”
“Ah, I think I should prefer Madame Halpern. It suits you better.”
“As you wish. But as the wife of an American gentleman, I believe Mrs. Halpern is correct.”
“I stand corrected, Mrs. Halpern.”
“I see your wife is not with us, she’s not ill I hope?”
“No, my wife is not ill but she is being entertained by her friends from England and as we seemed to have conflicting invitations and I could not convince her to change hers I chose to come alone as the Marchesa Viticonti is a dear friend.”
“Is your wife with the Bantlings? We are at the same hotel. I’ve actually seen Mrs. Osmond in the lobby though she did not see me and I thought it best that way.”
“Yes, she’s forever with the Bantlings. What she finds in their company I’m sure I don’t know but to each his own.”
“This is a new attitude Mr. Osmond. I remember a time when…” She stopped her sentence realizing she was taking the conversation in a direction that could not be brought to a distinct conclusion.
“Yes, well Mrs. Halpern, you see we can change, we are all capable of it sometimes, even me.”
Mrs. Halpern said nothing more. She could imagine the changes her former lover might have adopted. “And Pansy? Is she well?”
“Very much so.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. She’s very tied up these days.”
“Very well. I won’t see her if you object.”
“Oh it’s not for me to object. She always with my wife, doing I’m not sure what. And when she isn’t with Isabel, she is entertaining Prince Viticonti in our home. They have struck up a friendship. We see the Prince regularly these days, he seems to find the Palazzo Roccanera quite to his taste.”
Mrs. Halpern looked hard at Osmond and then turned abruptly away, to be seated next to an ancient baron who immediately brightened at having the fascinating Madame Merle at his right, a name not likely to be replaced by another in his settled mind.
She was glad to end the conversation with her former lover. She hadn’t mentioned that she in fact, had seen Pansy in the hotel lobby with his wife. Or that she also saw a young, good-looking American boy in attendance to the two ladies, related somehow to the Archers, she had already ascertained. She also distinguished the glow on Pansy’s face as she gazed at the young man.
Mrs. Halpern indeed knew much more than Mr. Osmond regarding their daughter. Nevertheless, she would have to learn what Osmond was up to with the Viticonti clan. The prince was no suitable match for Pansy and the sooner Osmond learned that the better. He hated disappointment, couldn't abide being proved wrong, but would have to, once again, face just that.
Madame Merle left immediately after dinner, declining to play for the audience of noble breeding. Never had she the wherewithal to refuse in the past. She could thank her husband for that. She could now practice the arts when and for whom she chose. For this she would be eternally grateful to Mr. Halpern. That he could be somewhat dense on occasion, somewhat over-ebullient on others was at times vexing to a lady so fastidiously nuanced but she could recognize and welcome recompense when it had been dropped freely from the heavens.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
#72 SELF-HELPLESS
We are all museums of fear --Charles Bukowski
Delia had made a study of all of the above but was as of yet, unable to put her findings into a reliable method of; a) attracting, b) being, c) coexisting, d) deserving, e) earning or f) financial acumen and was at the time of this writing; a) alone, b) broke, c) confused, d) destitute, e) evicted, and f) forsaken. None of it a joy to write about or admit to.
After thirty years of reading up on the subject of personal fulfillment and/or growth, as well as the divine, Delia was now washed up. There was no reason to deny it any longer or to pretend another book could tell her something she didn’t already know, at least intellectually. She understood the following concepts:
*that you should focus on the positive,
*that you can and should affirm what it is you want,
*that God is within,
*that happiness is all in your mind and as such, a choice,
*that you can heal yourself and help to heal others,
*that we are all one,
*that love is all there is,
*that you can overcome obstacles with the proper perspective,
*that you should be the change you want to experience,
*that you can rein in Prince Charming with the right attitude,
*that you have a magnetic field that attracts or repels,
*that your aura is who and what you are,
*that you can visualize what you would like to have, be, do,
*that your vibrational frequency determines your life,
*that this frequency can be tuned for stronger reception,
*that there is money out there-you are just blocking its path,
*that you should operate with intention,
*that you should flow,
*that you will improve your life if you meditate,
*that to forgive is divine wisdom,
*that there is indeed a divine design for your life,
*that you just have to have faith,
*that there are angels looking out for you,
*that you have a shadowy side and that’s okay,
*that you have to accept what is before you can change it,
*that where you are is exactly where you need to be,
*that now is the only time,
*that fear is the opposite of love and nothing else exists,
*that we can choose something else,
*that there is no death, ergo, nothing to fear.
That is a sampling of Delia’s wisdom and she had no doubt that all of the above statements were true. She had had moments when they crystallized for her, but they were a flash event and did not really change her day-to-day life. She did not feel let down by her reading but instead by her own inability to comprehend and put in the fix. She just wasn’t capable of sending out enough positive vibrations and once she finally grasped that fact, admitted it to herself (there was only herself) she spent a few days completely at a loss as to how she would carry on without this crutch. That is how she now saw her addiction to philosophical exploration.
She would never let any one know just how many titles she’d read, getting most of them from libraries, her own bookshelves filled with literature, art and a few of the more esoteric guides that could be said an aid to intellectual inquiry along with the accepted philosophers-Kant, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. In this shaky sub-category she housed titles by Gurdjieff, Krishnamurti, Alice Bailey and the poems of Rumi, titles she felt she could defend if need be, if her shelves were looked at with a critical eye.
She kept two of her favorites, A Course in Miracles and The Science of Mind hidden under her bed. These she didn’t care to explain to any one but she embraced the philosophy of both and furthermore thought they were written with great style. That is why she was sorry her life had turned out so badly; she had been certain with such powerful prose, she could thrive. Beatifically wrought sentences that were supposed to lead her out of darkness and into a life of abundant joy-happily married, healthy, financially secure-or at the very least, with peace of mind. Instead her composure was destroyed by the fact that in this, as in everything else, she had failed, unable to carry out perfectly detailed instructions that would dignify her life.
Why? Because, she reasoned, her mind was too narrow, her will too weak, too instilled with negativity to change. She was born to a negative mother, who was born to an even more negative mother and before her, Hungarian horrors-women too scary to go near. Delia knew this because she had studied old photos in her grandmother’s albums. These were the kind of women who would hit kids with a stick just for the hell of it-their faces looked like they could tussle with a grizzly bear and win. Delia knew from what she came and it wasn’t pretty. She often wondered how she turned out so docile, so pliable.
Delia was a product of the first generation with a wide-spread belief in redemption-a duty, in fact, to wholeheartedly seek the holy grail of happiness and enlightenment. If all else failed, drugs could do it for you. She tried drugs in her younger days but they wore off and there you were, still grounded in the every-day isness that seemingly was not to be evaded for more than a few hours at a time. To Delia, this was not the change she was looking for. She was looking for a permanent solution even though she had learned that all is impermanence. This philosophy had something going for it; it meant her suffering, too, was impermanent, reminding her of the biblical saying, this too shall pass. Delia was essentially without cynicism. She wanted all the aphorisms and platitudes to be true-she tried whenever possible to give herself up to their transformative qualities.
On the day Delia turned fifty, she took stock: She was flat broke, unemployed, still single, several failed careers, few friends, no pets, uncomfortable and estranged from family, out of shape. Recently she’d had a very bad haircut. It would be hard to find someone whose enlightenment bore so little fruit. Delia thought she would, on her birthday, have a book-burning party. She would burn every self-help, inspirational or esoteric/theological/philosophical title she’d ever read, including the Bible and the Bhagavad Gita. She lived in a city and could no more ignite a bonfire than she could gather all of the offending titles. Instead, she looked up as many of them as she could recall reading, using Amazon and the library for her research and after printing out a long list, set it on fire in her sink.
She cried a little, after all, this was her birthday as well as her last month in her cozy efficiency apartment, and she was sentimental over books that had been encouraging, ever since a boyfriend in college gave her a copy of Ram Dass’s Be Here Now when she was just twenty and living in a commune.
It could be said Delia had done her part seeking enlightenment, empowerment and improvement. Others might look upon her worldly failing and cite various reasons but only she would know how deep it went, how many solutions were offered, only to be unspent, wasted on Delia. Therefore, on her fiftieth birthday, she determined she would heretofore, go it alone.
She would wrest God from her consciousness, bar Jesus from the garden, laugh hysterically at the Buddha, ridicule all Hindus, disparage the Dalai Lama. She would despise the Koran and its followers but wouldn’t dare say so lest they send an assassin her way. She would mock Catholics and Christian Scientists alike. Any alleged miracle worker to appear on TV would instantly be tuned out. All espousers of positive thinking would earn her scorn. She may still be hopeless but at least she wouldn’t be gullible. Delia Mako would not be made a fool of any longer.
For a time immediately after the burning, she read books on atheism, books that attempted to tear asunder the concept of God and others written to expose the myths of the positive-thinking industry, self-awareness and new-age gobbledygook. These negative titles gave her a sense of taking control of her life-she wanted to avoid charlatans and Delia liked this muscular skepticism. But old habits die hard.
One day she read a news story that mentioned Gurdjieff’s name in connection with someone who had been a follower. The journalist referred to the guru as an obvious sham without question and Delia’s old surge of loyalty had her sending the writer a sharply worded e-mail demanding to know how she came to her conclusions. Delia did not care for the article’s tone-its judgmental flavor. Did the woman know for certain Mr. Gurdjieff was a sham? What did she base her hypothesis on? Delia knew she was back-sliding by this defense of a man whose book she’d recently, metaphorically burned. Later she would say to herself, of course, he was a sham-but at least he was an amusing sham who helped many people. His was an intellectual con at least, with music and art. Katherine Mansfield herself was a devotee.
In the end, Delia was left with Emerson, that stalwart of enlightenment, the rationalist whose strength was housed in pragmatism. Delia bought a book of essays thinking they would ground her in reality while offering sustenance. She thought his name on her shelves nothing to be ashamed of: hadn’t he been lionized for over a century? Self-reliance was his motto. Delia knew she had been anything but. She had relied on the fanciful and look where it had gotten her? Homeless, living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy, eating at soup kitchens, every one she knew or had ever known unaware of her circumstances and she unaware of theirs. Her cell phone was disconnected-she wouldn’t call for help anyway.
She still had some pride though she understood from her reading that it should be shunned along with the ego, two dictators of the psyche, blood brothers whose mission was to keep the mind and body in bondage. Delia was a little put out because she had a puny ego and was not riddled with pride; had nevertheless been willing to form a resistance to each, only to be informed what you resist persists.
Delia Mako, persistent resistance persisting did not know if she should give in to the ego’s pride and go it alone or challenge its authority over her and phone someone. It was just one of many conundrums in Delia’s life brought on by reading too much on a subject that continued to contradict-except when it didn’t.
PART II
“Ms. Mako, you say you have no place to sleep. Where have you been sleeping?”
“In my car.”
“You have a car then?”
“Well yes, had a car. It’s been towed.”
“So your car is here in the city?”
“Yes, locked up somewhere.”
“Have you tried to retrieve it?”
“I have no money.”
The social worker, Ms. Graciela Lopez with extravagant fuchsia fingernails stared hard at Delia and Delia attempted to return her stare but faltered slightly, possibly from hunger.
“Do you have any friends or family in the city?”
“No. I am from the Midwest originally.”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
“Twenty years, off and on.”
“And when you are off, where do you live?”
“Redwood City.”
“Do you have family or friends there?”
“No. I once had a friend there?”
“How is it, Ms. Mako, after twenty years in this city you have no friends here?”
“They have all moved away. I used to have a nice circle of friends, artistic types mostly but they had to leave the city because of the high rents.”
“All of them?”
“Well a few are hanging on living in rooms or their rent-controlled apartments.”
“And you can’t stay with them?”
“They are men and I am not in touch with them, not close friends.”
“Where is your family?”
“Florida, Minnesota, Texas.”
“Can you stay with them?”
“I have no way to get to them, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Have you been tested recently for AIDS, Ms. Mako?”
“What has that to do with anything?” The questions in general were beginning to provoke Delia but this one brought out the antagonism in her. The personal probing, combined with hunger had set her teeth on edge.
“Well, we may be able to place you in a facility but we need to know a little about you and your…shall we say…situation. When were you last tested for AIDS?”
Delia took a deep breath and said, “I have never been tested for AIDS, Ms. Lopez, I am what used to be referred to as an old maid. I have no reason to believe I might possibly have AIDS, thank you very much.”
“Please understand, Ms. Mako, I am required to ask certain questions. You will also be required to take a drug test. Will this be a problem for you?”
“I do not use drugs, Ms. Lopez. The last drug I used was in 1979 when I was given a Valium--was told it would relax me. I had been robbed.”
“Do you smoke pot?”
“Not since 1980 at a party. I didn’t inhale.” Delia tried for humor but it fell flat.
“What is your alcohol consumption?”
“I used to like a glass of wine with dinner but it has been some time since I have been invited to dinner anywhere. On my own, I do not consume alcoholic beverages, Ms. Lopez, I do not have the money for it. I am happy to eat these days.”
Ms. Lopez looked skeptically at Delia wondering whether to believe her. “Well, you’ll be tested for everything, Ms. Mako. It’s required. We have to know where would be the best place for you to be treated…”
“Ms. Lopez, I do not need nor wish your treatment. I am simply hungry. Believe it or not, people fall through the cracks without the aid of drugs or alcohol or prostitution. Surely I can’t be the first one in this economy?”
“I just do my job, Ms. Mako. Folks on the street usually have many problems and it is my job to find out what they are and refer them to the proper agencies. If you say you have no problems, I don’t understand what you are doing here. You must have someone you can turn to. Where are your parents?”
“I have no parents, thanks for asking. They both passed away ten and fifteen years ago.”
“Have you never had children?”
“As I said, old maid.”
“What, if any is your religious affiliation, Ms. Mako?”
On this Delia had to pause before answering. She wobbled but in the end said, “I am an atheist, Ms Lopez.”
Ms. Lopez looked at her with a subtle censure. She was instructed not to encourage or proffer any religious values, but inquired only to place the client in the proper setting. Many churches offered beds to women and Ms. Lopez thought if she could say Delia was one of any of the city’s affiliations, it would be a start. As it was, she had no way to ascertain where and with whom Delia would be accepted. Most of the homeless shelters catered to drug addicts, the express purpose to keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Most of the churches accepted women with children before single women. Organizations affiliated with Alcoholics Anonymous had beds for alcoholics. Ms. Lopez was not quite sure what to do with this middle-aged white female without a category or a specific need for the rehabilitation brigades. Normally it would not be a problem, she could be put in any of the shelters that had space but that was the problem: there wasn’t any space since the economic downturn. So many lost their jobs, those who were hanging by a thread before, fell. The system was strained and Ms. Lopez had turned people away; those able to function on their own. Delia was one such woman; in decent health it appeared and yet without a place to sleep or clean up. Ms. Lopez noted that though her clothing was appropriate for a middle-class woman who might have once had an occupation, it was worn out, much too big and in need of a laundromat. Her hair and nails needed attention but she could see that Delia had only recently arrived in her present condition, she did not have the look yet of a street person. Remnants of another lifestyle could still be noted.
While Ms. Lopez was busy taking notes, Delia was thinking about her admission: Atheist. So new was this idea it did not yet sit well with her, she felt undressed with such a label. Delia had been for many years, talking to God regularly. And she could honestly say it was a two-way conversation. This gave her a great deal of comfort but now she thought maybe she was just plain crazy; obviously it had not saved her. But God, like drugs, are hard to break up with. She thought of the old quip, Religion is the opium of the masses, from Karl Marx. Delia was beginning to understand this. God has left her in the same situation as drug addicts, alcoholics and the delusional.
PART III
It was true Delia had been living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy. Not only was she often told to move it, it was nearly out of gas, the insurance about to expire; Delia had to sell it fast. It was worth a couple thousand dollars and she put an ad on craigslist for it but had no phone number for contact and had to keep going into the library to use a computer for e-mail responses. This required she stay parked close to the library as she tried to drive as little as possible hoping the last tank of gas would suffice until the car was sold. Once it was sold, Delia would have money to get a room and food. She was losing weight and needed to get a pair of jeans from a thrift store. The ones she’d been wearing for the past month had to be belted up with six inches of excess fabric. Now the belt could not be made tighter and she used a bathrobe chord to tie them up. She dared not spend any money on anything superfluous but thought she would look less like a vagrant if her pants fit. Her sweater and coat, although now three sizes too big, could be made to look normal if she wrapped them around her. Once she could no longer hide in the car, she would have to make a stab at looking normal-at least she wanted to. Delia did not like attracting attention to herself, preferred anonymity in her low condition. She would have to eventually sleep in a homeless shelter and knew she would have to explain herself and this she was not looking forward to. Her interview with Ms. Lopez was only half as bad as she expected it to be. If humiliation was to be her daily diet, she had to at least communicate with some semblance of pride.
Before Delia herself was destitute, she once volunteered with a group that provided meals for the homeless. She did not imagine then that she would one day be in the same situation but then we never do. There but for the grace of God go I, another volunteer had chirped merrily. Delia was secure in her faithfulness then to think, My God will never forsake me. She ruefully laughed at her naiveté; now she wasn’t even certain her God would help get her car sold even if she sold it for less than it was worth. She wouldn’t even bother to ask. She knew she was entirely forsaken and her growling stomach, dirty cloths and greasy hair said it all.
After her interview with Ms. Lopez, Delia was given a voucher for meals in a church and also a bed in a capacious former warehouse that had been set up for the purpose of keeping people off the street. There were showers, but you could only use them three times a week. You were given a weak cup of coffee or tea in the morning and at six you were put out on the street to make your way through the day before you could return in the evening. The women were on the second floor and the men on the first. There was a TV in one corner but no chairs. The beds consisted of small foam mattresses on the floor, with one blanket and a pillow similar to those given on airplanes. The lights went out at 9:30 and silence was to prevail. This was not a shelter that housed children-women with children were in a building two doors down. All personal items were checked but you could furnish your own pillow and blanket if you had them. If it appeared you were drunk or high, you would be tested and lose your voucher. It was a strict set-up for which Delia was thankful. Ms. Lopez told her the rules were made because some folks had trouble sleeping or controlling themselves in general. The rules were to maintain some order and give people a chance to rest in peace. When she said “rest in peace” Delia immediately thought of death. Did she realize she had just likened the homeless to the dead? Delia didn’t want to think too much about it; it was just part of the horribleness she had been forced to endure once her car was towed while she was in the library checking on the possibility of its sale. She replied to several responses feeling hopeful. But when she returned to her car, it was not in the parking spot and an old Chinese man came from his house and told her it had been towed. He jumped around and laughed at her with an evil toothless chortle. She did not take it personally; Old Chinese people laughed at misfortune, it was just their way. He did not know her life just took a turn for the worse; a life already run down enough to sicken one. Delia promptly threw up on the sidewalk.
On her first night in the shelter, Delia was so demoralized, so tired she fell asleep and had to be prodded awake in the morning. She drank the coffee and wondered how she would spend the day on the street. Ms. Lopez had made an appointment for her with a counselor where she supposed she would have the threatened tests. She was passed from Ms. Lopez’s ministrations and would be taken in hand by a Mrs. Leka Chang. Delia had a business card with her information on it. The appointment wasn’t until three in the afternoon so she had the day to spend somewhere, she supposed the library.
On the second night Delia had recovered somewhat from the trepidation and lay on her piece of foam thinking about the day and Mrs. Chang. She was tested for drugs and alcohol and the hard-nosed woman seemed a little put out at finding both tests negative. Delia was questioned on her former address, her bank accounts, her family. When Mrs. Chang couldn’t get a handle on any of it, she looked Delia straight in the eye and said, “You have to work. You able-bodied, sound mind, you go to work. You will take job I find for you and be happy. You be available immediately, Ms. Mako.”
“Of course. Unless I need certain clothes. They are in my car which the city has locked up.”
“I give you voucher for Goodwill stores; you be assigned someone to help put working wardrobe together.”
“Mrs. Chang, I have been putting a working wardrobe together for thirty years. I can manage. I am humbled, not stupid."
“Ms. Mako, forgive me, I be blunt: you not managing so well, are you?”
“No, I clearly am not. But I think I might still be able to dress myself.”
“Very well, Ms. Mako. Let’s move on. I place in job. Tell me you experience, if any. What your last job?”
“I managed a bookstore.”
“Managed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Chang, I am, you see, quite capable. What is missing is that the retail book business is almost washed up. Haven’t you heard?”
“Before bookstore, what job you hold?”
“I was a reporter.”
“Reporter, in newspaper?”
“A legal journal.”
“Here in city?”
“Yes.”
“Why you leave jobs?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Did you get fired from jobs?”
“Certainly not.”
“What skills you have? Computer skills?”
“The basic computer skills that anyone has. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Okay, Ms. Mako, I see you tomorrow morning here at ten. You go on job interview. You show up on time dressed for work. Here clothing voucher, get suit or a skirt and blouse.”
“I could use some jeans that fit.”
“Shop wisely, Ms. Mako and show up here in suit or dress. Do not come late”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t screw up, Ms. Mako, this your chance to get back on feet.”
Screw you, she thought, but said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”
Delia was not trying to be difficult, she was happy Mrs. Chang had plans for her but why the need to talk down to people? Things are hard enough. Naturally meek as we learned, she nevertheless turned back to Mrs. Chang and said, “I didn’t do anything to earn anyone’s ire. I am willing to work, I always have been. It is not my fault that I was laid off, that no one wanted to hire me before my unemployment ran out.”
“I see you tomorrow, Ms. Mako. We check for AIDS.”
Delia sighed and let it go. She wouldn’t win this power struggle.
As she was drifting off to sleep, the sound of a woman crying three pieces of foam down from her made Delia forget her own troubles for a moment. The lights had just gone out, the young black woman was a late arrival. The first reaction when hearing someone cry is to ask why. That would be foolish here, Delia thought. We should all be crying. Those not doing so should be asked why. Still, she wanted to know what was making her so sad. Delia had a reporter’s curiosity. She got up and went over to where the woman was lying, face down. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Delia whispered. She put her hand on the woman’s clenched fist but was ignored so she went back to her bed. Stupid question, really, she thought. We are obviously in the same plight.
Sometimes Delia could talk to people, touch them, make them feel a little better, it was a gift. She would have liked to have told Mrs. Chang about her heeling powers but the social worker didn’t strike Delia as someone who could give a rap about anything so nebulous and farfetched. Delia imagined she would sarcastically ask why she couldn’t help herself if her powers were so great. All of these things were on Delia’s mind that second night in the shelter as she listened to the broken human sounds around her. Delia could detect those that came from the body and those that stemmed from the heart. Some came from a troubled mind. As her own mind filed all the questions and impressions from the day, and those firmly entrenched in the now, she hoped her brain activity wasn’t too noisy. She made it through her first two days of homelessness and for that she wished she could thank God but since giving up her drug of choice, she really had no one to talk to.
Delia wasn’t as lonely in the shelter without a higher power as she expected to be. She had never slept in a crowd before; it was incredibly annoying and soothing at the same time. She was tempted to tell the sobbing woman that there was someone watching over her, ready to help with her problems but she held back; she didn’t want anyone to fall under the same spell she had been under for so many years. She vowed to advocate only bootstraps and self-reliance, tough-love and nose-to-the-grindstone if anyone should ask. Would that, could that be enough solace for the woman who had stopped crying and the one who was moaning in her sleep? What will become of all of us? she thought. Then she rolled over and did not wait for an answer.
PART IDelia Mako, shipwrecked, unable to rescue herself nor believe in the possibility of rescue in any form whatsoever, had all but given up any claim to understanding how life worked even though she had read numerous books on the secret to; a) abundance, b) bliss, c) coupling, d) determination, e) enlightenment.
Delia had made a study of all of the above but was as of yet, unable to put her findings into a reliable method of; a) attracting, b) being, c) coexisting, d) deserving, e) earning or f) financial acumen and was at the time of this writing; a) alone, b) broke, c) confused, d) destitute, e) evicted, and f) forsaken. None of it a joy to write about or admit to.
After thirty years of reading up on the subject of personal fulfillment and/or growth, as well as the divine, Delia was now washed up. There was no reason to deny it any longer or to pretend another book could tell her something she didn’t already know, at least intellectually. She understood the following concepts:
*that you should focus on the positive,
*that you can and should affirm what it is you want,
*that God is within,
*that happiness is all in your mind and as such, a choice,
*that you can heal yourself and help to heal others,
*that we are all one,
*that love is all there is,
*that you can overcome obstacles with the proper perspective,
*that you should be the change you want to experience,
*that you can rein in Prince Charming with the right attitude,
*that you have a magnetic field that attracts or repels,
*that your aura is who and what you are,
*that you can visualize what you would like to have, be, do,
*that your vibrational frequency determines your life,
*that this frequency can be tuned for stronger reception,
*that there is money out there-you are just blocking its path,
*that you should operate with intention,
*that you should flow,
*that you will improve your life if you meditate,
*that to forgive is divine wisdom,
*that there is indeed a divine design for your life,
*that you just have to have faith,
*that there are angels looking out for you,
*that you have a shadowy side and that’s okay,
*that you have to accept what is before you can change it,
*that where you are is exactly where you need to be,
*that now is the only time,
*that fear is the opposite of love and nothing else exists,
*that we can choose something else,
*that there is no death, ergo, nothing to fear.
That is a sampling of Delia’s wisdom and she had no doubt that all of the above statements were true. She had had moments when they crystallized for her, but they were a flash event and did not really change her day-to-day life. She did not feel let down by her reading but instead by her own inability to comprehend and put in the fix. She just wasn’t capable of sending out enough positive vibrations and once she finally grasped that fact, admitted it to herself (there was only herself) she spent a few days completely at a loss as to how she would carry on without this crutch. That is how she now saw her addiction to philosophical exploration.
She would never let any one know just how many titles she’d read, getting most of them from libraries, her own bookshelves filled with literature, art and a few of the more esoteric guides that could be said an aid to intellectual inquiry along with the accepted philosophers-Kant, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. In this shaky sub-category she housed titles by Gurdjieff, Krishnamurti, Alice Bailey and the poems of Rumi, titles she felt she could defend if need be, if her shelves were looked at with a critical eye.
She kept two of her favorites, A Course in Miracles and The Science of Mind hidden under her bed. These she didn’t care to explain to any one but she embraced the philosophy of both and furthermore thought they were written with great style. That is why she was sorry her life had turned out so badly; she had been certain with such powerful prose, she could thrive. Beatifically wrought sentences that were supposed to lead her out of darkness and into a life of abundant joy-happily married, healthy, financially secure-or at the very least, with peace of mind. Instead her composure was destroyed by the fact that in this, as in everything else, she had failed, unable to carry out perfectly detailed instructions that would dignify her life.
Why? Because, she reasoned, her mind was too narrow, her will too weak, too instilled with negativity to change. She was born to a negative mother, who was born to an even more negative mother and before her, Hungarian horrors-women too scary to go near. Delia knew this because she had studied old photos in her grandmother’s albums. These were the kind of women who would hit kids with a stick just for the hell of it-their faces looked like they could tussle with a grizzly bear and win. Delia knew from what she came and it wasn’t pretty. She often wondered how she turned out so docile, so pliable.
Delia was a product of the first generation with a wide-spread belief in redemption-a duty, in fact, to wholeheartedly seek the holy grail of happiness and enlightenment. If all else failed, drugs could do it for you. She tried drugs in her younger days but they wore off and there you were, still grounded in the every-day isness that seemingly was not to be evaded for more than a few hours at a time. To Delia, this was not the change she was looking for. She was looking for a permanent solution even though she had learned that all is impermanence. This philosophy had something going for it; it meant her suffering, too, was impermanent, reminding her of the biblical saying, this too shall pass. Delia was essentially without cynicism. She wanted all the aphorisms and platitudes to be true-she tried whenever possible to give herself up to their transformative qualities.
On the day Delia turned fifty, she took stock: She was flat broke, unemployed, still single, several failed careers, few friends, no pets, uncomfortable and estranged from family, out of shape. Recently she’d had a very bad haircut. It would be hard to find someone whose enlightenment bore so little fruit. Delia thought she would, on her birthday, have a book-burning party. She would burn every self-help, inspirational or esoteric/theological/philosophical title she’d ever read, including the Bible and the Bhagavad Gita. She lived in a city and could no more ignite a bonfire than she could gather all of the offending titles. Instead, she looked up as many of them as she could recall reading, using Amazon and the library for her research and after printing out a long list, set it on fire in her sink.
She cried a little, after all, this was her birthday as well as her last month in her cozy efficiency apartment, and she was sentimental over books that had been encouraging, ever since a boyfriend in college gave her a copy of Ram Dass’s Be Here Now when she was just twenty and living in a commune.
It could be said Delia had done her part seeking enlightenment, empowerment and improvement. Others might look upon her worldly failing and cite various reasons but only she would know how deep it went, how many solutions were offered, only to be unspent, wasted on Delia. Therefore, on her fiftieth birthday, she determined she would heretofore, go it alone.
She would wrest God from her consciousness, bar Jesus from the garden, laugh hysterically at the Buddha, ridicule all Hindus, disparage the Dalai Lama. She would despise the Koran and its followers but wouldn’t dare say so lest they send an assassin her way. She would mock Catholics and Christian Scientists alike. Any alleged miracle worker to appear on TV would instantly be tuned out. All espousers of positive thinking would earn her scorn. She may still be hopeless but at least she wouldn’t be gullible. Delia Mako would not be made a fool of any longer.
For a time immediately after the burning, she read books on atheism, books that attempted to tear asunder the concept of God and others written to expose the myths of the positive-thinking industry, self-awareness and new-age gobbledygook. These negative titles gave her a sense of taking control of her life-she wanted to avoid charlatans and Delia liked this muscular skepticism. But old habits die hard.
One day she read a news story that mentioned Gurdjieff’s name in connection with someone who had been a follower. The journalist referred to the guru as an obvious sham without question and Delia’s old surge of loyalty had her sending the writer a sharply worded e-mail demanding to know how she came to her conclusions. Delia did not care for the article’s tone-its judgmental flavor. Did the woman know for certain Mr. Gurdjieff was a sham? What did she base her hypothesis on? Delia knew she was back-sliding by this defense of a man whose book she’d recently, metaphorically burned. Later she would say to herself, of course, he was a sham-but at least he was an amusing sham who helped many people. His was an intellectual con at least, with music and art. Katherine Mansfield herself was a devotee.
In the end, Delia was left with Emerson, that stalwart of enlightenment, the rationalist whose strength was housed in pragmatism. Delia bought a book of essays thinking they would ground her in reality while offering sustenance. She thought his name on her shelves nothing to be ashamed of: hadn’t he been lionized for over a century? Self-reliance was his motto. Delia knew she had been anything but. She had relied on the fanciful and look where it had gotten her? Homeless, living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy, eating at soup kitchens, every one she knew or had ever known unaware of her circumstances and she unaware of theirs. Her cell phone was disconnected-she wouldn’t call for help anyway.
She still had some pride though she understood from her reading that it should be shunned along with the ego, two dictators of the psyche, blood brothers whose mission was to keep the mind and body in bondage. Delia was a little put out because she had a puny ego and was not riddled with pride; had nevertheless been willing to form a resistance to each, only to be informed what you resist persists.
Delia Mako, persistent resistance persisting did not know if she should give in to the ego’s pride and go it alone or challenge its authority over her and phone someone. It was just one of many conundrums in Delia’s life brought on by reading too much on a subject that continued to contradict-except when it didn’t.
PART II
“Ms. Mako, you say you have no place to sleep. Where have you been sleeping?”
“In my car.”
“You have a car then?”
“Well yes, had a car. It’s been towed.”
“So your car is here in the city?”
“Yes, locked up somewhere.”
“Have you tried to retrieve it?”
“I have no money.”
The social worker, Ms. Graciela Lopez with extravagant fuchsia fingernails stared hard at Delia and Delia attempted to return her stare but faltered slightly, possibly from hunger.
“Do you have any friends or family in the city?”
“No. I am from the Midwest originally.”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
“Twenty years, off and on.”
“And when you are off, where do you live?”
“Redwood City.”
“Do you have family or friends there?”
“No. I once had a friend there?”
“How is it, Ms. Mako, after twenty years in this city you have no friends here?”
“They have all moved away. I used to have a nice circle of friends, artistic types mostly but they had to leave the city because of the high rents.”
“All of them?”
“Well a few are hanging on living in rooms or their rent-controlled apartments.”
“And you can’t stay with them?”
“They are men and I am not in touch with them, not close friends.”
“Where is your family?”
“Florida, Minnesota, Texas.”
“Can you stay with them?”
“I have no way to get to them, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Have you been tested recently for AIDS, Ms. Mako?”
“What has that to do with anything?” The questions in general were beginning to provoke Delia but this one brought out the antagonism in her. The personal probing, combined with hunger had set her teeth on edge.
“Well, we may be able to place you in a facility but we need to know a little about you and your…shall we say…situation. When were you last tested for AIDS?”
Delia took a deep breath and said, “I have never been tested for AIDS, Ms. Lopez, I am what used to be referred to as an old maid. I have no reason to believe I might possibly have AIDS, thank you very much.”
“Please understand, Ms. Mako, I am required to ask certain questions. You will also be required to take a drug test. Will this be a problem for you?”
“I do not use drugs, Ms. Lopez. The last drug I used was in 1979 when I was given a Valium--was told it would relax me. I had been robbed.”
“Do you smoke pot?”
“Not since 1980 at a party. I didn’t inhale.” Delia tried for humor but it fell flat.
“What is your alcohol consumption?”
“I used to like a glass of wine with dinner but it has been some time since I have been invited to dinner anywhere. On my own, I do not consume alcoholic beverages, Ms. Lopez, I do not have the money for it. I am happy to eat these days.”
Ms. Lopez looked skeptically at Delia wondering whether to believe her. “Well, you’ll be tested for everything, Ms. Mako. It’s required. We have to know where would be the best place for you to be treated…”
“Ms. Lopez, I do not need nor wish your treatment. I am simply hungry. Believe it or not, people fall through the cracks without the aid of drugs or alcohol or prostitution. Surely I can’t be the first one in this economy?”
“I just do my job, Ms. Mako. Folks on the street usually have many problems and it is my job to find out what they are and refer them to the proper agencies. If you say you have no problems, I don’t understand what you are doing here. You must have someone you can turn to. Where are your parents?”
“I have no parents, thanks for asking. They both passed away ten and fifteen years ago.”
“Have you never had children?”
“As I said, old maid.”
“What, if any is your religious affiliation, Ms. Mako?”
On this Delia had to pause before answering. She wobbled but in the end said, “I am an atheist, Ms Lopez.”
Ms. Lopez looked at her with a subtle censure. She was instructed not to encourage or proffer any religious values, but inquired only to place the client in the proper setting. Many churches offered beds to women and Ms. Lopez thought if she could say Delia was one of any of the city’s affiliations, it would be a start. As it was, she had no way to ascertain where and with whom Delia would be accepted. Most of the homeless shelters catered to drug addicts, the express purpose to keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Most of the churches accepted women with children before single women. Organizations affiliated with Alcoholics Anonymous had beds for alcoholics. Ms. Lopez was not quite sure what to do with this middle-aged white female without a category or a specific need for the rehabilitation brigades. Normally it would not be a problem, she could be put in any of the shelters that had space but that was the problem: there wasn’t any space since the economic downturn. So many lost their jobs, those who were hanging by a thread before, fell. The system was strained and Ms. Lopez had turned people away; those able to function on their own. Delia was one such woman; in decent health it appeared and yet without a place to sleep or clean up. Ms. Lopez noted that though her clothing was appropriate for a middle-class woman who might have once had an occupation, it was worn out, much too big and in need of a laundromat. Her hair and nails needed attention but she could see that Delia had only recently arrived in her present condition, she did not have the look yet of a street person. Remnants of another lifestyle could still be noted.
While Ms. Lopez was busy taking notes, Delia was thinking about her admission: Atheist. So new was this idea it did not yet sit well with her, she felt undressed with such a label. Delia had been for many years, talking to God regularly. And she could honestly say it was a two-way conversation. This gave her a great deal of comfort but now she thought maybe she was just plain crazy; obviously it had not saved her. But God, like drugs, are hard to break up with. She thought of the old quip, Religion is the opium of the masses, from Karl Marx. Delia was beginning to understand this. God has left her in the same situation as drug addicts, alcoholics and the delusional.
PART III
It was true Delia had been living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy. Not only was she often told to move it, it was nearly out of gas, the insurance about to expire; Delia had to sell it fast. It was worth a couple thousand dollars and she put an ad on craigslist for it but had no phone number for contact and had to keep going into the library to use a computer for e-mail responses. This required she stay parked close to the library as she tried to drive as little as possible hoping the last tank of gas would suffice until the car was sold. Once it was sold, Delia would have money to get a room and food. She was losing weight and needed to get a pair of jeans from a thrift store. The ones she’d been wearing for the past month had to be belted up with six inches of excess fabric. Now the belt could not be made tighter and she used a bathrobe chord to tie them up. She dared not spend any money on anything superfluous but thought she would look less like a vagrant if her pants fit. Her sweater and coat, although now three sizes too big, could be made to look normal if she wrapped them around her. Once she could no longer hide in the car, she would have to make a stab at looking normal-at least she wanted to. Delia did not like attracting attention to herself, preferred anonymity in her low condition. She would have to eventually sleep in a homeless shelter and knew she would have to explain herself and this she was not looking forward to. Her interview with Ms. Lopez was only half as bad as she expected it to be. If humiliation was to be her daily diet, she had to at least communicate with some semblance of pride.
Before Delia herself was destitute, she once volunteered with a group that provided meals for the homeless. She did not imagine then that she would one day be in the same situation but then we never do. There but for the grace of God go I, another volunteer had chirped merrily. Delia was secure in her faithfulness then to think, My God will never forsake me. She ruefully laughed at her naiveté; now she wasn’t even certain her God would help get her car sold even if she sold it for less than it was worth. She wouldn’t even bother to ask. She knew she was entirely forsaken and her growling stomach, dirty cloths and greasy hair said it all.
After her interview with Ms. Lopez, Delia was given a voucher for meals in a church and also a bed in a capacious former warehouse that had been set up for the purpose of keeping people off the street. There were showers, but you could only use them three times a week. You were given a weak cup of coffee or tea in the morning and at six you were put out on the street to make your way through the day before you could return in the evening. The women were on the second floor and the men on the first. There was a TV in one corner but no chairs. The beds consisted of small foam mattresses on the floor, with one blanket and a pillow similar to those given on airplanes. The lights went out at 9:30 and silence was to prevail. This was not a shelter that housed children-women with children were in a building two doors down. All personal items were checked but you could furnish your own pillow and blanket if you had them. If it appeared you were drunk or high, you would be tested and lose your voucher. It was a strict set-up for which Delia was thankful. Ms. Lopez told her the rules were made because some folks had trouble sleeping or controlling themselves in general. The rules were to maintain some order and give people a chance to rest in peace. When she said “rest in peace” Delia immediately thought of death. Did she realize she had just likened the homeless to the dead? Delia didn’t want to think too much about it; it was just part of the horribleness she had been forced to endure once her car was towed while she was in the library checking on the possibility of its sale. She replied to several responses feeling hopeful. But when she returned to her car, it was not in the parking spot and an old Chinese man came from his house and told her it had been towed. He jumped around and laughed at her with an evil toothless chortle. She did not take it personally; Old Chinese people laughed at misfortune, it was just their way. He did not know her life just took a turn for the worse; a life already run down enough to sicken one. Delia promptly threw up on the sidewalk.
On her first night in the shelter, Delia was so demoralized, so tired she fell asleep and had to be prodded awake in the morning. She drank the coffee and wondered how she would spend the day on the street. Ms. Lopez had made an appointment for her with a counselor where she supposed she would have the threatened tests. She was passed from Ms. Lopez’s ministrations and would be taken in hand by a Mrs. Leka Chang. Delia had a business card with her information on it. The appointment wasn’t until three in the afternoon so she had the day to spend somewhere, she supposed the library.
On the second night Delia had recovered somewhat from the trepidation and lay on her piece of foam thinking about the day and Mrs. Chang. She was tested for drugs and alcohol and the hard-nosed woman seemed a little put out at finding both tests negative. Delia was questioned on her former address, her bank accounts, her family. When Mrs. Chang couldn’t get a handle on any of it, she looked Delia straight in the eye and said, “You have to work. You able-bodied, sound mind, you go to work. You will take job I find for you and be happy. You be available immediately, Ms. Mako.”
“Of course. Unless I need certain clothes. They are in my car which the city has locked up.”
“I give you voucher for Goodwill stores; you be assigned someone to help put working wardrobe together.”
“Mrs. Chang, I have been putting a working wardrobe together for thirty years. I can manage. I am humbled, not stupid."
“Ms. Mako, forgive me, I be blunt: you not managing so well, are you?”
“No, I clearly am not. But I think I might still be able to dress myself.”
“Very well, Ms. Mako. Let’s move on. I place in job. Tell me you experience, if any. What your last job?”
“I managed a bookstore.”
“Managed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Chang, I am, you see, quite capable. What is missing is that the retail book business is almost washed up. Haven’t you heard?”
“Before bookstore, what job you hold?”
“I was a reporter.”
“Reporter, in newspaper?”
“A legal journal.”
“Here in city?”
“Yes.”
“Why you leave jobs?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Did you get fired from jobs?”
“Certainly not.”
“What skills you have? Computer skills?”
“The basic computer skills that anyone has. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Okay, Ms. Mako, I see you tomorrow morning here at ten. You go on job interview. You show up on time dressed for work. Here clothing voucher, get suit or a skirt and blouse.”
“I could use some jeans that fit.”
“Shop wisely, Ms. Mako and show up here in suit or dress. Do not come late”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t screw up, Ms. Mako, this your chance to get back on feet.”
Screw you, she thought, but said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”
Delia was not trying to be difficult, she was happy Mrs. Chang had plans for her but why the need to talk down to people? Things are hard enough. Naturally meek as we learned, she nevertheless turned back to Mrs. Chang and said, “I didn’t do anything to earn anyone’s ire. I am willing to work, I always have been. It is not my fault that I was laid off, that no one wanted to hire me before my unemployment ran out.”
“I see you tomorrow, Ms. Mako. We check for AIDS.”
Delia sighed and let it go. She wouldn’t win this power struggle.
As she was drifting off to sleep, the sound of a woman crying three pieces of foam down from her made Delia forget her own troubles for a moment. The lights had just gone out, the young black woman was a late arrival. The first reaction when hearing someone cry is to ask why. That would be foolish here, Delia thought. We should all be crying. Those not doing so should be asked why. Still, she wanted to know what was making her so sad. Delia had a reporter’s curiosity. She got up and went over to where the woman was lying, face down. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Delia whispered. She put her hand on the woman’s clenched fist but was ignored so she went back to her bed. Stupid question, really, she thought. We are obviously in the same plight.
Sometimes Delia could talk to people, touch them, make them feel a little better, it was a gift. She would have liked to have told Mrs. Chang about her heeling powers but the social worker didn’t strike Delia as someone who could give a rap about anything so nebulous and farfetched. Delia imagined she would sarcastically ask why she couldn’t help herself if her powers were so great. All of these things were on Delia’s mind that second night in the shelter as she listened to the broken human sounds around her. Delia could detect those that came from the body and those that stemmed from the heart. Some came from a troubled mind. As her own mind filed all the questions and impressions from the day, and those firmly entrenched in the now, she hoped her brain activity wasn’t too noisy. She made it through her first two days of homelessness and for that she wished she could thank God but since giving up her drug of choice, she really had no one to talk to.
Delia wasn’t as lonely in the shelter without a higher power as she expected to be. She had never slept in a crowd before; it was incredibly annoying and soothing at the same time. She was tempted to tell the sobbing woman that there was someone watching over her, ready to help with her problems but she held back; she didn’t want anyone to fall under the same spell she had been under for so many years. She vowed to advocate only bootstraps and self-reliance, tough-love and nose-to-the-grindstone if anyone should ask. Would that, could that be enough solace for the woman who had stopped crying and the one who was moaning in her sleep? What will become of all of us? she thought. Then she rolled over and did not wait for an answer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)