Post by goldenmyst on Aug 9, 2018 6:45:10 GMT -6
Quest
I grew up using typewriters. I remember well the clack of keys as ink spilled forth staining the paper. Now, at age sixty, I feel as obsolete as a typewriter. I haven’t grown wiser with age. In fact, I was wiser when I was fifteen than now. When I talk about books, women run for dear life. When will I ever learn?
Back in the Stone Age, I had a woman. Her name was Sara. She was eighteen years older than me and pretty as a peach. We met at a hotel conference. She was Jewish and I was a wannabe Jew. She tried to get me to wear a yarmulke but I felt silly about the idea. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.
I had a quest to restore some part of me. In my case, it was my self-esteem. Sara was my wizard who boosted me into the stratosphere.
Now that I’m elderly romance seems kind of superfluous. There have been a few casual flirtations but nothing of any consequence. Sara was the only woman whom I felt at home with. She was my archetypal lover, whose every gesture was potent with magic. We roamed like gypsies across the bulging land. We migrated to the cardinal points; north to Arkansas; west to New Mexico and Arizona; south to Corpus Christi; and east to Atlanta and North Carolina. We were like flower children, living in a parallel universe in which time and space were not restricting.
When we hiked in the woods I garlanded her with wildflowers. We camped by the rapids in a national forest.
Once we hiked up a five thousand foot mountain in North Carolina. As we were descending a mighty thunderstorm hit. I freaked out. I was exclaiming “Oh my God” and wailing. Sara walked behind me as cool as a cucumber. She reassured me by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
When I was ready to throw in the towel and drop out of graduate school, Sara took charge of me. She sternly forbade me to drop out. She believed in me even when I’d given up on myself.
While camping atop a mountain in Arkansas Sara called her doctor. She discovered she had a spot on her breast from her mammogram. I took her to a petting and feeding zoo on the mountain. She coped with her cancer by nurturing the goats with milk from a bottle and petting them as they climbed on her. Nurturing others was Sara’s way of finding inner peace. When she was wheeled out of post-op in her stretcher from her cancer surgery her first question to me was “did you go to your class?”
Sara taught me freestyle modern dance. In those early days of our romance, we danced in a kind of free-flowing expression of inner emotions. We moved together in a passionate sharing of emotional bonding. As we danced we touched in an exchange of energies merging as one in a deep sea of tranquility.
Now I go to the deli and get an avocado and soy cheese sandwich. I got hooked on health foods with Sara. She could cook the funkiest sautéed vege dishes. And when she touched my heart with her magic wand a flower blossomed from deep within. She was a medicine woman who could cure the deepest wounds. She could heal even that pain which lay submerged in a sunken world so far down as to be beyond the light of hope.
Sara and I parted ways years later. She sank into her dreams, disappearing over the horizon like a ship headed for exotic ports. I always felt we were like George Burns and Gracie Allen with the genders reversed. She was always the one on the ball with me being the fool on the hill. Say goodnight Leaf. Goodnight Leaf.
I stayed in Baton Rouge for a few years. Then my mother and grandmother passed on. I tried my role as king of the noveau poetry scene in San Francisco. I once got a free dinner date for one of my poems. When she discovered that I wasn’t playing crazy but really was I didn’t hear from her again. Still, I met a lot of wacky people. I would’ve stayed there but I missed southern cooking and even the Baptists.
I used to go into rages about the Christian fundamentalists and conservatives; nothing more pathetic than a dork hyped up on politics. I never had the guts to speak out at free speech alley at the university. I left that to the fundies. Boy did I let them have it in the shower though. I made many a Gettysburg address in the shower. I thought of sending an article to the newspaper. But like the Beatles song goes, “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t going to make it with
anyone anyhow.”
I was the Rodney Dangerfield of the dating scene anyway. I never dated after Sara.
The central theme to my sociopolitical thesis was to make love, not war. However, I tended to wage a war of words more than making love. Still there were those fleeting flirtations, which I relished more than feta cheese salads. In fact, I would give a whole weeks salary for a kiss. Kissing is more fun than girl watching.
Sometimes my desires go beyond kissing. Sara told me before she left me not to seek out ladies of the night. She said nice women wouldn’t be with a man like that. I have obeyed her even through divorce and her death. Sadly it seems I outlived most of the people I loved.
My life now isn’t all solitude. In fact just the other day I had the most beautiful conversation with a freshman at the university. We were sitting in a coffee shop and she asked for help with her algebra. I sat with her and went through the problems. The beauty of it wasn’t that we talked personally or such. It was just the simple act of helping a young woman. She was so appreciative.
I felt like kissing her and just the fantasy was pleasurable. She had rich full lips and a cherubic face. Her hair was short and red. She wore a ring through her nose. This was exactly the type I longed for when I was in my forties. When we finished she thanked me with that feminine lilt I so loved and vanished into the night.
These encounters are the oasis in which I replenish my emotional energy. My life is spent crossing the distant spaces between the islands. I am a nomad who grows cold and stiff in the vast night seas who gets enough warmth to survive during fleeting shore leaves at these ports of calls. I long for these encounters like a vampire longs for blood. The nourishing warmth of a kind voice resurrects me. As I lie dying with clouds filling my mind, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, in the form of dialogue, revives me miraculously.
I must confess the loneliness brings me to dark places at times. I often wonder how I’ll continue to walk through this desolate city. The streets seem to lead to nowhere. I feel like the city has a pallor, which seems ominous. It seems so sterile and cold. I long for the wilderness and Sara.
I often wonder how and when I’ll die. Twenty years ago I was sure I’d be dead by now. My heart seems to beat on like a metronome. At night it feels sluggish though. It still skips beats.
When I left Baton Rouge, I left behind my past. I spent three years on the west coast. During that time Sara passed on. I felt like an exile in a distant land. I had my cousin and aunt there but they were so cold and distant I might as well have been alone. The cold fogs of the Bay area seemed to chill me to the bone.
I used to wander the streets observing the buzz of humanity and the tragic plays occurring all around. I once observed a homeless man in a daze, near death. He looked so peaceful. I almost envied him. Sometimes breaking all ties with the world and living in a far off planet of the mind seemed a liberating idea.
But then there are all those visceral pangs of hunger to be fed, those moments of pleasure, those dreams and fantasies, which by some slim chance might be realized. The basic needs are a compass point, which keeps my track through the material world. I look forward to the simple meal, which will surely come this night. The intersection of universes with normal people when I enter coffee shops or restaurants replenishes me through emotional transfusion.
Baton Rouge feels much like the Galapagos Islands. The desolation and strange atavistic Christians who live here are familiar. I don’t like fundamentalism but it feels like home here. I’ve been so steeped in a southern culture that escape is not possible.
I’ve thought of living in New Orleans. However, my past there stalks me. The lonely years spent wandering the streets, and the family traumas haunt the landscape. I could no more feel comfortable living there than a war-torn country. The minefields of memory dot the neighborhoods.
So my island fortress in suburbia is my refuge. The menagerie of memories spins like an old LP playing over and over. When the final note is played, perhaps an epiphany will illuminate the darkness. Then the missing piece of the puzzle will, at last, be inserted and my quest will be complete.
I grew up using typewriters. I remember well the clack of keys as ink spilled forth staining the paper. Now, at age sixty, I feel as obsolete as a typewriter. I haven’t grown wiser with age. In fact, I was wiser when I was fifteen than now. When I talk about books, women run for dear life. When will I ever learn?
Back in the Stone Age, I had a woman. Her name was Sara. She was eighteen years older than me and pretty as a peach. We met at a hotel conference. She was Jewish and I was a wannabe Jew. She tried to get me to wear a yarmulke but I felt silly about the idea. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.
I had a quest to restore some part of me. In my case, it was my self-esteem. Sara was my wizard who boosted me into the stratosphere.
Now that I’m elderly romance seems kind of superfluous. There have been a few casual flirtations but nothing of any consequence. Sara was the only woman whom I felt at home with. She was my archetypal lover, whose every gesture was potent with magic. We roamed like gypsies across the bulging land. We migrated to the cardinal points; north to Arkansas; west to New Mexico and Arizona; south to Corpus Christi; and east to Atlanta and North Carolina. We were like flower children, living in a parallel universe in which time and space were not restricting.
When we hiked in the woods I garlanded her with wildflowers. We camped by the rapids in a national forest.
Once we hiked up a five thousand foot mountain in North Carolina. As we were descending a mighty thunderstorm hit. I freaked out. I was exclaiming “Oh my God” and wailing. Sara walked behind me as cool as a cucumber. She reassured me by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
When I was ready to throw in the towel and drop out of graduate school, Sara took charge of me. She sternly forbade me to drop out. She believed in me even when I’d given up on myself.
While camping atop a mountain in Arkansas Sara called her doctor. She discovered she had a spot on her breast from her mammogram. I took her to a petting and feeding zoo on the mountain. She coped with her cancer by nurturing the goats with milk from a bottle and petting them as they climbed on her. Nurturing others was Sara’s way of finding inner peace. When she was wheeled out of post-op in her stretcher from her cancer surgery her first question to me was “did you go to your class?”
Sara taught me freestyle modern dance. In those early days of our romance, we danced in a kind of free-flowing expression of inner emotions. We moved together in a passionate sharing of emotional bonding. As we danced we touched in an exchange of energies merging as one in a deep sea of tranquility.
Now I go to the deli and get an avocado and soy cheese sandwich. I got hooked on health foods with Sara. She could cook the funkiest sautéed vege dishes. And when she touched my heart with her magic wand a flower blossomed from deep within. She was a medicine woman who could cure the deepest wounds. She could heal even that pain which lay submerged in a sunken world so far down as to be beyond the light of hope.
Sara and I parted ways years later. She sank into her dreams, disappearing over the horizon like a ship headed for exotic ports. I always felt we were like George Burns and Gracie Allen with the genders reversed. She was always the one on the ball with me being the fool on the hill. Say goodnight Leaf. Goodnight Leaf.
I stayed in Baton Rouge for a few years. Then my mother and grandmother passed on. I tried my role as king of the noveau poetry scene in San Francisco. I once got a free dinner date for one of my poems. When she discovered that I wasn’t playing crazy but really was I didn’t hear from her again. Still, I met a lot of wacky people. I would’ve stayed there but I missed southern cooking and even the Baptists.
I used to go into rages about the Christian fundamentalists and conservatives; nothing more pathetic than a dork hyped up on politics. I never had the guts to speak out at free speech alley at the university. I left that to the fundies. Boy did I let them have it in the shower though. I made many a Gettysburg address in the shower. I thought of sending an article to the newspaper. But like the Beatles song goes, “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t going to make it with
anyone anyhow.”
I was the Rodney Dangerfield of the dating scene anyway. I never dated after Sara.
The central theme to my sociopolitical thesis was to make love, not war. However, I tended to wage a war of words more than making love. Still there were those fleeting flirtations, which I relished more than feta cheese salads. In fact, I would give a whole weeks salary for a kiss. Kissing is more fun than girl watching.
Sometimes my desires go beyond kissing. Sara told me before she left me not to seek out ladies of the night. She said nice women wouldn’t be with a man like that. I have obeyed her even through divorce and her death. Sadly it seems I outlived most of the people I loved.
My life now isn’t all solitude. In fact just the other day I had the most beautiful conversation with a freshman at the university. We were sitting in a coffee shop and she asked for help with her algebra. I sat with her and went through the problems. The beauty of it wasn’t that we talked personally or such. It was just the simple act of helping a young woman. She was so appreciative.
I felt like kissing her and just the fantasy was pleasurable. She had rich full lips and a cherubic face. Her hair was short and red. She wore a ring through her nose. This was exactly the type I longed for when I was in my forties. When we finished she thanked me with that feminine lilt I so loved and vanished into the night.
These encounters are the oasis in which I replenish my emotional energy. My life is spent crossing the distant spaces between the islands. I am a nomad who grows cold and stiff in the vast night seas who gets enough warmth to survive during fleeting shore leaves at these ports of calls. I long for these encounters like a vampire longs for blood. The nourishing warmth of a kind voice resurrects me. As I lie dying with clouds filling my mind, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, in the form of dialogue, revives me miraculously.
I must confess the loneliness brings me to dark places at times. I often wonder how I’ll continue to walk through this desolate city. The streets seem to lead to nowhere. I feel like the city has a pallor, which seems ominous. It seems so sterile and cold. I long for the wilderness and Sara.
I often wonder how and when I’ll die. Twenty years ago I was sure I’d be dead by now. My heart seems to beat on like a metronome. At night it feels sluggish though. It still skips beats.
When I left Baton Rouge, I left behind my past. I spent three years on the west coast. During that time Sara passed on. I felt like an exile in a distant land. I had my cousin and aunt there but they were so cold and distant I might as well have been alone. The cold fogs of the Bay area seemed to chill me to the bone.
I used to wander the streets observing the buzz of humanity and the tragic plays occurring all around. I once observed a homeless man in a daze, near death. He looked so peaceful. I almost envied him. Sometimes breaking all ties with the world and living in a far off planet of the mind seemed a liberating idea.
But then there are all those visceral pangs of hunger to be fed, those moments of pleasure, those dreams and fantasies, which by some slim chance might be realized. The basic needs are a compass point, which keeps my track through the material world. I look forward to the simple meal, which will surely come this night. The intersection of universes with normal people when I enter coffee shops or restaurants replenishes me through emotional transfusion.
Baton Rouge feels much like the Galapagos Islands. The desolation and strange atavistic Christians who live here are familiar. I don’t like fundamentalism but it feels like home here. I’ve been so steeped in a southern culture that escape is not possible.
I’ve thought of living in New Orleans. However, my past there stalks me. The lonely years spent wandering the streets, and the family traumas haunt the landscape. I could no more feel comfortable living there than a war-torn country. The minefields of memory dot the neighborhoods.
So my island fortress in suburbia is my refuge. The menagerie of memories spins like an old LP playing over and over. When the final note is played, perhaps an epiphany will illuminate the darkness. Then the missing piece of the puzzle will, at last, be inserted and my quest will be complete.
