8 May 2015: 51 Spring 21 Moon 57 SpaceAge
I have never been very happy with any of my women. Oh there have been moments, even hours, when I have felt love, and even now, writing and complaining, I must confess I love them all, more and less, and yes, more or less. But I have never felt completely, madly, deliriously happy. Well, except for the night my son was born, that was a kind of joy I never felt before in my life, and perhaps that is why his mother is the one woman I often dream about. But, in the end, and in the beginning of this piece of writing, the catch phrase that bubbled around in my mind for several hours this morning and leads me to write more and more about them (at last, after so many years of thought and feeling) is this, are these words: I have never been completely happy with my women.
Notice how the words changed slightly from the beginning phrase to the ending phrase. That shows you the patterns of my thought, moving and changing but mostly saying more or less the same thing.
I said above, or rather I wrote above, that I often dream about one of them, but please don’t imagine these are sex dreams, no. The usual narrative theme is that we are looking for a house we used to live in, or I am showing her and her husband the house where I would like them to live with me again. Many times the dream, or dreams (since I quite often dream in sequences or multiple phases), will be set in my transformed vision or version of San Diego landscape, and I will think I recognize the neighborhood – but there are quite radical differences, mind you – and I will remark to her (and occasionally to him) that things have changed, or that the old house just isn’t how it used to be, or… well, there are many varieties.
When I think about this, or try to feel how do I feel about this, I am often struck by the fact that she, la amarga, the bittersweet one, is virtually the only one of my several women that I ever dream about – except for my mother (but that, of course is a completely different relationship). I have rather much decided that I dream about her because she is the only one who has grown a child that I have loved and admired and felt truly is my son.
Never mind that she broke my heart when she took him away from me early in 1984 when he was not yet quite four years old. Or, well, yes, perhaps that bitterness and pain do have something to do with it after all. Yes. The good and the bad. But, to her credit, she did come back six months later, and they have been near me for most years since, but not always so close, emotionally – I never really lived with my boy again except in the usual divorced weekend father way of things. Still, they did come back, home, to San Diego. In fact, we drove back from Chicago together, late that summer.
La amarga. That is what I call her. She was not the first. Nor the last. But she is the mother of my son.
I suppose the first – and eventually we did end up, briefly, twice, at 20 and at 38, as sexual partners – would have to be the crazy one – la locacita – no, I think it would be better to call her the little mouse – la ratoncita. After all, that was what she used to do when we were in elementary school together – chase me around the playground claiming that she was mighty mouse. Or at least, that is what she used to tell me, years later. Strange that I don’t remember that. I suppose I put her out of my mind for two or three years until the fifth grade when I began to notice that she actually was chasing after me. In more ways than one, mind you.
She talked me into quote-unquote going steady with her in the fifth grade – which caused a bit of a scandal and our parents demanded we stop saying that. We were too young for such talk, they insisted. Of course, we obeyed. But… oh well.
Her favorite trick – or so I call it in my bitter, selfish writing, here – her often, usual, repeated, favorite trick was to “finally” give up on me and take up with some other guy, for a while, who would finally grow frustrated with her manic ways and constant talking about me (ha – look at my arrogance and pride), and then she would come back months or years later, telling me how she missed me, needed me, I was always and ever the only one, etcetera.
In the twelfth grade she even changed high schools so as to be near me. Poor deluded fool, I think. You decide who, or both, I mean.
Ha. Look at my arrogance and pride. The little mouse. The sweet, beautiful (truly, she is beautiful – and other guys I knew used to always tell me how hot she was, when they saw her with me) little mouse.
Eventually, she had three children by two other men (she married five or six of them [the men, not her children] as the years went by). I have seen some of them on facebook – they look quite excellent and I am somewhat happy for her – but she is still crazy after all these years.
My little mighty mouse. La ratoncita poderosa mia.
I would never have chosen her. Never. She chose me. She was, however, perhaps the first, among many, to struggle with the fact that I am just not that interested in women.
I am much better off alone.
Always have been, always will be.
Still, there have been some for whom I grieve, deeply, bitterly, with heart broken tears that sometimes have twisted my being into shapes of emotional pain that make me realize I could never make a very good psychopath. I simply feel too deeply and selfishly, and even though I am, essentially, a loner and alone, I know I could never live without other human beings. Especially women.
I think. I feel. I write.