Beckett said it best. "I may have a lot of faults, but changing my tune isn't one of them." I was pig-headedly determined to make the thing with Joan work, despite all the evidence that pointed to inevitable failure. Why? Because I really missed having a loving partner…like I had in Elizabeth, in the early months of our marriage. I loved waking up in the morning and seeing Ms. Sleepyhead snoozing beside me. I loved all those mornings at the Marlane Diner, sitting close together in our regular booth, wolfing down eggs sunny side up, hash browns, crisp bacon strips and cups of strong coffee. Or in the evening going out to Border's on Lancaster Avenue, prowling the aisles like hungry hunters, gathering up armfuls of books, and then sitting down in the café for obscenely rich pieces of icing-covered cake, gobbling them down as if we were starving, and then my sweet beautiful girl saying, "Come on, lover, let's blow this joint," and then we'd go home and lay in bed and read, and make love, and read, and make love. I missed all that. I really did.
So I worked hard to honor all Joan's concerns. Her need for space. Her fear of the "trajectory" our relationship was taking. But on second thought I suppose I should have shared with her what I'd been thinking for a long time. And that was of all the relationships I'd had over the years, this one was unique. Ours was not a steady, gradually ascending curve of intimacy, but rather a crazy waveform, like a noise pattern on an oscilloscope. She'd be open and loving and affirming and sweet. But then, out of the blue, cold and distant and accusing and hostile. It was hard not to see something--dare I use the word?-- pathological in the whole damned thing.
Joan called some of my behavior passive aggressive. Well, what about the time I bought her a CD of Bellinni's "Norma?" I thought the achingly evocative music would move her as deeply as it always moved me. But what did Joan do? As Maria Callas sang, Joan suddenly stood up. She opened her mouth wide, threw her head up, waved her arms, and danced awkwardly about the living room. Embarrassed by her grotesque mockery of an operatic performance, I didn't say anything. I didn't want to talk about the powerful negative emotions Joan's ridiculing gestures elicited in me. Which centered around the memory of meeting my mother for the first time when I was nine. I was terrified but that astonishingly beautiful woman in a pastel blue dress gently coaxed me into her arms, and for the first time I felt her warmth and breathed her scent, while "Norma" played in the background. No, I didn't want to get into this because I feared Joan would eventually use it as ammunition against me.
And on top of all that Joan threw sophistry in my face. She reminded me that throughout history tyrants have advanced their murderous theories just by being enormously effective public speakers. Hitler, for example. St. Augustine, for another.
Yes, Hitler very nearly took over the world, and slaughtered six million of her people in the process. And she was absolutely right about that Augustine creep. This was the man who looked into the eyes of an infant and didn't see sweetness, innocence, or the divine spark of life, but rather clear evidence of the essential evil nature of humans. This pervert called it "original sin." That horridly twisted notion soon became the bedrock of Roman Catholic theology. The Encyclopedia Britannica says Augustine had left the world "a toxic legacy."
And it drove me crazy that Joan didn't see her beloved Victor or her beloved Todd as being among these misguided orators, oh no. Her guys spoke only the truth. Me? I was blinded by my abandonment issues.
* * *
But I'm getting ahead of myself. In her Mercedes, right after our encounter with smiling Victor, Joan spoke of our "animal spirits." That's what we need to get in touch with, because after all, she said, we're directly related to our ancient ancestors, aren't we? Yes, that's perfectly true, I replied. And she turned and said: "You know what? In you I see not a hawk, but an eagle!"
After that encounter with Victor she'd apparently promoted me. Which brought me a giddy, triumphant feeling, like: maybe finally we're getting somewhere! We had a nice dinner on South Street, and afterward, as we walked toward the parking lot, I felt a great surge of affection for this tall, elegant woman in her long, cashmere coat. I stopped, and pulled her close and kissed her, lustily, passionately, hungrily. She didn't stiffen, but yielded fully, returning my kisses, and we stood there on the sidewalk, locked in an embrace, moving slowly back and forth, as if dancing to slow music.
The very next day we got into a serious discussion about our vastly different social needs. Hers, she said, were very strong. By contrast as an only child I was always a loner, and thus I avoided groups.
Joan had to be around people all the time because it seemed so natural to her. She just loved all those dinner parties, afternoon teas, lunches, brunches, shopping with the girls, and--most important of all--her professional seminars, academic conferences, and workshops. And many, many private consultations with her vast number of psychoanalytical and psychotherapeutic colleagues.
"Actually I have budgeted $35,000 a year on these activities," she said.
"That's a lot of money," I said.
She gave me a sharp look. "Perhaps to you it is."
I said nothing.
"Which reminds me," she said. "I've mentioned this before, but on the 27th I leave for San Francisco."
"Oh? This is the first I've heard of it. What's in San Francisco?"
She said it's a regular once-a-year thing for her, every February. The fee is $20,000 for four weeks. That's only $5,000 a week, you know, or about $700 a day. A good hotel room costs much more, so it's actually a bargain. It's in a remote and beautiful setting, way up in the hills, far away from the city. No telephones, no emails, no radio, no TV. Nothing.
It's a combination luxury spa and professional development thing. A wonderful program. You pamper your body with radioactive mud baths, and saunas, long hikes, swims, weight lifting, and so on. You get on a strict vegetarian diet. No alcohol, no caffeine, no nicotine. Then you do some deep inner work in experientials and one-on-ones and guided imagery. There's a professional staff, all of them either psychiatrists or PhDs in clinical psychology, and they guide you on a long journey down deep into your own darkness, where you meet who you really are.
It's a scary journey going down into that darkness, she said. You are most terrified by what you might find. But you learn that not running from but fully embracing those ugly monsters make them evaporate into a mist, because they are merely your own misguided illusions…
"You know?"
I shook my head slowly.
"No, dear. I don't."
