I do my morning exercises in the great outdoors, at least before the
winter comes,
and as
I rolled
around on my mat
Sunday
morning, trying to stretch and tone my body, listening to Joe Turner,
Billie Holiday and John Lee Hooker, I watched the leaves of the trees
up above me, swaying in the breeze. Billie sang: "Please Don't
Talk About Me When I'm Gone", which got me to thinking about
relationships I have had, particularly as this weekend marks an
anniversary (my wedding day to one man, which I called off), and the
birthday of another. Both men were Libras, the astrological sign of
Balance, and both are not in my life anymore, but I hope that we
all
have attained some kind of balance; I believe that we do learn from
every relationship, even if it doesn't last forever,
and I wish them both well, the first and last loves separated by so
many years.
And
I, as I wrote many years ago in my diary, go on my way alone. It's
hard, and sometimes the hours are long, but it's also, (I guess)
what I want. It's the "better prospect" that someone said I
was always searching for, although he was not being complimentary; he
meant it as an accusation,
an infidelity when
I was with
him. A nasty remark, one born of angry insecurity, I think.
In any case, it wasn't true in the sense he meant it. I never seek men;
mainly, I suppose, because they have always come to me. I'm grateful
for their love and tenderness, but I think I learned early in life
that I had a different path. Any
relationship is
constraining, and
men in particular want a woman to be a certain way. I'm not
any
fixed way, and I don't want to be. I despise the ownership of men.
Yesterday,
in the
desperation
of
one of those long hours
of my life,
staring into space in my living room,
I dragged myself out to hear some music downtown. I sat on a bar
stool by myself and stared
at
musicians
instead,
a good band
which got me bouncing to their tunes.
A young woman came in and sat on the stool next to me, and we both
watched in respectful silence. I was thinking of the bar that used to
be a few doors down, now demolished, where I had gone by myself forty
years earlier, and where I began a love affair with the musician who
was performing there, and who had come over to my table, seeking
company. I silently cheered the woman beside me for going out on her
own too; I thought, 'she looks about the age I was then'. When I
finally
spoke
to her later, she was delightful; good-looking
and cool, but not in the way that people try to be; she simply had a
good sense of herself. She
came from a country in Europe that I'm going to visit soon, and we
ended up trading emails and phone numbers, and especially, laughing a
lot together. She was precisely the age I had been at the old Bourbon
Street bar, as I had guessed, and she represented for me, by her attitude
and spunk and artistic nature, just the kind of woman that I think
women should be.
We
both went home alone, but much cheered. That's
the "better prospect" that I know is out there, and which
gives me heart.
 |
| ready to fly to Rome on Wednesday |
 |
| me (rt) and my mom (left). I'm about 8 years old; she might be around 12 or so, not sure. |
I recently found this poem that I had copied a long time ago; it was written in 1896 by the English poet Ernest Dowson, and is timely all the time:
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate.
I think they have no portion is us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses,
Out of a misty dream.
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
