I dreamt the other
night in a different mode than usual for me of late. Most recent dreams have
been what I will characterize as “post-retirement” dreams, maybe even
“post-retirement blues” dreams. Not dreams deeply, terribly blue, but dark
enough, remembrances frequently of former students (I’ve taught more than a
thousand –too many years of large lectures) and faculty colleagues, in surreal
circumstances (naturally, as of course I’m in a dream), that include usually a
good deal of danger – an imminent strange battle perhaps, or somewhat similar
circumstance – whatever the specifics, for some reason an air of danger and
violence pervades. But what is reason in a dream? Dreams, in any case, that cause
me to awaken and say to myself or aloud (who cares? I live alone) “What in the
name of all the gods was THAT about?!?”
The dream in
question seemed composed in a different key, still blue, but closer to the
shade of an only slightly “triste” blue, “triste” French for sad, wistful –
lovely word, triste…
In it, I am
walking with a young woman – am I young in the dream? I think so, it’s a young
man’s dream it seems to me, but I might be older in it – it’s sometimes
difficult to see myself clearly in my dreams. And in regards to women, I fear I
have not changed. The body has corroded, the mind is that of a sadder but wiser
fellow, but as a woman much wiser (if not more sad) than I once explained to
me: “The limbic knows no time.”
In the brain, the
limbic system is concerned with emotion and memory, among other functions. In
matters concerning love between me and a woman, even though my body and mind
have deteriorated, I have remained emotionally as I was left after my first
romantic kiss (in fifth grade, dancing with Sonia Menchaca – wow!). Not
necessarily a good thing. Nor a bad.
Back to the dream:
I am walking with a young woman I do not know to whom I am attracted, as she it
seems is to me. We do not talk much, if at all, simply stroll through a variety
of landscapes. We do not hold hands but we are physically very close to each
other, and our hands brush at times. In the fleeting seconds of those
hand-brushes we glance quickly at one another and smile or even laugh
lightly…and our walk continues.
The brushing of
the hands and the glances of acknowledgement also somehow indicate to us that
whatever this walk is, wherever it leads – and it doesn’t seem to matter where
it leads – neither the walk nor the feeling will last.
And then I wake
up. When I do, there is no thought of “What in the name of all the gods was
THAT about?!?” Instead I smile, slightly, as I did with the young woman in the
dream, and lie there feeling neither happy, nor unhappy – perhaps a trifle
triste…
And then a few
memories of real women came back to me, women I barely knew who attracted me,
and for whom I was attractive. After which brief interlude(s) nothing more came
of the fleeting encounter(s).
In that early
morning post-surreal “awakening” there were three brief encounters from my
waking life that came back to me. I first thought of a young woman I was
introduced to just after I graduated from high school, with the intriguing name
of Aldema Ridge…
A word (many
words, let’s face it) about my love life up to that point. For me love was
nearly always present but never requited, in part because I never let the
objects of my affection know of my love.
Let’s return briefly to Sonia Menchaca (whew!), and her best friend
Suzie Kerr. We were all living on an Air Force base and attended school
together there. I was told, by whom I don’t remember, to beware Sonia and
Suzie, that they both dated airmen. Now, I was a very callow young fellow (in
FIFTH grade and they dated airman? impossible!), but I believed it, and though
both Sonia and Suzie flirted outrageously with me the mere thought of their
experience terrified me, so to paraphrase Shakespeare “I never told my love.”
If love it was.
Now that I am
ruminating on it, perhaps that formative experience explains a good deal about
much of my love life thereafter. In seventh grade I was madly in love with
Carol Anne Cooke, the most beautiful girl in the class. I was now on another
Air Force base but attended a public school off base. I was there for only a
year, but it was long enough for me to develop a crush on Carol Anne Cooke (as
well as one on another seventh grader, Vicki Bartlett), but Carol Anne alas was
in love with Tommy Toombs, who was the finest athlete in our grade. I made a
few male friends that year (though not the alliteratively named Tommy Toombs),
one of them a fellow named John Henry (not he of hammer fame). I told John
Henry of my unrequited love for Carol Anne, which was, I was to find out, a
very naïve and foolish thing to do. Shortly after my true confession, I
received a phone call one evening. No one EVER called me on the telephone! But
when my mother or father called me to the phone and I answered, who began to
speak to me on the other end but Carol Anne Cooke?!? We spoke for a long time
and confessed our affection for each other, then said our phone farewells with
expressions of delight – we couldn’t wait to see each other the next day! I was
on a high that I had never experienced (except perhaps for an instant with
Sonia Menchaca), as, floating on air, I walked to school, at the entrance of
which John Henry caught up with me and told the truth. It had been HE who had
called, and using his best imitation of la plus belle Cooke, had gulled me
completely!
Thank all the gods
that have to do with amor that he DID catch me before I entered and threw
myself at Carol Anne! I was too dazed and confused to be angry at this stunt
almost straight out of Shakespeare (same play as paraphrased above by the way).
Of course neither of us was versed in the Bard as yet, so John Henry’s clever
joke/complete betrayal was original, and devastating. Recall in Twelfth Night Malvolio gulled not by a
phone call (not possible except in an updated version) but by a letter written
by Maria in the hand of her mistress (“make the sweet babbling gossip of the
air cry out”) Olivia, and the merriment that ensued. When I encountered that
play much later, played in Orsino in it actually – I was very good, though in
retrospect I should have been cast as Malvolio – the dark incident from seventh
grade leapt back into my mind!
Cut to high
school, from which time I can count on one hand (literally, not figuratively) the
number of dates I had. This was partly because I did not learn to drive (why?
another story altogether, and one not as pleasant as this), partly because, as
I’ve already noted, while my love was near constant – there are several I could
name from high school, though some of them are Facebook friends and I couldn’t
bear them to know – I never told my love.
There are actually
only two dates that I remember specifically. The first was with Barbara Snell, a
small, mousy young woman (but what a voice she had!) who played the lead in our
high school musical, The Bells Are
Ringing. I played Jeff Moss opposite her. I was very good; she was even better.
I’m certain that the attraction was thespianical in origin* and therefore
slightly surreal. We and I think one other theatrically minded couple went on a
date, possibly to dinner first, I’m not remembering that for certain, to the
Warner Theatre, one of the classiest movie palaces in Washington, DC (it later
became a porn palace, alas and alack) to see a screening of My Fair Lady. Wouldn’t you know, a
musical. As I remember we all had a great time, and as I also remember nothing
in the way of romance came of it. Barbara and I studiously avoided each other
for a time, and then, as with all high school musicals, the thrill of our
performances wore off both for us and for others, and we resumed our mere
friendship. But, thespianical as it might have been, there was more of the real
world in it than the three ephemeral trysts I will eventually address here. But
not before a
Slight sidebar: Re the “others” just above, the only times I
was ever adored (“I was adored…once” – I seem to keep quoting from Twelfth Night) by women in high school
were a few fleeting days after the high school play I was in (and I was in all
of them). Lots of attention paid to me then, but by the time I began to be
brave enough even to think of acting my of the attention, what shall I say? For
the ladies, the thrill had gone.
and a
*dictionary
(but whose?) definition of thespianical
– adj. pertaining to a theatrical liaison (includes summer stock romance),
which by its very nature renders it a mere illusion, a phantasmal creation that
can feel a little like a dream, for that is all it is. Origin: from Thespis, an early actor/writer of dithyrambs (see
below)and tragedies in the era just before the heyday of ancient Athenian
theatre. Writers at the time typically also acted in their plays, and Thespis
is much better known as the actor who stepped out of the chorus line and sang
“kiss today goodbye, and point me toward tomorrow…” kidding of course…who
stepped out of the chorus line and “answered” it, creating theatrical dialogue
from what had previously been simple choral odes in praise of Dionysos, called
dithyrambs.
The second and
last actual high school date I have any memory of (there were one or two more, I
think…at least I hope! Just now remembering…I think I MIGHT have taken a
younger student to a cast party once, plied her and me with seven & sevens
– ugh! and regretted it mightily) was a completely arranged outing. I was on
the executive council of the Student Government Association (SGA). Its treasurer
was a tall, dark-haired, bright but brooding Italian named Barbara Lavezzo
(interesting that the only two high school dates I remember fully paired me and
two Barbaras, granted two completely different brands of Barbara). Ferne
Brandon, the adviser to student government – love the name Ferne, right? – got
wind of the fact that neither Lavezzo nor I had a date to the senior prom and
that we both had decided independently of one another to skip it. She brought formidable/faculty/Ferne
power to bear, arguing that it would be unseemly for two members of the SGA,
who had helped plan the prom, to not show up at it – this argument in front of
both of us…mortification!!! She pretty much ordered us to go together, and
knowing that I did not drive (sigh…see above, but you won’t find much as that’s
a story for another blog), even arranged for us to double-date with another
couple. I do believe that the night went all right, though I think I stepped
all over poor Lavezzo’s toes attempting to dance with her. In addition to all
my other failings/insecurities/ neuroses, I fear that I am NOT Fred Astaire
(not even Fred Mertz) on the dance floor. There may even have been a second
date, though if there was I remember none of the specifics…and then as all
matches made in SGA heaven go, it petered out. I really believe that Ferne
thought the pair of us a good match, alas.
And now, FINALLY, far
too many words later, back to the three women that my dream inspired me to
remember.
Aldema Ridge was
an equestrienne, petite with dark auburn hair, fairly quiet, very bright. I do
not remember who introduced us. She did not go to our high school (remember
that this encounter occurred just after I graduated), but to a private school
in the Washington DC area. Aldema…Aldema Ridge, what an exotic, intriguing
name, at least to this young graduate steeped in Romantic poetry and
novels…perhaps most closely fits the description of my dream, as I remember
little else but quiet walks, hands brushing, though as I remember no lips
touching, and then, after a short time, a parting.
The parting had
much to do with my family’s move to Florida during the summer after my senior
year. But I wonder now if I even asked for Aldema’s address so that I could
write her? Possibly, and possibly a few letters passed between us…but no more.
I confess that I still on occasion think of those few days that summer spent
walking alongside an enigmatic and elusive equestrienne with fondness. It is
right and proper that hers was the first name/vision that came to mind just
after my dream, as it might have been Aldema Ridge that inspired it.
The second dream-like
brief encounter occurred only about a year later, when I was in the US Air
Force (4 years in the Vietnam era 1966-70, but no Vietnam thank you – instead
Germany, then the National Security Agency) on leave ahead of flying to my
assignment at a small town in Germany, called Hof. My sister Judy introduced
me, on this three or four week leave, to one of her high school classmates, a
tall, good-looking, willowy blonde named Claudia, and immediately I became
infatuated. Our walks this time were along the beach (my family lived not far
from the ocean in the vicinity of Cape Canaveral, FL). Again, I remember almost
nothing from our walks and talks, though this time instead of a mere brushing
of hands, the affair became somewhat more passionate. Claudia was at least as
infatuated as I was and we spent much time in my bedroom as well as on walks –
nothing unseemly, mind you, but some “making out.” Usually accompanied by some
of my favorite vinyl LP record albums. I do believe that it was Claudia who
introduced me to serious kissing…hmmm…mmmmm…At any
rate, we were smitten, promised to write each other, and as a sign of good
faith I loaned her some of my sacred LPs – not that they were of sacred music,
but that they were the holy of holies for me! One among them I had just
purchased. It was a Tony Bennett album called Songs for the Jet Set, which included two of my favorite songs,
“Corcovado” (Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars) and another bossa nova style song, sung
to perfection by Tony Bennett, “How Insensitive.”
Then she took me
to her house to meet her mother, and the dream crash-landed into an ugly
reality. Her mother was a mess, the house was a mess, and in the small living
room there were at least ten cats, hovering on various perches, all staring at
me, as the smell of kitty litter, unsifted for some time apparently, almost
overwhelmed me. Fortunately for me the visit was short and while I hid it from
Claudia and mother from hell, I was gasping.
But I had already
loaned her my records, I was leaving imminently, and there was nothing to be
done about it, but for me to ponder on the one hand our dreamy infatuation and
Claudia’s kisses, on the other all things cat that I would almost certainly
have to live with had our relationship continued. So off I flew to Germany, and
one or two letters were exchanged before, but I had already forgotten Claudia
and her cats, and more or less wrote her off, telling her that alas, alas for
she and me, a lasting love ours ne’er would be. I didn’t use those words, just
waxing a tad poetical as I am writing this…
I don’t remember
if I heard back from Claudia, but I DO remember that when I returned on another
leave, about a year and a half later, I found that my records had been returned
to me (thank the muses of music!). I put on my favorite Tony Bennett album, but
when the grooves got to the great “How Insensitive” the album started skipping.
My younger readers won’t even know what I’m talking about, but it was all too
easy to ruin part of an album by scratching it in those days. What was
interesting about this particular album was that none of the other songs were
touched by the scratch, so I looked at the album closely and noted a straight,
deep line deliberately cut through the entirety of “How Insensitive.” The rest
of the album was unblemished. Ah! Some of you won’t know the song! It’s worth
printing the lyrics to the song, written by the excellent Antonio Carlos Jobim,
here:
How insensitive
I must have seemed
When she told me that she loved me
How unmoved and cold
I must have seemed
When she told me so sincerely
Why she must have asked
Did I just turn and stare in icy silence
What was I to say
What can you say
When a love affair is over
There’s another
great verse, but you get the idea.
Claudia had her
revenge upon me! And I don’t think her friendship with my sister lasted either.
(“I’ll be revenged, on the whole pack of you!”) Twelfth Night again, sorry…but it applies!
So, while Aldema
Ridge is a dream complete, Claudia turned quickly enough from dream to
nightmare. The third surreal liaison gets even more…interesting.
A brief interlude before the last remembrance after my dream –
and this one will be brief, I promise. In Germany, I fell deeply in love, this
time for real, and more deeply than any love before or after her. Karin Fritz
was a few months older than I, and worked at the activities center on the tiny
Hof Air Force Base. Her boss was a wacky old-ish English woman named Lenis
Cartier, who must have once been a real fireball. She introduced me a drink
called a French 75, which is not for the weak of heart. She also introduced me
to Karin, a German national fluent in English with only slightly less perfect
French. Lenis and I actually started the Hof Little Theatre Group, and we put
on at least three plays before I left Germany. We became close and Lenis
thought Karin the perfect match for me. I think Karin and I agreed on this, but
we were both very shy about expressing our emotion. So crafty Lenis concocted a
plan. She suggested that the three of us meet at a church in downtown Hof on an
evening in which Mozart’s Requiem was being performed. Her treat. We jumped at
the chance, the evening came, Karin and I showed up…but no Lenis! She had
tricked us and oh boy it worked. It was a cold evening and the church was not
heated, so we huddled together and listened to the strains of one gorgeous
piece of music. Then we walked…and walked…and talked…and kissed. Ah! Ecstasy!
This part IS
dreamy, isn’t it? But then a lot of reality se in and our encounter wasn’t
brief and did not remain dreamlike. In fact I wanted it to be for life, and for
a time at least Karin did too. Then I was reassigned (to the NSA of all places
– curse you, USAF!), and much of the year (approximately) that we were to have
together in Hof was quickly reduced to a matter of a few months. The
reassignment changed things. Karin and I still had lovely times, but I could
tell she was beginning to distance herself from me, and while we pledged that
she would come to the U.S. within a few months of my departure, it was not to
be. In fact at a dance on the base only a few days before my departure a rather
dashing young Army guy taught her the Tennessee Waltz. She picked it up very quickly. My two left
feet remained much as they had been when I stepped on Barbara Lavezzo’s toes at
the prom, so I was no competition there. The end is like a movie – Karin was to
meet me at the train, and she did, but she was running late. She brought me a
farewell present, a German sausage (un phalliken symbol?), we kissed, and I
looked back through an open window as the train pulled out and Karin ran to the
end of the platform, waving…
Letters from Karin
stopped shortly after my return to the US, a friend of mine wrote that she was
in a relationship of sorts with the dancing Army charmer, and my heart was
broken. Some of you may be thinking, the first date at a Requiem…hmmmm – that
sorit of seals it, if you think back. But it was lovely for a time, and I still
think that Karin Fritz might have been the love of my life.
Well, this
interlude ended being anything but brief, but then which of my writings are
ever brief?
The last of my
three brief encounters is perhaps the strangest. This came a few years later.
Two friends and I found an apartment (actually it was bequeathed to us kindly
by my sister and her first husband) on the border of Maryland (Silver Spring
specifically) and Washington DC. The NSA was about halfway between Baltimore
and Washington, so we had to commute daily, and I still couldn’t drive, so
Brian and Ernest shared the driving responsibilities – our rent seemed pricey
at the time, but it was a pittance – a one bedroom apartment for $100 a month.
Ernest and I slept in the bedroom, Brian in the living room, and later, after
we’d all left the service, another Air Force buddy moved into the walk-in
closet. You think I’m joking – don’t! So my monthly share in the rent dropped
from $33.33 a month to $25 a month – oh, those golden days! And I was on the GI
Bill, attending a community college, paid for by the Air Force, only a short
bus ride away from the apartment.
This meant that I
had a lot of reading and studying to do, and while the one bedroom apartment was
fairly roomy, with four sharing it, there wasn’t a place conducive to study –
not even the walk-in closet! So I went to the local library a good bit, where
it so happened that a beautiful young woman with chestnut hair down to her
waist – she was proud of it, you could tell – and rightly so was a library
assistant. I checked out books ONLY when she was on the job, but I remained
quite shy, and she was exceedingly so. Our “walks” consisted of clumsy “dances”
around the library, she shelving books, me happening, accidentally on purpose,
to the stacks where she was, a glance, a smile, perhaps a hand brushing as I
helped her occasionally, no more. We discovered that she lived in the same apartment
complex that I did, and waved to each other occasionally there, while a good
bit of unrequited passion was building in each of us.
Then one night my
roomies and I threw a party (we threw many in those days and most of them were
pretty grand, but that’s a tale for another day) and this time I screwed my
courage to the sticking place (the Bard again, finally from a play other than Twelfth Night – a tragedy, of
course…hmmm) and a few days before struck up more of a conversation with my
library friend (whose name I am ashamed to say I remember not. I DO remember
her hair) than we’d ever attempted, and I said as casually as I could, that if
she had nothing better to do she was welcome to come to the party. She said
she’d think about it, thanks.
“A trip to the
library – has made a new man of me…” couldn’t resist the paraphrase from one of
my favorite musicals, She Loves Me.
The night of the
party came and had nearly gone when she arrived. Then we did talk, and she
stayed after the party, and before she left to go back to her own place, she
kissed me. Deeply. I had never been kissed like that before, and I have never
been since. “Her lips suck forth my soul…” (God this is getting literary – some
of you at least will recognize Marlowe’s Faustus on the quality of a kiss from
Helen of Troy).
And then she left,
with some of my books in her hands – we were both intellectuals as well as in
love, so of course I loaned her some of my favorites. And I never saw her
again.
Shortly after, I
found from asking around at the library, she had been admitted/committed to a
facility for the mentally impaired. For what reason, I know not. And it was not
me! (Could it have been? No, of course not, ours was too fleeting an encounter to
cause such a result). No, this had been growing in her, I was told, for some
time. How it manifested itself I know not, what specifically caused her to be
taken I know not.
I confess that I
lied when I wrote above that I never saw her. She appeared once again, a few
months later. There was a knock on the apartment door, I opened it, and there
she was! With her mother, and with the books she had borrowed from me in her
hands. She said nothing, only smiled slightly, sadly as her mother explained
that she was improving slowly, and that, if I didn’t mind, the returning of my
books was a brief exercise in her re-socialization. She handed me my books,
smiled again slightly, sadly, then she and her mother walked away and after
that (telling the truth now, I promise) I never saw her again, never knew what
became of her.
But I have thought
of her on occasion, as I have thought of Aldema Ridge, and to a lesser extent
of Claudia. Three phantasms, dream-like themselves, and appearing again,
fleetingly, after my own recent, not unpleasant, but slightly triste, dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment