17 - out of the blue

… make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

      —Eloisa to Abelard, Alexander Pope

~~~

I have begun to crave the presence of the nurse-poet, Camille Durand. I don’t want it to be here and there, ever so unpredictable. I want to see her routinely. Damn it!

Solitude turns to loneliness when you realize the craving, when you need to hear, see, taste and touch them, day-to-day.

~~~

Trying to remember when I first became aware of time. Glimpses along the way. Hit me hard when I left Claire, my one and only wife. I had left Los Angeles a complete failure. She had begun an affair with a CalArts professor and I was through. Broke and unpublished I packed up what few belongings I kept close, put my library in storage and headed back to Northern California. The morning of my departure, near dark at dawn, a sad and stirring moment in front of our townhouse. Claire’s got this look, one I hadn’t seen in a long while: loving and affectionate.

“I’ll let you know,” I said. We had agreed I’d use a Nolo “How to…” to begin the divorce proceedings. “Sure, call me when you get home.”

So awkward this, the good-bye, and I had imagined giving her a hug, but there we were, giving each other a kiss, sweet and slow, wet and warm. Residua, a remnant of what had passed between us.

On the way back to Northern California, traveling old Highway 99, got to Merced and pulled into a Denny’s for breakfast. Christ, the good old days: hash browns, toast and bacon. Sat at the counter sipping coffee, empty of feeling and thought, yet there was something, something; and they’ve got one of those old analog clocks on the wall behind the cash register, one of those that clicks to the next minute marker. And when the minute you’re in moves to the next, the long hand pops back then clicks forward. Into the next moment you go. I sat there cradling the coffee cup and staring at the clock: pop back, click forward… pop back, click forward… pop back, click forward.

Didn’t get on the freeway right off; drove around town. Merced was awake, each and all beginning their day. Was traveling down 16th Street when I crossed a river/creek, there was this old bridge. I got to the other side, pulled over, got out of the car and walked back, stopping midway. First rains of fall, it’s October, and the water seemed unusually turbulent. Stood there for the longest time fiddling with my wedding ring. Turning it round and round. Why did we ever get married?

We were crocked, it was a Friday night, and we said, “Why not?” Not so romantic, not so typical, not so moral and mainstream. Got ourselves to Vegas, ended up at the Candlelight Wedding Chapel on the strip, the Circus Circus right next. We spent a week drinking, gambling and raising hell. Seriously, no romance, simply out of control. And when I eased the ring off my finger and hurled it into the river, I thought to myself, “It was worth it… getting close to her.” Five crazed and glorious years of love and failure. More failure. A theme? Hadn’t occurred to me then. But in the coming months and years it would be clear.

Began again in the Capitol City. No way of knowing what would come next. Maya was on the horizon, couldn’t see it. Couldn’t fathom getting close so soon after Claire. Feeling the same way now. Feeling like I don’t want to travel this road again. Don’t want to feel connected, and see it develop then erode away. Fail.

Can’t imagine another end like the one I just endured. Made up my mind to be honest with Camille, to give expression to that which is “left unsaid,” the unspoken passion and interest. Wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, but I figured email would be best, that way she’d not have to engage or be uncomfortable. Lame, right? Wrote a draft:

Hey Ms. Durand:

I expect I’ll see you on my upcoming visit to the Center. Wanted to drop in a short message. Feeling quite stirred and compelled. Our Los Angeles journey got to me and I want to be up front and honest, give expression to what I’ve been feeling since.

Swear to Christ, I think I’m in love with you and I know that’s the absolute worst. I’m aware of your situation with Martin, and I’m a patient of yours; and yes, the difference in years, 25 some odd…. But damn it, I’m drawn to you.

So here’s the deal. I said it initially when I first wrote you after we met. My note then was more of a conjuring, wishful thinking than a genuine sense of courage and fearlessness. In those first moments with you I was removed, despairing, keeping up appearances, and there you were, engaged, attentive, empathetic and interested. Hadn’t felt that kind of compassion and desire in so, so long.

Just want to put it out there. You have brought me back to life. And if we can be friends once the clinical trial’s over I think I’m up for it. To love you in a larger less intimate way, seems right and true.

And check it, I understand that this soulful connection I’m feeling is more imagination than reality, that you’ve simply been kind and gentle because that’s who you are. In fact, all of this a kind of self-delusion I know, laughable. Stop laughing!!! Shit, it has been so long since I laughed. Thinking of you puts a smile on my face. You fire me up.

As I first indicated, in this chess match with death I've learned to be fierce, honest and forthright. I am unwilling to ignore the simple desires that animate, vivify and enrich my life.

I hope you and Martin are able work to things out. Struggle is part of it all, just have to find a way to make love the ground, the foundation.

Until next I see you.

With grand affection,
mk

Every night for a week I’d reread the draft message, tweak it, and I’d hesitate, wouldn’t send. My appointment at the Infusion Center loomed and I figured I’d hand write it, put it in an envelope, and either give it to her face to face or place it at her station if she’s not there.

Three days before my scheduled visit to the hospital she called. A few pleasantries up front; we both thought it, said it, “Good to hear your voice.”

Then she launched into a tirade. They had a fight. Another go round. She said it’s getting old, on her birthday no less, at a restaurant, over something picayune. She says to me, “When the ticky tack gets to you, what the fuck?” She had driven them to their favorite, Berta's in Old Town; it’s intimate and out of the way, quaint and cozy, and ever so awkward for them, as the owner-host-waiter Jorge had greeted them as he always does, took them to “their” table and all the while they’re in a mushrooming argument. Martin had started up on the way over, grumbling about her begging off on their weekend surfing.

She had begun to write again, in earnest; she saw weekend mornings, once reserved for surfing with Martin, as an opportunity for some measured and predictable weekend solitude. She had her nights as Martin’s shop was open till nine, but now she wanted more. She admitted that she found herself picking fights with him, no particular reason, and there they were, nearly four years in, at an impasse, sitting at Berta’s, and Martin calls her want of writing into question, and out of the blue he asks, “You seeing someone?” and before Jorge could deliver their bottle of red wine, she stands up, waves Martin off and says quietly and sternly, “Go fuck yourself!” and leaves.

With the one you love, there’s a moment in such situations that you’re unable to hear what you’ve heard over and over, the calling into question, or doubting your integrity, who you are, what you want. Distance develops, you begin to mistrust one another, you think, “just stop!”

She continued, articulate and presto-pronto; she spoke of what surfing with Martin meant, “What a dick! Not easy to give up… Surfing has always been a groove for me, something sublime, we should all have that in our lives,... being in the water, you know, you gain access to something, you go places, somewhere you’re not yourself, I don’t know, you have no control, it's so so large, the green/blue sensations, fear, incredible calm and then something stirring, in the break points, the barreling, the crashing down, and the swells/waves rising up on you, covering you, holding you, then spitting you out. You’re helpless, and then somehow, in control. What an asshole, he knows what it means to me to be out on the water. He’s more concerned about what it looks like. He’s out there and all they’re all asking is, ‘Where’s Camille?’

“He’s pissed off. His treasure’s not on display; his buds envy him, they like me, he had this chick in tow,… Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, he fucking doesn’t like that’s he’s lost his surfing bitch, he’s outraged, teed off, and if he only knew it wasn’t about being out there WITH HIM,… such a self-absorbed prick.

“Loved the solitude of it, the challenge of it, the exhilaration of it, fuck. There’s a rhythm in it, like dancing, you give yourself over to it.” She paused, slowed down, took a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I just… How are you doing?”

“I’m good. I was wanting to…” She interrupted, “Can I call you back? Martin’s texting me. I’ll call you back.”

She didn’t call back.

On the dance floor with Camille. Get me to a Rave, a club! It’s clear she loves him, but hates what she’s become, his bitch on water. She so cracks me up. :-)

Yes indeed, I am the confidant, cockeyed and crazed, maybe I’m the father she’s never been able to find here in the Golden State, the musician-poet her mother loved so deeply and sent packing because of his philandering. I am her audience, potential reader of the poetry she keeps hidden, an odd connection we have, yes, we’re connected, and I am in love, shit, shit, shit….

Comments

[Rosemary Ellis]

Sounds like your personal rendition of Carolyn Wonderland's "I Don't Want to Fall for You".....link: http://carolynwonderland.com/
go to music - Miss Understood - I Don't want to fall for you....

Keep writin' Mr B -