Ms Keogh, my more
significant other, is preparing for her next
exhibition. The other night, she cleared her drawing
table and invited me to keep her company while she
painted in her studio, formerly our living room. So I
sat at her drawing table attending to my
correspondence with regular interruptions from her
for advice or assistance. She had purchased a large
bust of a Chinese Bodhisattva and had made the
determination that it was Kuan-Yin. I knew better
than to challenge her decision when she is
determined. She was adding color to the statue with
her oil paints before she intended to paint
Kuan-Yin's portrait. Her opening is two weeks away
and she is working without her typical fury, having
allotted enough time to have everything completed.
Mine is a very sedentary life. I am fifty-two years
old. I can remember my age because it is the same
number as playing cards in a deck. In the last few
years it has been difficult to remember, requiring me
to calculate each time I was asked. Next year I will
probably have to go back to calculating. So here I am
living in the same house that was previously owned by
my parents, enjoying harmony and contentment with the
same woman I've been living with for twenty years. In
that score of years this happiness with her has not
subsided, her companionship continuing to gratify,
but my life could have been different. This is not
the life I was expecting nor intending when I was
young.
From an early age, I was discouraged from believing
life would be enjoyable. My father, forever the
optimist, had every hope of my going into management.
His perception of a business executive is that they
make the most money with the least amount of work.
For him it wasn't the satisfaction a job could bring,
but satisfaction from the income one could earn. This
view was further supported by my mother, forever the
pessimist, who instilled in me the firm belief that
life was one long tribulation at a job that was
mollified by money. In the meantime, sitting at my
school desk, I came away with the impression that
school was preparation for the rest of my life,
getting me accustomed to spending time sitting at
desks and focusing attention on matters that could
not be entertaining. I decided it wasn't worth it and
escaped into daydreams.
I became proficient at dreaming and remain so to this
day. It was a skill I thought could be applicable to
writing. I had begun writing stories from the time I
was eleven. At fourteen, in a fit of sexual
sublimation, I dashed from a party, at which I had
embarrassed myself, and announced to the night sky
from the middle of a deserted State Route 413 that I
would become a writer. When later I told my parents,
my father was delighted, believing I had great
talent, but he wanted me to channel this ability into
the profitable career of a journalist. My mother had
no faith in my ability to write and perceived writing
only as a distraction from a real job. Once again,
the future was made to be unappealing for me. I
secretly resolved to become a failed writer and that
would be satisfaction enough. By the seventh grade, I
invented my own curriculum and began reading the
classics at home.
While still in high school, I was planning to spend
the second half of my life abroad. The idea was, when
I was in my thirties, I would start life afresh in a
foreign land. It was how I expected to avoid becoming
jaded with existence, hoping to always be enjoying an
enriching experience by renewing my environment.
In 1983, when I was thirty-two, I had the good
fortune to go abroad for the first and only time. I
went to Japan. Long before my trip, I was already in
lovewith Japanese culture. My three-week visit was
made possible by a very dear friend and patron,
Seki-san, who admired my poetry and asked me to
accompany her on her visit home. She only stayed two
weeks while I stayed three. In Japan, I was hosted by
my soon to be ex-wife, Matsui-san. I had even carried
the divorce papers for her to sign. It pleases me to
report that Matsui-san and I remain friends to this
day. Sadly, the magnificent Seki-san has since died.
I have grand memories of being in the company of
Seki-san and Matsui-san, the three of us traveling
Japan, seeing the sites in Nara, Kyoto, Tokyo, and
more. At Hamamatsu, famed for their eel delicacy, we
spent the night with my sister's brother-in-law - he
and his family had emigrated from the States.
It was while we were visiting Hamamatsu that I
received an enticing offer, my dream come true. Even
though I didn't speak any Japanese, it was suggested
that I should stay in Japan with the promise of a job
teaching English and a place to live. Why not? I felt
exceptionally comfortable in Japan. Tokyo was as
natural to me as New York City. The opportunity had a
strong pull on me and I admit the temptation was
irresistible except for one thing, Ms Keogh.
Ms Keogh was waiting for me back in the States. It
was a very new relationship, just starting out, not
yet a year old, and she was a package deal with two
kids. A new relationship is a gamble. It meant
discarding the dream of a more exotic life in Japan,
but even though Japan was compelling, instinct
enticed me back to Ms Keogh. She was waiting at the
JFK airport with the children when I landed.
I had made the right decisions. While I was writing
my letters the other night at her drawing table, Ms
Keogh interrupted me again, because she was giving
Kuan-Yin my eyes. She needed to check their color. My
eyes are hazel with an occasional hint of green. I
was irresistibly happy in that moment and felt
validated in my decisions to join my life to Ms
Keogh's as well as pursue the spiritually rewarding
life of a failed writer. |