COVID19

The other night, I had a dream that upset me so much that it stayed with me throughout the day, made me so miserable I didn't go to the village market because I didn't want to put on a fake smile or open my mouth. When I told Rob about it, he said that it did not sound that scary and, in telling it, it didn't but still, I felt horrible.

I appear to be at a beach that has a long boardwalk running through its middle. A long line of people are walking casually along, laughing and talking. I stand off the walk, in my mask, waiting for the people to pass so I can cross safely when I focus on this young woman, taller and stronger than me, approaching. When she reaches me, she stops, looks me in the eye sneeringly and grabs my hands. I am horrified and try to pull my hands out of hers but she holds tight and won't let go. I struggle for what appears to be a long time and finally, realizing that she is too strong, I begin to cry. She laughs and leaves me.

I think about my powerlessness throughout the day, trying to think of what I could have done or said to change the situation. One response could have been: I have COVID19. Another is: You'll be sorry if I die because of you, but I know both responses are weak: I doubt either would have moved her.

Some days, I feel as if I'm in jail and will never escape. Other days, I think this lonely life is good for me: it forces me to stay put and design a way of being that gives me pleasure. I have begun yet again to write my novel. Susan and David are urging me on although yesterday Susan said that she would not live long enough to read it. I said you never know. You may live to be a hundred. When the writing is difficult, I worry that I am spending my last days doing something that is beyond me, that will never be finished.

I have a pile of books on my desk - fiction, non-fiction, and poetry - and I jump from one to another, depending on my mood. I smile at myself. I am doing what I've been doing all my life - trying to find a way to live.

Bad Habits

I just found this piece that I wrote many years ago and I have no idea if I wrote it for anything specific or not - could have simply been an exercise for my writing group. I'd say I've been a closet writer for years.



BAD HABITS

I am old as old as my friend Maggie was that year before she died.  After disease stole her vocal cords, I visited her almost daily and talked non-stop about my writing, the children, Adam’s work, what I was making for dinner, anything and everything to keep her from crying, although I was the one that minded the tears.  Maggie called them the wine of the gods.
Now I am the old one and Marietta visits me as I once visited Maggie but, unlike Maggie, I am blessed.  All my faculties more or less function, though my eyes strain more often and my ears miss light sounds like the footsteps of Marietta entering my den. Sometimes, when I am reading with a magnifying glass, I look up and there she is, sitting at the table leafing through one of my novels with such reverence that I smile.  I took a lot of abuse over my books, especially Three Hundred Days of Indulgence.  Some called it pornography.  Others worse.  I nearly lost my husband over that one.  Adam didn’t like what he said I’d written about him.  I laughed in his face; called him presumptuous, and insisted the book was fiction.
I lied, of course.  Every writer borrows from life.
He accepted my explanation.  Had little choice.  After thirty years, I was his bad habit.  He couldn’t live without me.
Marietta says my books give her permission to think her wayward thoughts.  She is speaking about sex, of course.  You’d think in this decade that fucking would be as easy as sending an email.  It isn’t.  It still confuses people.  They can’t get naked and have a rip-roaring good time without using that dreadful word relationship, or worse still love.
“All you need is love, love. Love is all you need.”
I can’t believe it.  I sit here thinking my foolish thoughts and when the word  “love” pops into my mind, the Beatles’ song plays in my head.
No.
The music is coming from outside.
I look out the window and there’s Adam singing his fool head off in his beloved vegetable garden.  It’s eerie how often we’re in sync these days.
I wave and grin; and he, poor dear, blows a kiss my way.
I am a hard cruel woman.  I should have set him free years ago.  He is too good for me.
I turn back to my desk and there is Marietta sitting patiently waiting.  She demands nothing but a word now and again, although occasionally she taxes me for advice on some article she’s writing. 
Something has upset her today.  She keeps clenching that pretty mouth of hers.
“What is it, Marietta?”
She takes a deep breath, twists one bare leg around the other as if it were rubber.
“You know Sophia…
She takes another deep breath.
“I thought myself liberated.  I come here and tell you about my sexual exploits, brag almost, feel free and intelligent—gutsy, to use your word; but after what I did yesterday…
She hangs her head like a sorry child.
“Oh come on, Marietta.  I’m too old to plead.  What stupid fool thing did you do? Or think you did?”
She gets up and paces, her long legs more exposed, as she strides, in that treacherous mini-skirt. 
Just when I’m about to yell at her for wearing out the carpet and my patience, she halts and begins in a somber voice.
“A couple of nights ago, I went to The King’s Arms with several colleagues from the office.  It was Malcolm’s birthday.  He’s the skinny one with dark glasses who fawns over me.  After a couple of glasses of wine, I excused myself to go to the washroom.  The new illustrator—beautiful young woman, smart too, but with the craziest eyes I’ve ever seen—said she had to go too.  I went into the first stall, was about to lock the door, when she pushed in, bolted it, and spun round to face me.”
Marietta swallows hard and resumes pacing.
“As I looked into those crazy eyes, questioning, she raised her hand and stroked my cheek.  And then she raised the other hand to my face and pressed her lips against mine.  Those soft wet lips and tongue forcing its way into my mouth took me by surprise. I liked the sweetness.  I closed my eyes and tasted fruit.”
She pauses.
“It’s been too damn long, Sophia, that’s the problem.  I like penises.  I like them inside me.  I’m not attracted to women.  Oh yes, I have fantasies, but that’s all they are.  I love women but I don’t want to make love to them... fuck them, as you would say.”
“So what’s the big deal?  You kissed a woman on the lips.”
“That’s not all.  She put her hands on my breasts and I found myself arching towards her.  Heaven knows what else I’d have let her touch but we were interrupted by a yell outside the door.  I cringe when I think of it.”
Marietta stands there rocking but, by now, I’m as curious as hell and can’t wait for her histrionics to end.
“Yell?  Why was someone yelling in the washroom?  Was someone hurt?”
“No, no.  She was demanding to know what we two lezzies were doing in there.
“Lezzies?  I felt as if I’d been slapped.  I stepped back and shook my head at crazy eyes.  She moved to the wall and I opened the door and left.
“Yesterday she approached me at work and asked if she could come over to my place with a bottle of her favourite merlot.
“No,” I told her.  “I’m sorry but no.
“I could hardly look her in the eye.  I espouse all this—this dogma on androgyny and find I’m too uptight to test the theory.  You told me once that your only regret is that you’ve never made love to a woman.  I thought yes, that it would be nice to feel soft flesh next to mine.  We would know how to please the other.  But, when given the opportunity, I’m too afraid to wander from the straight and narrow.”
She slumps into the chair.
“Balls, Marietta.  Think woman think.  Imagine that illustrator was a man who could fill you to the hilt.  Would you invite him over to your place after one quick grope in a toilet stall?”
 Marietta looks up.  Slowly her mouth breaks into a smile.
This is why I love this young woman.  She can laugh at herself.
“You’re right.  I am overreacting.  I wouldn’t make love—fuck rather—a man on the basis of one wine-infused kiss, no matter where it happened.
“Sophia, thanks.  I feel so much better.  Must run.”
Marietta leaves, slamming the damn door.  How many times have I told her that it isn’t music to my ears?
She’ll learn some day that the intellect is light years ahead of the emotions.  If the timing is right, she might even enjoy a woman in the sack. 
Oh Maggie, how I miss you.  In the end, you were angry with me.  I wanted to leave Adam during my three hundred days of indulgence.  He was so dreary.  And you cautioned me, crying all the while, not to make important decisions when swinging off emotional highs.
Damn, I was wilder than Marietta.  When did I tell her that I’d never made love to a woman?  I did whatever I pleased with whomever I pleased—monogamy equaled monotony—and then vindicated myself by telling Adam everything.  Before long, he was crying too.  I thought I was going to drown in tears.
Who told you that they’re the wine of the gods?  I searched long and hard and found no such reference although Psyche crying buckets of tears over Eros pissed me off.
Why is Psyche or Soul a weak little female and Eros, god of love, a golden-haired boy with a bow and arrow?
A man must have transcribed the myth.
If anyone’s been wounded by love, it is Adam.  He was Psyche crying for me, goddess of love—or so I thought—looking down from my lofty height, feeling sorry for the mere mortal.
I was so full of myself.
When Adam’s tears dried, he made love to me until I had to beg him to stop—another reversal of roles.  Did I say, “made love?” Marietta’s influence… whatever… he knew how to please me.  Still does, if the truth is to be told.  I love it when that old man climbs on top of me. 
I am blessed. 

Mother - written May 13, 2012

It's Mother's Day in France and this morning, going through old journals, I found this entry from eight years ago - another Mother's Day.

"What does it mean 'mother'"?

I spent one university year writing a paper on my mother. I cried uncontrollably during the process as if every thought and happening I discussed on paper was a betrayal. When I began researching mothers and daughters, I didn't like my mother. By the end, I loved her.

I began my essay: "I continued to reflect that she was dangerous...she prevented me from liking myself. I, who was so naturally meant for happiness and gaiety, had been forced into a world of self-criticism and guilty conscience..."    -  Françoise Sagan

"In 1993, Rob was nominated for an Oscar for Unforgiven. After it was announced, the two of us escaped to Mexico, leaving a male friend to look after our children. (As it turned out, he became a secretary as well - recording all incoming messages regarding Rob's nomination.) In Mexico - I cannot remember where - we told nobody about Rob's great honour - although we were bursting with it - and did a number of touristy things. One day, at the last moment, we decided to splurge on a day's boat excursion with what we thought was a reputable company - Jacques Cousteau's. Unbeknownst to us, there was a storm warning and the company bearing Cousteau's name was not at the dock and another had taken its place. We were surprised at the rather shabby sail boat with a rough-looking crew though climbed on board with two American couples. As the day wore on, the sea grew wilder and wilder, the waves larger and larger until the six of us were drenched and fearful that we would be tossed overboard so we devised a human chain: the largest person wrapped his arms around the base of the sail and around the person in front - the rest of us sat between the legs of the person behind and held onto the person in front. I was soaked and shivering and thought we were all going to die: I started yelling for my mother. I had never yelled for my mother: she was the last person I thought of when I was in danger and yet, when I thought my end was inevitable, I was yelling for her.

I think of myself as a mother - the most difficult work that I have ever taken on. There were times when the responsibility terrified me. One day I have a great big belly with the shape of a foot roaming its surface and the next, I am holding a tiny human being whose life depends on me. I am still me but I have a new label - mother: this baby clings to me, claws at me, wants all of me, every hour of the day and night. I am consumed. I worry about things that I never worried about before children. I do things that I've never done before - like waiting at street lights: it is imperative that I stay alive for my child. The baby grows and I want to keep him or her safe and at the same time, allow freedom. I do not want to break a child's spirit but I want to tame it a little so he or she will be welcome anywhere. At the same time, I want a life of my own while raising these wild little beings but this proves difficult when someone is always yelling "mummy".

I so wanted to be a good mother and tried to listen and be open when questioned. For instance, "Why can't I go swimming after eating?" And I would research the half-hour or hour wait period rule - that my mother enforced - to find out if it was an urban legion or not. When my/our children were old enough to drink, we got an account with a local taxi company that they or their friends could use, without question, if inebriated. I know I wasn't perfect. I can remember a few times when I failed one of the other or other miserably.

Now all is quiet. My three are  grown-ups, gone, leading their own lives. Two of them are older than I was when I had my first child. My baby is a quarter of a century. All three are creative, loving people. I can relax: they don't need me to keep them safe and yet if they need me, I am here.

How strange life is. One day the child is so dependent; the next, he or she is anxious to leave, to do whatever without censure including guilty pleasures. I know what is right for me, what feels good and, at one time, I knew what was right for my children. Sometimes, I disappointed them, stopped them from doing things they wanted - not because they were necessarily unsafe - but I worried they might be- and I if something horrible did happen, it would be my fault.

Now, I don't know what is right for them. They are on their own and only they know their own hearts. I might not like what they are doing - though this is rare - and sometimes, I would love to offer advice after all, I have lived so much longer than they have - but I don't because for better or worse, I have found my way but is it the best way? I don't know. I have hopes that my children will find a better way - or a way more gratifying to their individual sensibilities."

You won't hear much from me in the days to come because I am trying to finish my novel. I write from two to five hours a day, six days a week. I think the greatest betrayal is self-betrayal - denying myself something that I need, want, desire if it is within my means and if it doesn't cause another harm. (This raises so many questions but I wish to keep somethings to myself.)

As this is my final act, I want to feel my life is valuable to me - beyond my relationship to others, even beyond the roles that I chose to play though I do not regret being a mother and wife, daughter, sister, friend. (This last sentence makes me smile. Too weak. I loved being a wife and mother et al - not all the time but for great chunks of my life.)  Recently, I have joyfully accepted the role of Lola and grandmother - the easiest and most fun one that I have ever played.