10 - wordlessness

I would argue that "getting a sense of" is the best we can do. Knowing someone, well shit, how do you really "know" someone if they're lively, engaging, interesting and dynamic? What compels us to get close or stay close is the thing we can never fully understand. Maybe the obituary marks the knowing, but then what is that?

             —MKB, to Lori Richardson on Facebook

~~~

So much easier at times to sit down with someone you don’t know and let fly with the truth. In those early moments with a stranger, with someone you’ve no ties to, no alliances, no commitments, no possessive attachment to or defenses built up, you simply and easily ramble on in perfect detail, and of course it’s not just any stranger, but someone you’ve a gut feeling about, someone you trust immediately. No explaining it.

I felt this way with her, she with me. I had not shared the intimate details of my suffering and loneliness with anyone before her. I had kept it under wraps and was surprised by how at ease I was. The first time we met at the Infusion Center she surprised me with a farewell that marked the beginning. She had given me the Lupron injection and left the room. I thought that was the good-bye. But when I came out, she was lingering, next to her cart, and she looked me square in the eyes, empathy and strength and interest, engaged she was, and she reached out, heartfelt, and said, “It was good talking with you before.” One of those moments where you’re thinking I may never see them again, I want them to know, to understand, that it was good to be in their presence. We shook hands, and it was hardy and firm, and long-held. I didn’t want to let go, wanted to pull her close, to kiss her on the cheek, to whisper in her ear,…

Now, face-to-face, at sunset, the sound of the Pacific just beyond, we shared a bottle of Cabernet, 2005, “Provocative” from Ahnfeldt in Napa. I had asked the bartender for a recommendation before she arrived and he came through. Neither of us had been to this ocean-view playground at the Hotel Del and our conversation, now awkward, focused on the environs, tourists and romance all round. A young couple opposite asked if I’d take a picture of them. I obliged, snapping off a few from different angles, as they giggled at my horseplay, pretending to be one of the paparazzi. That broke the ice, Camille laughed; she flipping laughed! She didn’t clam up and get offended. Jesus, the pure pleasure of being at ease, of having fun… Her body language and countenance spoke volumes. No measuring the behavior or reining it in.

A glimpse of the old Maxie. Used to be playful and out of control, would do and say things outrageous and inappropriate. A kind of doofus, the affably alienated buffoon, at play and in love. It has been so, so long…. Maya would always wince, get pissed off. She did not like the unruly and incorrigible, so straight-laced she was, so worried about what others were thinking. I think at some point in the later years she’d say no to social events with her colleagues because she knew I’d not be appropriately diplomatic and civil, upright. She’s a lawyer; I’m a non-profit prole. I’d probe, play the fool, and goad them all into wincing and wondering, “Why is she with him? What does she see in him?” And of course, to get her to the moment where she quit asking, I was so much the happier. Preferring solitude and the study of philosophy to the inane chitchat of the pettifoggers. They sneered, I sneered back. Shared all of this with Camille.

CAMILLE! My god. Could not have imagined what came next. Martin, her hunk? Seems her dear surf shop manager in Imperial Beach got caught in a moment of the wandering eye. So damned maddening that I had to come to his defense, that I had to say their relationship had life, and juice, and excitement, that he needed to be encouraged in this, to not hide it but be honest, not in some guilty sense, or a fessing up, but just admitting to how fucking incredible life is, to not turn away from the beauty, the attractions. I launched into philosophical argument; and of course she smirked.

And I reminded her, she "wandered" my way before she caught Martin in the bar next to his shop, sipping a beer with a co-worker, a lovely and brilliant coworker at that, a woman younger than she, a senior in pre-med at the university, and I couldn’t help myself. I became an advocate for their love, for what brought them together, that these moments are always a reminder, a goad to struggle through, to find a way to keep the spark alive. Don’t let it die, don’t go on the rails, don’t go to sleep and hide…. A moment of silence and I looked away from her and realized the sun was setting. I grabbed my glass and offered up a toast, “So splendid it is to be sitting here with you.” The smirk disappeared. And there it was, an epiphany, I’m a romantic, dyed-in-the-wool.

And damn it, I don’t want to be. Shit. I want to let the Cialis kick in, randy and in need, let me by lusty and lecherous. I want to lay naked with her, I want to get a room, go inside and head upstairs, and just forget about everything, just see what happens.

Onward to the finale, the back and forth. Probing further, wanting to find out more. What was it that brought her from New Orleans? What is it about oncology, why do nurses and doctors choose it right off? Is nearness of death at play? How do you manage it? Does your empathy and compassion take a hit or is it enhanced and made more profound? Can you keep your distance from those who are suffering?

At some point it turned into a dream fantastical, and for the life of me I can’t bring it back, can’t see the moment clearly. And full-on, as we moved to the end, a kind of distance began to develop. As I got more and more comfortable and intimate, she stepped back. She became inaccessible, and it wasn’t fear or trepidation but a clear desire to slow it down; an attempt to manage what was happening? Somewhere along the way she said, “There’s a point you realize certain things we’re seeing and feeling—experiencing. I don’t know, it’s just,… some things need to be left alone.”

How could I not follow on that, to probe further? And I didn’t ask or say it, but it occurred to me, after two martinis, two shared bottles of wine and a Kahlúa Especial nightcap, she’s an artist of some kind; she keeps it hidden. Painter? Photographer? She understands, the power and paradox of wordlessness.

We settled up with the bartender. The last we were, even his waitress was gone. I thanked him for the gift of “provocative.” As we turned to walk back down the way she had come in, I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but I didn’t. Felt so very close. She had parked around the bend, on a side street. It was after midnight and the moon was large and full, right there. Delighted I was, as I walked slightly behind, and we get to her car, she puts the key in the lock and turns to me, she appeared at ease and trusting, and without hesitation I leaned in and gave her a kiss. On the lips, warm and luscious, the kiss of kisses, age old,… “slippery blisses.”

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[jz]

An immortal experience!