Out of the Past

I haven't been here for a long, long time. I almost thought I had forgotten the password. I never feel much like giving out anything lately. And I have been very, very busy dancing the tango, performing, having love affairs and making all the assorted art I make -- when I'm not working.

And today, like a stray bullet, from out of the past comes my amour fou from 2008 with all his normal dark cloud of drama and crazy. Seems he's got legal problems now as a result of the love affair he embarked on after ours. And the opposing party is gathering evidence against him to "assassinate his character" in a lawsuit. No, I don't make this stuff up. Yes, my life is like a movie.

Do I feel anything? No. Not pity, not concern, not compassion, nothing. I thought I'd preserve happy memories of some of our time together eventually. Nope. There's nothing there now. Nothing at all. He bled me dry, abandoned me, and now I do not care at all what happens to him. Sounds like he's racked up some kind of karmic debt and now he's being asked to pay the bill. My heart is rattlingly empty of him.

Life is so sad like this -- how things changed so radically in exactly three years. Cue Umbrellas of Cherbourg. Once I thought I would die without him. And now I cannot even imagine why I ever loved him. But I am so glad I dodged the bullet of committing myself to him. And he couldn't even dance.

I should have told the lawyer all I care about is that they cast Madonna to play me in the movie about all this. :)

The final drawing of the Epilogue

...is going just the way I dreamed it. But I had an eerie experience late last night as I drew feverishly. I very distinctly heard my refrigerator door open and close, as if there were a ghost in my kitchen, or as if my own fierce drawing energy had caused a poltergeist to come into my space. My hair stood on end. I had to call Ali and talk for a few minutes, and go outside.

I was having really intense thoughts as I drew about the concept of "soul mate" and I had even been crying a little about having missed mine in this incarnation, and about how very near he often seems to me. I just can't seem to break through to him. I miss him so terribly sometimes. Sometimes my heart hurts for both of us, since we can't seem to find one another this time.

It's probably the sadness of dealing with the very final emotional dregs of my most recent romance's ending that caused this metaphysical event. My mind and my heart are so strong. I was finally able to weep last night, after all these months, and admit to myself how very sad I am that I was wrong, that Felix was not my soul-mate after all, as I had once thought. And to acknowledge that I feel sad that in being wrong I was "unfaithful" to my real soul-mate in giving Felix the love I meant for him.

I probably shouldn't even write such things because it probably sounds like total craziness to everyone but me. But my past-life love is always hovering so near me, and I am so near him. I must have loved him so much I can never escape the vestiges and echoes of our love even in this incarnation. I feel I have long lived my life as his invisible widow, grieving the loss of the love he and I shared.

I know: Goth. 19th Century Romantic. Wuthering Heights. Yes. It is exactly like that, and I feel it, always, keenly, exactly like that. For me, it is always real, always tangible and so, so bitter-sweetly sad.

My darling, if you can read what I write here through the dimension that separates us, please, please be waiting for me at the end of time. I have searched for you for forty years, and I am so sorry about my recent mistake, thinking that, in Felix, I had finally found you again. Please forgive me, my darling. Open the refrigerator door all you want to, to remind me you really are there, loving me always still, and always waiting for me.

A dear, old friend of mine has died.

He was also once my love for a few fleeting months five years ago. I am so sad. He was a sweet, gentle, crazy soul, and one of the best and most productive artists I've ever known. He taught me so much about artistic discipline, just as he taught generations of students at school about what it meant to be an artist. I hadn't spent any time with him since October, but I know he had a wonderful girlfriend of a few months with whom he was very happy. It appears he had a peaceful passing in the night. So many more drawings he would have made, so much more fun he would have had.

He will be much missed by so many, including me. Rest in peace, Bob. I will remember you fondly.

I have been constantly surrounded by death since December. When will it let up?

I finished the first final draft of the book and put it out to those who had agreed to be first readers. Now I wait. I would have been high on finishing, but my sadness over Bob's passing has damped down my mood about the book. No one has time to read right now, it seems, so I must be patient. But I stayed on the schedule I established months ago, so I am proud of myself for that.

"Love is my religion - I could die for it" John Keats

And evidently one of my former advisees did last week, by his own hand. Tragic. A beautiful boy, a sensitive soul of thirty years. I'm haunted by his death these days.

I always think at the end of a love affair that I will die (or must die, or should die), but I don't. Perhaps that's my tragedy: I live on. I put one foot in front of the other, I breathe, I take meals, I work, I see friends, I shop, I make plans for the future. My life goes on. I survive. But, truly, a part of me has died forever -- the part of me I shared only with my lover.

But, perhaps, with each ending something is also created? A timeless, transcendent space, a kind of metaphysical empty room full of blinding light? An intimate space that may only be shared with one other human being in all the world? And maybe will be again someday? Or so it seems to me.

"In my father's house there are many mansions." And in some of them dwell those I once loved so much I believed I would die if they ceased to love me. Perhaps one day, outside of time and space, we will love again in those rooms full of white light.

Je m'ennuie aujourd'hui!

I bore myself and I am bored, that is. It's been terribly quiet all day at the office due to horrible black skies and rain. We've had barely anyone come in for assistance with anything. I've busied myself cleaning out my email box and other housekeeping tasks, but the day has seemed terribly long. If I had been home there are so many things I could be doing. And now, because of the rain, I won't be able to take Buster on his long walk when I go home and both of us will feel off. I'm really addicted to our hour-long daily walk and get so cranky without it.

But I suppose I can hoop to music indoors if all else fails.

I've been thinking about the next drawing suite I will start, and I think it's Things I Thought I Saw at the Water's Edge -- because as I walk along the shore of Town Lake daily with Buster, a trick of the eye often makes me think I see something I didn't really see at all in the water. Maybe the series will be about a dozen black and white drawings, but the one that gave me the original idea will be big, and in color. I need to tear down paper now that I know what I'm doing next, and do some preliminary studies of water movement and ripples. I've had six months off since I wrapped the last series -- always need battery recharge time between projects -- but I couldn't start the next series without committing to a theme. So, that's settled. The reflective nature of water also will be a good opportunity -- images of duality.

I doubt I'll get much drawing done this week, though. Two evening events for me as the semester wears itself out and ramps down.

I was thinking as I walked Buster yesterday about French popular music, and how common it is in French love songs for the singer to face up to the likely eventual failure of the love affair in advance. They sing things like, "If tomorrow you should cease to love me..." "If you go away.." "If you should have a change of heart..." "If you should no longer love me.." It's odd. I don't think English-language songs as often acknowledge the transitory nature of romantic love. Because my iPod is loaded up with French pop music from the 1920s until now I seem to listen to a lot of those "it's inevitable that our love will end" songs. Piaf sang her fair share of them -- L'Hymne à L'Amour, for instance. And so did Charles Aznavour. I think it's healthier just to confront that probability head-on. Maybe it's a very French thing to realize the love affair is doomed just as you begin it with the first kiss? I always have that feeling myself, I must admit. Still, it doesn't stop me from loving. Because, as Piaf sang so movingly,


If the sky should fall into the sea
And the stars fade all around me
All the times that we have known here
I will sing a hymn to love

We have lived and dreamed we two alone
In a world that's been our very own
With its memories ever grateful
Just for you I sing a hymn to love

I remember each embrace
The smile that lights your face
And my heart begins to sing
Your eyes have never lied
And my heart begins to sing
And my heart begins to sing

If one day you should ever disappear
Always remember these words
If one day we had to say goodbye
And our love should fade away and die
In my heart you will remain here
And I'II sing a hymn to love

O for love, we live eternally
In the blue we'll roll this harmony
With every day we are in heaven
As for you, I'll sing a hymn to love

Don't you ever worry, dear
And the stars shall fade from the sky
All the times that we have known here
I will sing a hymn to our love
Oh darling,
Just for you I sing
A hymn to love

****

Speaking of Piaf, over the weekend I bought my ticket to Paris for October and reserved my hotel rooms, one on the Droit and one on the Rive Gauche. I'll mix it up and enjoy two neighborhoods this trip. I can't stay away from Paris much longer than a year, and passing through those two snowy days at Christmas at the airport don't count. Life is too short not to spend as much of it as possible in Paris.

Creativity determines sexual success

The research, by the University of Newcastle upon Tyne and the Open University in the UK, found that professional artists and poets have around twice as many sexual partners as those who do not indulge in these creative activities.

The authors also delved into the personalities of artists and poets and found they shared certain traits with mentally ill patients. These traits were linked with an increased sexual activity and are thought to have evolved because they contribute to the survival of the human species.

Some 425 British men and women, including a sample of visual artists and poets and schizophrenic patients, were surveyed for the report, which is published today in the academic journal, The Proceedings of the Royal Society (B). Although creative types have long been associated with increased sexual activity, this the first time that this link has been proved by research.

Study participants filled in questionnaires which asked about their degree of creative activity in poetry and visual art, their psychiatric history, and their history of sexual encounters since the age of 18. They were also required to answer questions on a ‘schizotypy inventory’, a breakdown of characteristics linked with schizophrenic patients.

The average number of sexual partners for professional artists and poets was between four and ten, compared with a mean of three for non-creative types. Statistics also showed the number of average sexual partners rose in line with an increase in the amount of creative activity a person took part in.

The lead author of the study, Dr Daniel Nettle, lecturer in psychology with Newcastle University’s School of Biology, suggested two key reasons for the findings. He said: “Creative people are often considered to be very attractive and get lots of attention as a result. They tend to be charismatic and produce art and poetry that grabs people’s interest.

“It could also be that very creative types lead a bohemian lifestyle and tend to act on more sexual impulses and opportunities, often purely for experience’s sake, than the average person would. Moreover, it’s common to find that this sexual behaviour is tolerated in creative people. Partners, even long-term ones, are less likely to expect loyalty and fidelity from them.”

Dr Nettle added that the results suggested an evolutionary reason for why certain personality traits that serious artists and poets were found to share with schizophrenic patients perpetuated in society.

He added: “These personality traits can manifest themselves in negative ways, in that a person with them is likely to be prone to the shadows of full-blown mental illness such as depression and suicidal thoughts. This research shows there are positive reasons, such as their role in mate attraction and species survival, for why these characteristics are still around.”

Yet although some 'schizotypal' traits are linked with high numbers of partners, schizophrenic patients do not experience this level of sexual activity. These people tend to suffer from acute social withdrawal and emotional flatness - characteristics that the researchers found were linked with a reduced number of sexual partners.

SOURCE INFORMATION: ‘Schizotypy, creativity and mating success in humans’ Daniel Nettle and Helen Keenoo, Proceedings of the Royal Society B, November 2005. Doi:10.1098/rspb.2005.3349

Dear (British) Abby,

I met a man recently out of an unhappy long-term relationship and supposedly ready to move on. We live in different cities, but would spend hours on the phone. He was shy and nervous, which was endearing. We got on amazingly well...(snip) Now I’ve walked away, but I fear I’ve left an amazing connection behind. Was I holding on to something that wasn't there? It’s so easy to say that people have baggage, but surely it’s better to help and be understanding?

*****

Of course it’s good to help others and to be understanding about emotional baggage, but just because it’s good to be that way, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good for you.

Look, for whatever reason, some people are emotional black holes. No matter how much love and kindness we hand out, it’s all absorbed into the vortex. Our actions come to seem both meaningless and pointless, because no amount of love and reassurance has any effect except to make them crave more — and more. That leaves us bewildered, anxious and, frankly, feeling as if we don’t much matter.

I think of people like that as emotional vampires. Unable to sustain themselves or fill the hole of need they carry inside, they leech the life out of others. I suspect you feel low because it is extraordinarily disappointing to encounter somebody who seems able to speak the language of love, but is unable, emotionally, to absorb its lessons. All the promises are simply dust. When he says he loves you, I’m sure he believes it to be the truth. It’s just that, emotionally, he can’t follow it through. We can understand something intellectually, but fail to feel it emotionally. It’s a head-to-heart disconnect.

He may want to love you (or, rather, the idea of you), but as soon as you respond, he shuts down, and when you get too close, he runs away. It seems likely that he’s badly wounded emotionally, but — and here’s a big but — just because he’s wounded, it doesn’t mean that you can heal him, or that you should try. You don’t say what happened in his previous relationship. It could be that he was bullied or neglected, and that has caused him to feel scared of being hurt again. Or it could be that he was acting out similar dysfunctional behaviour with his ex-partner, who, after a long battle to love and reassure him, came to feel as low as you do and gave up.

Who’s to know? Perhaps not even he does. It’s difficult to see our own destructive patterns until something sufficiently painful happens to make us pay attention. It takes years to establish behaviour and, no matter how dysfunctional or destructive, it at least has the merit of being familiar and, therefore, safe. Change is frightening because it’s a leap into the unknown, but I suspect your frustration lies in wanting to believe that, with sufficient love and kindness, he could and would change. People can change, but challenging established patterns of destructive behaviour takes enormous personal effort. Unless somebody is really willing to put in the work, it’s impossible to help them, no matter how much kindness, love and good emotional sense we send their way.

It’s like the oxygen masks in an aeroplane. You must put the mask to your own face before helping anybody else. Why? Because if you don’t have your own supply of oxygen, you’ll soon start grabbing at others and pulling them down in your desperation to get at their supply.

He’s not deceitful or unkind; he’s just an oxygen-grabber. You, on the other hand, are a giver and someone who believes in honesty, trust and kindness. Good. Those are excellent, healthy instincts that make for real happiness in a relationship. If I were you, I’d keep walking until you find them.

****

And someone else wrote elsewhere, If a vampire came up to you and asked you to let them drink your blood or else they'd die, would you feel guilty if you wouldn't allow them to drain you?

It was like that. At first I was, in a way, hypnotized, walking toward him in an extraordinarily beautiful and atmospheric dream. But by the end I began to distinctly feel as if I were suffering from acute blood loss and that my survival was in jeopardy.

And someone else, a psychiatrist I recently visited, in fact, reminded me that she who tries to save a drowning man is in great danger of being drowned herself, as the drowning man, in a panic, sometimes drags her down with him -- and not on purpose. It's simply a tragic accident.

This is really about all I can say about the end of my romance. In case you were at all curious. But I think that's all I want to share.

Happy, happy heart day to you all!

Because love is, when all is said and done and done and said, all that matters, mes petites crises du coeur!

Now, go eat 75% bittersweet dark chocolate, drink a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape or try out that new bottle of lube with your beloved! L'amour, toujours l'amour, even when it's l'amour fou.

What's to stop me, really, from behaving like an angel?

Since the abrupt ending of my recent relationship I've spent a lot of time walking. Walking my dog on the trail around Town Lake, specifically. And while I walk, I think. I can't help it.

I used to try to avoid making eye contact with anyone as I walked and thought. But lately I've been thinking a lot about people and about human nature and about what fucked up and wonderful creatures we humans are. I try to think more about what others are thinking and feeling than about myself these days. Doing so made my mind turn to Wim Wender's beautiful 1987 film, Wings of Desire. I always wanted to be one of those compassionate, trench coat wearing angels gently listening to the stream of thoughts constantly pouring out of the minds of human beings, helping people, comforting them. Invisibly. Without ego.

So I thought, What's to stop me, really, from blessing people like one of those angels?

Now, when I walk, usually at twilight, I try very hard just to psychically hear what the people walking past me are thinking and feeling. I try to make myself invisible, try to let them walk right through me as if I have no substance. I try to maintain gentle eye contact and a slight smile as I listen to their thoughts. I bless each of them as they walk through me, I say a silent little prayer for them to be released from their cares and their pain and their hurts. If I am not destined to love just one person, my soul mate, what if I were to share that love energy quietly with many instead?

It's so amazing, this meditation. The sensation is incredibly powerful and moving when I walk as an angel. Some people make full eye contact with me and their faces light up. Some are at first surprised by the eye contact, but soon smile gratefully. Sometimes I nod and whisper to them, "Good evening" or "Good morning" as Buster and I pass. It strikes me how sad it is that so many of us poor human beings are starved for any kind of contact with one another.

It feels like a kind of volunteer social work, this walking like an angel. It's good. I love to do it.

I had to take the day off yesterday.

I'm not exactly grieving. That would be too strong a way to characterize what I'm feeling and going through emotionally these days. I'm sad, yes. But I know the ending of this brief romance is necessary, that the relationship was never going to work out in the long run for a million reasons and that prolonging the inevitable ending wouldn't have been healthy. But my life seems profoundly changed now -- and it is. It's so strange not to count to seven on my fingers to figure out what time it is in Italy, and then to Skype him every day. It's sad not to make or receive wake-up calls. I no longer post to our private blog or check it for a post from my beloved. It's a profound shift to no longer ponder living with him someday in the future. Endings, I suppose, are never easy.

I had a sore throat and ear ache and so was able to take a sick day yesterday. I really had never completely unpacked since my return from Italy January 7 and needed to deal with that. Something in me just didn't want to see the clothes I lately wore when I was with him again or wash them or fold them or put them away. Something in me wanted to avoid storing the bags that have been so frequently used on these trips to see him since June that I normally just leave them out, ready to be packed up for the next trip. I needed to go through the house and remove all the photos of him or of us as a couple from the fridge and from the edges of mirrors and picture frames where I'd stuck them. I needed to take the big picture of us in Paris down from the ledge where it's sat, keeping me company at the kitchen sink as I washed dishes these seven months.

It's all done now, the unpacking and the packing away and the storing of things too poignant to contemplate on a daily basis. Something in me feels a sense of relief; it's always good to get organized. But it is all sad, this sense of finality, of something beautiful and wild and unexpected ending forever.

It's over. I'm no longer madly in love with anyone. I'm alone again. I'm deeply grateful for the love affair he and I shared, for the tenderness, for the intimacy. I will work hard to preserve the rich, sweet memories. But I will likely always worry about him and his well-being in the long run -- I fear his workaholic tendencies, his depression, his guilt, his dark moods will eventually destroy him. And I won't be there to save him.

As if I ever could have.

The bustle in a house/the morning after death...

I keep thinking of that Emily Dickinson poem. Folding chairs to be delivered for the mourners to sit upon. Guest books to be signed. Contributions to appropriate charities to be made in lieu of flowers.

Yesterday was poor little Ann's husband's memorial service, the "celebration of his life." Thirty-four years old, dead of a brain tumor after three brief years of marriage and fathering a son just one year ago. And all of this tragedy unraveling since October 6.

Back in October, I tried to offer reassurance. I told poor Ann it would prove only to be migraines or back and neck troubles; something worse seemed improbable. But I was wrong, so wrong. When Ann learned the true diagnosis and shared it with us here at her work, I went outside and screamed at God, "What kind of fuckery is this?" And then I cried and cried and cried over Ann and her poor young husband. Three brief years. A baby who won't remember his father. A half orphan. All of it resonates with me and hits so close to home. I think of my poor, young mother widowed at about Ann's age, and of my baby sister who never knew our father.

The memorial service was touching and heart-rending. This whole tragedy has made me resolve to get my priorities in life in order. Our time here is so short and we can't afford to waste it on things that don't matter.

The weather was miserable yesterday, icy, wet and windy. I stopped at the convenience store next door to my place when I finally was able to go home at 7:00 p.m. and bought a cheap bottle of mediocre Italian red wine. I poured myself a big glass, made myself something to eat and ultimately crashed out on the couch while American Idol blared on the television. Anesthetized. All cried out.

By comparison to this true tragedy, nothing is wrong with me at all. The ending of my recent mostly long-distance romance is nothing at all compared to Ann's profound loss. She is my heroine. She's been the living personification of Grace.