3
As I tooled out of Smogtown, heading North, I could feel the compression
in my heart ease up a notch. Emerging from the urban blight at Ventura, with
the cool blue Pacific stretched out on my left and empty sandstone bluffs
on my right, I allowed a glimmer of hope to flicker, just briefly, in the
old chest cave. Funny what a change of scene can do. Driving through Santa
Barbara, with its clean white buildings and swaying palms, I felt almost
human. Once I rounded Morro Bay and followed Highway One up the coast, my
inner dialogue had taken a turn toward what could almost be described as
excitement for whatever adventures awaited me.
Now, I've been through enough breakups in my time to know well the false
euphoria that can flare and dazzle, like a temporary insanity. "Oh yeah!" you
think, "I'll be fine! It's all for the best! Hey, that relationship
had gone as far as it could! We were stagnating, there! Of course she
needed some space! Hell, I did, too! Amazing I didn't see it earlier!
And now, you know, I can meet someone who'll really be right for
me! Sure! Probably today or tomorrow!"
But today and tomorrow come and go, and Ms. Right doesn't miraculously jog
up on a deserted beach at sunset, or spill your popcorn at the bargain matinee
and buy you a new one, laughing. She doesn't sidle up at the gallery, smile
like you've been talking for hours, and say, "Doesn't Mishio do incredible work?"
And today and tomorrow come and go.
Yup, I've been around this block plenty. I've run my personal ad so many
times I've got it memorized: "Counter-Culture Gumshoe. 40's. Thick in
all the right places. Spiritually and emotionally trying. Seeks broad with
a sense of humor." Them's the goods. What you see is what you get. Take
it or leave it. If she can't read between the lines, better find another
Charlie.
Interesting, though, since we're on the subject of this way-familiar terrain,
how my thoughts at times like these seem to revolve not so much around the
specific woman I've just been dumped by, as around Woman Herself. I mean,
no doubt I was missing Deidre. Her crooked smile, her skinny girlish body,
her sharp wit. She'd been a constant in my life for months. We'd shared something
deep.
But as I monitored my process, I felt that the black hole behind my ribcage
contained a cry of longing for a more profound connection with the elemental,
primordial Female. Maybe Deidre was right. Maybe I did want a Mommy.
But the images that flitted on my inner screen, of voluptuous, fire-lit sirens,
writhing ecstatic on the dim shorelines of fantasy, visions of primal lust
and heart-rending tenderness, didn't fit neatly into that diagnosis. My Mom
never looked like that!
Hell, I don't know.
This latest blowout had pretty much followed the pattern from blowouts of
yore. We're talking ritual behavior here, and Deidre and I have breaking
up down to a fine art. It all hinges on what I call "The Three C's":
Commitment. Contribution. Collapse.
Invariably, the ordeal begins with the phrase: "We need to talk".
Now, if you're a male-type individual in this age of check-stand psychology
and talkshow-speak, you know that's a road best left un-traveled. It's a
fight you can't win, bruddah! That way lies madness!
At the sound of those four simple words, my neck will constrict into a fear-frozen
dead zone and sirens will start wailing in my brain stem. Deidre will express
frustration with my lack of emotional availability, receptivity, romantic
playfulness, or whatever's au courant in the pop-psych arena. The
word commitment will come spinning my way like a gleaming shakiron, flung
backhand by a steely-eyed Ninja. As it hits home, I'll drop my head.
Mute. Penitent. Guilty as charged.
I'll then open the barn door to the second C, "Contribution", by
protesting that my perceived lack of romantic presence probably stems from
the fact that I need a certain amount of mental energy for my work. I say
this knowing full well what her response will be, and I rebut that response
with the timeworn question:
"What do you mean what do I mean my work!?!"
She'll segue neatly into a lengthy harangue about a host of financial inequities,
from which I benefit.
Again, I'll have no choice but to agree.
See, Deidre is a woman of means, an heiress, a full-time seeker and doer
of good works.
And me?
I'm an esoteric shamus who sometimes has to slice the tofu pretty thin between
capers. I mean, I'm always working on something, but it doesn't always pay.
My gig is as much a quest as a job. I go where the case leads, and often
as not, the case isn't even the real mystery. Deidre has
a favorite quip about there being no bottom line in infinity.
I'll try and cut my losses at this juncture by recounting the inherent nobility
of my calling: Having been in and around the New Age scene for a decade or
two, I'm uniquely qualified to help like-minded folks out of jams that more
Earth-bound cats wouldn't grok. By virtue of my long practice of meditation,
I have the mindfulness to cut to the quick of things fairly rapidly.
Deidre may offer a grimace or snort of encouragement here.
Also, I'll continue, my equally thorough training in the Martial
Arts affords me the confidence to wade in where your average Joe-decaf-lowfat-soy-chai-type
might fear to tread.
Unconvinced that civilization will collapse without my expertise, Deidre
will offer an ultimatum, which, I always suspect, is designed to give us
both an out:
Get a real job. Marry me and start a family. Lose some weight and the ponytail.
Stand up straight and don't give me that look when I'm-
You get the vibe.
This leads us to the final "C", Collapse, and the accompanying
tailspin of hopelessness, self-loathing, self-hatred, self-doubt, self-flagellation,
self-pity, abandonment issues, the usual
As I say, all very ritualistic and familiar, but at the moment I normally
spin on my heel and slam the door behind me, Deidre throws me a curve: She
states that I’m brimming with unresolved rage and that future attempts
to reconcile are doomed unless I deal with it.
I shake my head in sad disbelief and state that we both know that’s
a crock. I’m the mellowest guy in the world. I spin on my heel and
pull the door quietly behind me.
So here I am.
Near the sun bleached town of Cambria, where the piney woods meet the sea,
I realized I'd left off ping-ponging between bogus elation and bottomless
despair.
Moving on, that's good.
As I rolled through San Simeon, I sent up a quick prayer for William Randolf
Hearst, quick-frozen in limbo by the public's ghoulish fascination with his
monumental obsession on the hill.
I think I have problems!
How'd you like to have a thousand visitors a day traipsing through your bedroom,
while a tour guide ticks off a laundry list of your kinks and peccadilloes!!
Poor guy.
Chuckling bitterly, I gripped the wheel tighter as the road began to climb.
Continued HERE