Well, it's not the first text or message I've received in the past couple of months asking for an update, but this was too much to bear, especially from a smart-ass ex.
My dear, my social life is hydra-like--- I cut one off and two more spring up in his place… But this is about a story isn't it?
My beach trip was a little tougher to write about than most, more elusive. Other stories are clamoring for attention but will not be written until this chapter is closed, so…
"I was heart-broken. Well, no, not heart-broken…" I said searching for a succinct way to describe it.
He scoffed at my unwillingness to admit to or to feel heartbreak.
"Well, it's not like I was in love with the guy…I just spent a weekend with him," I protested, still struggling to explain.
I told him my story.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "My heart's breaking just hearing this!"
I rolled my eyes.
"No, seriously, this is just heartbreaking!"
"And that is why I haven't written since."
"NO! No, no, no NO!" he refused to move forward as he began the well-intentioned harangue that has lead me try to write this.
My time at the beach had promised to be another Misadventure, a free-for-all, a meeting of two characters–– The Infamous CoatCheck Girl and The Beachside Bukowski. We'd traded "fuck stories", as he called them. We'd flirted and shared almost nerdy, literary-minded fantasies–– trading stories over gin in his back yard, reading Shakespeare under starlight, a quick skinny dip and frolick in the surf…
I don't think either of us were quite prepared for reality.
It was not a romantic idyll on some remote beach, nor was it a vacation. He invited me into his home and shared with me the things about which he is most passionate–– his beloved dogs, his beloved beach, and his passion for writing.
He had a gift for me as soon as we arrived. A book, of course. How else do you court a writer? It was a first edition (
It was a perfect gift.
His beach cabin is cozy, full of books and Rolling Stones memorabilia. We sat out on the sunny deck and ate a quick snack before heading out to do an open-mic reading at a local café (the name and location of which I was sworn by the locals to keep secret from Californians and other undesirables).
BB seemed to be quite the local celebrity, as much for his profession as for his impassioned writings about the local beaches. He signed us up to read, carefully choosing a time which would maximize our audience.
It was such an eclectic little microcosm of people. I met a Surfrider in love with an ODFW, Capulets and Montagues of the
The next day was one of those rare days you get on the
One of the things that originally drew me to him was his passion for
I realized then that this was no mere Misadventure.
I was being offered a precious gift, whether he realized it or not.I had begun to think of myself as a writer, rather than a "mere blogger". I was beginning to feel more rooted in where I live, beyond my apartment and the clubs, cafes and bars I frequent. I won't be setting off on a three week back-packing trip through the Cascades or anything anytime soon, but I certainly gained a better appreciation of the natural beauty of the
I also found the personas falling away. BB and Infamous CoatCheck Girl had been left behind--- probably still sitting at
As night fell, I felt more and more exposed. It was just Juliana and M., and Juliana was feeling tentative and unsure.
"No. You had sex with Juliana" I corrected, feeling even more naked.
The next morning we decided to go to Mary's Peak, the highest peak in the
I felt like I should be twirling in a burlap sack of a dress and a butch haircut, raising my voice in song. The hills were alive, with thousands of wild flowers and knee high grass and sunshine.
We parked the truck, leashed the dogs and walked the rest of the way up. The view from the peak was absolutely breathtaking. On one side, you could look into the
We took some photos, watched the dogs run around for a bit before returning to the car. I absorbed the sights and sounds--- the humming and buzzing of bumble bees, the chirping and birdsong, and…ABBA?!
There was a family in the parking lot, complete with white mini-van, blasting "Dancing Queen", utterly oblivious to the symphony playing all around them.
This is what BB has been up against in his fight to preserve his beloved Coast.
Derrick told of a tradition among some Native American warriors who would stake themselves to the ground during battle, vowing to make their stand there, and there they would stay until dead or victorious. He talked of the importance of making a stand and figuring out where that will be. It doesn't matter where as long as it's somewhere, whether in the context of environmental activism or otherwise.
BB, too, had asked me where I make or will make my stand, as a writer, as a person, as a personality.
When I returned from my trip, I was very introspective. I was pondering the many things I had heard or discussed. I also pondered how to convey to BB my gratitude for sharing his insights, his wisdom, and his camaraderie.
A week later I had the opportunity to work on a movie production called "The Road". They had come back to the area after finally getting permission to film on a long-deserted road on
The landscape, while bleak, still had a sort of melancholy beauty to it. Everywhere there were signs of nature making its steady comeback. I wandered away from the catering tent where I was working and befriended some of the locals. A curious little chipmunk came out to see what I was about. After a few moments he darted away, and I remained sitting where I was. A moment later the little guy came back with a bigger (and I must say tougher-looking) chipmunk in tow. After a while they went about their business and left me to mine.
Feeling inspired, I walked back, grabbed pen and paper and I wrote. I wrote a good old-fashioned epistle. I wrote of the stark beauty around me, of the gratitude I felt to BB for many things. I wished that I could share that view with him, and felt that I was better able to appreciate it because of the time I had recently spent with him. I thought he might appreciate a hand-written letter, and one that was so heart felt.
I mailed it when we got back into whatever passed for a town in those parts.
When he had received and read it, he called.
I don't know what I expected. A "thank you", perhaps.
"It was really well-written."
"And what? I said it was a great letter. Your nature observations were well written"
"Well, I didn't mail it to you to edit!" I said in frustration.
I was utterly crushed. As hard as it may be to believe, I rarely really let my guard down and make myself completely vulnerable to people, be they friends or lovers.
Later I emailed him:
You may be a writer, but your soul lacks poetry.
Corner a Leo, and we'll lash out and hit your weakest spot. One shot is all we need. It was a bull's-eye, too.
He said he was removing himself from the conversation and did so. Permanently.
That was the end of my adventures with the Beachside Bukowski and the beginning of my writing hiatus.
Good thing Leos are also resilient.