THE ISSUE OF BLOOD
Martin Higgins
As night fell, it was clear to me that the time had come to sleep out in the open, attentive to, and attuned to, dusk giving way to darkness.
Near Joshua Tree, I found an unpaved road leading back to a wash lined with scrubby Juniper bushes, encircling a clearing where I could park. The cedar aroma of the shrubs was a natural incense to sanctify my twilight meditations and the ground was firm, flat, and clean. Less than half the blazing sun remained, squatting atop a rock ridge that ran along the wash toward the western mountains.
This is as good a place to stop as any.
I chose a place to sleep on the ground, set down a sleeping bag pad, and put my camera atop my camp cooler. Inside, a half-empty, plastic water bottle bobbed in its melting ice water. My first swallow tasted unnatural; warm and disappointing. so it remained imprisoned. I had a granola bar in my pocket, but I had no desire to taste its cloying sweetness.
The sun slowly disappeared behind the hogback, gradually turning the pure cerulean blue sky to a ruddy-clouded, purple landscape, suggesting a far-off indigo bay beyond a red, shoreline scud high above my head. My mind accepted the illusion, giving me the unmistakable feeling that I was hovering above this imagined estuary, looking down from an illogical perch. The disorientation was spellbinding, at once majestic and quietly troubling, blue and red, diametrically opposed and brewed into the royal firmament that surrenders to pitch black.
The ground pad felt soft and comforting as I laid back, relieved I had chosen the whisper of cooler night air flowing down from the shadowing mountains. The alternative was the ice-box chill and shuddering drone of a motel-room air conditioner. And, the crusty earth was infinitely cleaner than a broken-down, sweat-stained mattress – my every breath free from the acrid tinge of tobacco-sullied, stained furnishings. At every roadside flop, the room reverberates with the undulating, hypnotic, whoosh of tires and swishing airstream noises. Here, on the Joshua Tree ground, the highway was far off, a murmur, a distant, subdued, road-weary, highway sigh.
No motel tonight.
The nighttime desert sky was bruised and pummeled, rudely trod upon by Helios’s sun chariot-transit of the daystar, which burns and is not consumed, above the cedar-incense bushes around me. Slender strands of cirrus ice clouds limned the ruts of his carriage wheels, stretching across the heavens. Before me was the inspiration for our ancestor’s creation of divinity and worship; the evidence of gods, the sun, the moon and all that nature holds in store from season to season. Elysium stretched across the bird-ocean above me - waiting.
My skin tingled; no longer the outer margin of my body. I was viscerally connected to everything around me; the ground, the sky, and the emerging, dim glint of gemstone lanterns in the deepening black-velvet, celestial dome. A staggered breath whispered out of my lips, mouthing a long-neglected, altar boy prayer: Munda quod est sordidum, riga quod est aridum, sana quod est saucium… Cleanse that which is unclean, water that which is dry, heal that which is wounded.
As the sun gave up its last rays, Joshua Tree’s nocturnal inhabitants awoke. Coyotes roamed across the far-off landscape looking to satiate their unending hunger. They howled into the night, barking and baying as they moved along the floor of what had once been an inland sea.
A dry seabed is a fitting home for these omnivore, bottom-dwellers who eat just about anything: rabbits, rodents, birds, snakes, lizards, even thick-shelled tortoises. In dire times, hungry coyotes resort to fruit, nuts, or grass of which I saw very little on my travels. Whether hunting freshly-captured prey or scavenging a long-dead, carrion meal, coyotes thrive, needing only a bit of water now and again. This parched sea bottom offers its sparse tears to quench thirst and grant life; a salient point to consider when unraveling the web of existence.
The waxing moon began its passage, set royally in a wispy corona, just before midnight and it cast gauzy, grey shadows where the sun had set down deep, dark penumbras. I knew the moon would be a full disk the next night, shining its lunacy light on this heartland of spirits. My cassette player provided a whisper-soft, heavenly score to accompany the show; Eno’s Thursday Afternoon with its ethereal ambience and seemingly random construction, soothing piano fragments blended into a spiritual, synthesizer groundwork. I was an audience of one, presented with the incomprehensible complexity of the performance.
Sublime.
As the coyotes drew close, I noticed a background chorus of whimpers within the pack, conveying the endless struggle for dominance that rules every community. Triumph or succumb; adapt or die; the dogged demand life makes upon each one of us.
I’m sure my scent extended a perfumed perimeter about me that signaled them to sniff inquisitively, but prudently skirt the area. I was an uninvited guest in their world, an interloper, an obstacle in their search for food, and possibly an outright danger. As they skulked away, roving out of earshot, I let the ambient music overtake my flooded senses until it enraptured my thoughts and I drifted off into a restless sleep.
I was standing at attention in a hot, intolerably humid metal building, burdened with sweat drenched clothes, heavy boots, feeling hopelessly abandoned. A fist-sized bloody hole in my chest revealed that my heart was missing; torn out, leaving arteries and veins in a bloody tangle. I felt no pain save pangs of loneliness and desperation so great my breath came in staggered heaves, my eyes burned with tears, and my chest ached.
“This is not where I belong.” I called out.
My sole desire was to return to the little brick, Tudor house where I grew up. I craved that long-missed security. I needed the safety and unity I felt in the company of my family.
I was alone in the dream, although it looked like many people lived in the building. None of the numerous beds, footlockers, or belongings were mine. I stood silent with the sad knowledge that my situation could never be any different; I would forever an orphan in a world others had abandoned.
I was in a boundless graveyard of tall weeds, in full summer swelter, surrounded by the drone of insects, punctuated by piercing bird calls. The tombstones around me meant I was about to die or had died and was waiting for my last glimpse of earth to fade away. That last living moment given over to a slow, unavoidable loss of sight, before loss of breath and sound. My boots, sunk well into the ground, had thick roots extending downward, holding me fast. Only with great effort, could I manage to dislodge them and lumber across the field, leaving clumps of dirt and small stones behind me. The exertion so overwhelmed me, I closed my eyes to summon the strength to continue.
When I looked again, the field spun and shifted its shape. It became a street and I stood at the walkway to my childhood home. I lurched forward, opened the front door and entered, stiff-legged and dismayed to see the trail of soil I left behind me. In the kitchen I could hear a young Mom and Dad, talking and laughing while they cooked breakfast. My brothers and sister - Danny, Maureen, and John - sat at the dining room table, just as I remember them when I was a teenager. I felt somewhat restored to a tranquil state of mind until I saw the table setting for breakfast. There was no place setting for me or my brother, Paddy.
“Where’s Paddy?” I asked.
No one answered. No one heard me.
“Where is Paddy?”
Loneliness gripped me.
“Where is my place?”
I staggered toward the kitchen on my wooden, trunkfeet, to ask my parents where Paddy was but, as I stepped through the doorway, I found myself standing in the backyard my current home in northern California at twilight, just as I had left it, days ago. My wife and daughters were having fun in our pool, playing and splashing. They saw me and called out, urging me to dive in.
“Come on in!” they said, showering me with cool water, “Come ON!”
“Where’s Paddy?” I asked again, to no response.
I saw them enjoying their play. I wanted the love and joy showered on me. My feet were bare, so plunged in, fully-dressed. The water caressed me with a refreshing chill as I swam downward, turning and tumbling as I went, weightless and thrilled by the pleasure it gave me. I was a zero-gravity aquanaut in my backyard ocean. I stroked downward vigorously to touch the bottom, but the deeper I swam, the more forcefully my buoyancy held me back, tugging at me, yanking me upward past the sparkling curtain of my breath and loose clothing bubbles, upward to gasp the surface air. My burning lungs prodded me, reminded me I must have that air to live, but I ignored the bouyancy’s attempt to save me, befriend me.
After touching the bottom, I surrendered to the upward deliverance and rose limply. My first breath was intoxicating. I exhaled slowly, blowing it out through pursed lips, then turned onto my back and floated, paddling with my hands to gyre in a lazy circle, watching heaven’s luminous superstars spin above me.
Cassiopeia, the North Star, and both Dippers were first to appear, and I looked for more constellations; Orian, Canis Minor, and Canis Major, the hunter and his hounds. I was seized by a momentary transport of rapture; I was a human, spinning in a pool of water on the surface of a planet, spinning like a top, racing through space, circling around our star. My familiar constellations fell away, now, no more than a scant connect-the-dots suggestion that spoke to long-gone sky-gazers and the world they knew.
The vast depth, height, width of space underscored my insignificance. The scatter of skydot outlines our ancient watchers associated with their everyday lives are a deception; viewable only from our position on this tiny planet for a dozen millennia or so. Stars are millions, billions of miles apart. Twinkles we see as the North Star are particles of energy that left that nuclear explosion before Galileo raised his telescope to the unexplored heavens.
“Where’s Paddy?”
Alone in the pool as daybreak relegated the far-off pinpoints to daytime obscurity, slowly outshining them, I let it all drift away. Soft light opened my eyes, and I laid on the rubber pad for a time wondering if the desert spirits had already taken hold of me. The sunrise flooded in, pushing the back the darkness and bathing everything on the ground in a most glorious golden luster.
My dream was a collection of emotions, a subconscious play, using the people, props and locations in my life – a constellation of distant experiences seen from a afar; loneliness, long ago and far away, in a land so sad I will not trouble you with its name. My childhood family and its sacrosanct unity, my wife and children immersed in the joy of our household, and my bleak estrangement when confronted with the ephemeral meaning of life were merged. In all, it was a composite sense-memory dream of being without spirit, without purpose, with emotional connotation alluding to rational denotation.
My life is an impossibly brief flash of awareness lost in the multi-billion year existence of the universe. And yet, there still needs to be a right and a wrong, some milk and bread, gas in the car, and a road ahead.
The thin groundpad did little to cushion my body during the night, leaving me with aching joints and a stiff spine. It took a moment to sit up, stretching as I rose; turning my head to free my neck cramp. Nocturnal animals had retreated to their cool habitations, and the daytime animals were reclaiming their province. I saw the rocky ridge before me had grown a tiny head. It stared in wonder, its black eyes fixed on me.
“Good morning, Mr. Squirrel I thought I was alone out here.”
I didn’t expect an answer, but the ground squirrel, scurried toward me, having set its fear aside for the possibility of a tourist-provided bit of food. He stood tall and looked about.
“You needn't stand up so tall.” Sit. Relax. We’ve got another day.”
Another day, that's how I see it. Each sunrise is a winning life-lottery ticket. We get through a day at a time, sleep through the night and, with luck, open our eyes to a new set of possibilities. That's why I'm here, in Mr. Squirrel’s home. He didn’t move, so I pursued a conversation.
“Do you dream?”
The furry sat, having done his due safety diligence.
“Did you too have an epic reverie last night?”
My visitor cocked his head as though he were thinking about how to answer.
I hadn’t thought much about it; squirrel dreams that is. When my sleeping dogs woofed and flipped their feet, my daughters said they were having puppy dreams: running in the park, scaring cats, or chasing squirrels. I’d laugh, imagining what our pet was experiencing, but now I was thinking seriously about the dreams a desert squirrel might have. Were they fearful dramas of escape from a predator, vigilant excursions into unfamiliar places, or indecipherable montages cobbled from daily encounters?
My dreams, usually nightmares, are bits and pieces of my life assembled in emotionally-charged character plays and otherworldly incidents. Somehow the chaos of existence is loaded in, bit by bit, only to be structured and set in a framework I can comprehend. At a very basic level, my innermost drives prompt emotions that bubble up into my subconscious dramas to play out in deep sleep. The logic of each is difficult to ascertain upon waking, but there is surely a message embedded in my mind’s production. Reality is a blend of chaos and order, so we need to examine a blend of both to fully breathe it all in. I suppose the simplest explanation is that dreams are a mechanism to consume chaos and sustain our sanity with a modicum of logic and order.
My desert search is an attempt to flood my mind with the chaos, then allow it to create order I can understand.
Why would this function be different for a squirrel? Its dreams may be less complicated, less narrative, and closer to its survival drives, but nonetheless helpful in behavior conditioning; preparing the creature to learn faster and respond quicker.
Perhaps this is a holy animal whose presence will enlighten me in my desert quest and reveal the wisdom of its existence in such a harsh environment. While Mr. Squirrel waited patiently, I went to my car to find something for his breakfast. In the glove compartment I found a half-eaten granola bar, peeled back the plastic covering, and turned toward him, holding it at arm’s length.
“I’ve got something you might enjoy. Breakfast, Buddy?”
The squirrel stared, his little black eyes focused on me. We were both holding still, and unsure of what might happen next. I was determined to hand this little guy more nutrition that he'd probably see in a week. He darted toward me, only a few feet away. He knew there was something he wanted in my hand. Rather than scaring him by walking closer, I took a knee and set oat bar on the ground. Another standoff.
His wariness reminded me of a revelation I had years ago. As a child I was always told that squirrels and other ground rodents were excited and happy that their darting and leaping and running were unrestrained joie de vivre. I was disappointed when I realized that their behavior was prompted by abject fear. Those little guys were gray and bushytailed and lived in the soffits of the tract homes where I grew up. They disappeared in the winter, sleeping through the cold and slowly living off stored body fat.
This squirrel lived a very different life; his home was an underground burrow deep below the hot surface, safe within his dark subsoil shelter when the temperature was intolerable.
Mr. Squirrel you have me at quite a disadvantage here, seeing as you’re home and I’m just passing through. I know you have friends over the ridge and possibly something in the bush eyeing you, figuring to make a meal of you. Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes I feel like there’s something on my trail, right around the corner, and there’s not much I can do about it. Despite knowing there is no one trailing me, there’s nobody around the corner, I still get the feeling there is and harm is near. That feeling takes over so completely; all the rational mind I apply to it I can’t dispel the gut-level notion things are going south. I guess that’s why I’m here, Buddy. Since I lost my brother, I suspect I’m next and wonder what my life is worth.
My friend scurried up to grab the granola bar. Two cautious sniffs later, he packed his cheeks with the sweet oats, almonds, wheat germ, and honey. The wrapper blew away on a soft ground breeze.
Holy animal. I understand this meeting only has a meaning I choose to ascribe to it. If it fits into the story I need to learn, it is an experience that moves me closer to discovering what I want to know. The more ways something can be proven right, the more likely it is to be true. It’s even possible for a misinterpretation to supply a correct solution. In this internal reality, I’m dealing with shades of meanings and assembling unfamiliar structures.
The squirrel took off into the brush and I packed up my things to leave.
I drove down from Joshua tree to the Palm Springs airport to pick up a friend who had asked to join me for part of the exploration. Originally I had wanted to travel alone, but this woman was part of a spiritual transformation I had started long before my brother died. Her name began with a N.
My marriage was disintegrating.
Laura and I reached an impasse in our relationship. Parenthood had become increasingly difficult with two young daughters. The demands we struggled to meet changed us; made us assume new, more restrictive roles and attitudes. Other parents have occasionally mentioned dealing with this problem, attempting to best it with counseling, controlled addiction to alcohol or pills, or divorce. I believe it’s relatively common problem. Growth is painful.
When I first saw Laura, it wasn't her sexy figure, her slinky `40's cocktail dress, her fiery long red hair, or her smile that made me freeze in my tracks and look deep. Her appearance spoke volumes to my heart and I fell into serious love, but it was her eyes that shook me. Not her sparkling hazel eyes themselves, but the lash line, waterline and under-eye. Here was a woman who laughed a lot and cried a lot. What more could a person want from a first glance? What attribute could further stir my curiosity to find out who she was? And, as I did come to know her, I pledged her my heart and soul to her, if she was enticed to have me, if she desired me.
We did not fall in love - we plunged into love.
Years later, after I had matured beyond being a madcap comedian in the San Francisco comedy scene to writing and directing films, television, and stage plays. Laura was no longer my wild-girl cohort; the Bagdad-by-the-Bay doll with a yen for love, life, and champagne. She was now a working mom with two young daughters and a corporate career that set her apart from her carefree, single friends.
We found ourselves firmly bound by the necessary maternal/paternal responsibilities and stresses. Most damaging was the emotional distance we felt growing between us; presumably a side-effect of losing the carefree romance we reveled in when we were newlyweds. We hadn’t grown together, we grew apart.
One day, Laura told me that our intimacy felt robotic and unsatisfying. That brought our half-hearted charade to a halt. I could tell she was seething within; enraged that I did not understand her alienation. I couldn’t understand the full impact of her change until I found myself resigned to a cold marriage, a joyless partnership, which was nothing less than emotional torture. Laura said if I wanted sex I should find another woman. At that moment, I felt as if I didn’t have a friend in the world. Hugging was painful.
Those were our days of regret… and heart-rending mistakes.
I met N through a mutual friend. She was a tall, blue-eyed, brilliant career woman who worked in publishing and lived alone. I found her to be enchanting. We became friends and one evening, while discussing our literary tastes, she mentioned one of my favorite authors. He was due to visit a Haight Asbury bookstore for a reading from his latest work later that week. She graciously offered to arrange for me to dine with him before the performance. I did, and had the opportunity to ask him all manner of questions about his experiences and prolific output.
During that meal, one of the author’s fans entered the restaurant and presented him with a guitar case as a gift. They whispered a bit, shook hands and the fan left hastily.
“You play?” I asked the author.
“Yes.”
Rather than explain, he opened the case just wide enough for me to take a quick look inside.
I saw an AK-47.
“Ah yes!” I said, “I’ve played with those, too. Years ago.”
We talked about Southeast Asia; Vietnam, Thailand, and the back streets of Bangkok where I had spent a week of rest and recuperation. The author had spent months there, writing a novel. Later, at the bookstore podium, the author made several observations about his Bangkok stay with quips he lifted directly from my comments over dinner. The crowd loved him and their post-read questions were reverent and astute. I watched from my stand-up comedian point-of-view; he killed… and he could write as well as anyone I had ever read. I need to write.
The dinner had been delightful, the reading was powerful, and, after the event ended, I thanked the author for breaking bread with me. We jabbered about a scheduling a future dinner knowing it would never be arranged. Such is the world of publishing, publicity, and fame.
N and I walked down Haight Street talking about the dinner and the event. She was electrifying; smart, funny, and sexy. We were quickly becoming attracted to each other, so we stopped into local bar for drinks and a chance to talk a bit more. I became excited by her charming self-confidence, alluring blue eyes and long, wavy blonde hair. The drinks took hold and we spent the next couple hours captivated by our flirtation.
I wanted to earn her affection. I wanted sex with her.
Over the weeks, we became closer friends and spent more time together. I was enchanted by her and it wasn’t long before our affections grew until we gave in to our desires and our relationship became intimate. This might have been predictable, but N was primarily Lesbian. Despite that, our lovemaking was spontaneous and uninhibited. There was no kissing or cuddling; just passionate sex. This suited us both and we became more licentious and libidinous.
My marriage was in crisis, N and I were having an affair, and casual, romantic affections seemed inappropriate.
Eventually, N and I did come to love each other but, sadly, our affections were out of sync during that year; we were not free from our other commitments. Despite the relationship’s rocky end, I’ve never stopped loving her. She is in my pantheon of goddesses.
I was with her when my brother died. Her apartment phone rang and she answered brightly, looked troubled and held the phone out toward me.
“It’s your wife.”
I took it and said, “Hi.”
“I just got a call from your sister.” Laura said. “Your brother Paddy had a motorcycle accident and he died on the way to the hospital. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.” I said. In my heart, I meant it as a humble apology for the awkwardness of her having to call me at N’s apartment. I knew Laura suffered that as a wound.
I hung up the phone and lost my self-control; tears flowed and I sobbed like a child. N put her arm around me and waited until I had composed myself.
“Go home.” she said, “You have responsibilities. We’ll talk when the time is right.”
I did as she said, and the following days were tumultuous.
Weeks later, still in shock over the loss, I mentioned my desert plans to N. She immediately wanted to be part of my journey. More than needing some time alone, I knew I might need her help if I became erratic. It was at this time that I felt the full force of her love.
“I’m planning on seven days, in two weeks; one day down, one back, and five exploring, looking for myself.”
“I’ll fly in to Palm Springs and meet you for the ride back here.” she said, “two, three days, tops. Okay?”
“Yeah. Wonderful.”
She continued “But there is a good chance I will be on my period then.”
Her wry smile said it all. I understood her acknowledgement and mocking tone.
“I don’t care.” I said, “I want you to be part of this.”
The trip was scheduled to coincide with a full moon so there would be some light for night photography. Later, I realized the moon was a significant element in a desert pilgrimage – in any pilgrimage. This would be an August Red Moon; a time of abundance, manifesting desires, sexuality, achievement, and protection.
The Goddess and Moon energy is at a peak; optimal for healing through spirituality. N’s menstruation was another piece of the developing mosaic; her cycle, the moon’s cycle and the unbroken cycle of life and death on the sandy frontier.
N would be in full aspect – astute, intuitive, and passionately sensual.
Just before noon, driving through Palm Springs, I saw how money and irrigation had transformed the desert into a lush, upscale oasis. Date palms lined the streets and everywhere that public land gave way to private, grass, bushes, and golf courses extended in every direction. The dark red mission roof tiles shared ground space with the watered greenery, further disguising the desert floor. Vast villas with outsized pools and manicured gardens were protected by development walls and gate houses. Behind these, people enjoy the sun from within air-conditioned houses and cars. They imposed themselves on the desert, ignoring the absurdity of their own wastefulness.
The sheer civilization energy took me out of my recent desert emotions. Once again, I was within the throng, caught up in the possessions and activities I had left up in Marin County. I remembered my highway brush with death and the death of Mr. Mouse …anything more than what he had right there, at that moment, is window-dressing and illusion.
N was standing in front of the Palm Springs Airport when I got there. Her hair shimmered in the sunshine and I saw her in a way I hadn’t until then; she was gorgeous and a thrill ran through my heart. It the entrance of the parking lot I stopped to regard her for a moment. In this woman, I saw myself once again a madcap comedian, unrestrained and full of possibility.
I knew it was a fantasy, but without that delusion, I was empty.
I’m cheating on my wife, who said she didn’t care if I took another lover, but my heart is torn by desire and mournful sadness, deep regret and lust, confusion and uneasiness. I have no idea how this will play out, but I do not have the will to backtrack and resist the change – regardless of how I will be shaped by the things to come. This is a fait accompli.
N saw me, peering over her sunglasses, and nodded. She strode through the lot, pulling her overnight case. I studied her expression; the half-smile, half smirk that disclosed her singular style of enjoying a situation. It was part of the reason I was fascinated by her; she mixed enthusiasm with mock scorn. We played at being fun-loving nitpickers, sham grumblers who made every comment a comedic set-up or punchline. Our comic banter was a perfect complement to our physical desires; intellectual intimacy and satisfaction. I was in love with her and our unorthodox union.
She opened the car door, “It’s fucking scorching!”
“It’s early. Don’t worry, it gets hotter.”
She tossed her case over the passenger seat and climbed in.
“Do you have air conditioning?”
“It’s on.” said,
Her eyes went wide. “Jesus.”
N was wearing a tan shirt and khaki shorts and her hair was pulled back into a long, wavy ponytail. She didn’t wear make-up. She never wore make-up when we were together. Her face was naturally beautiful. Our greeting was no more than leaning together to press our cheeks together for a moment. This sufficed, both aware that she would find a kiss unwelcome; too awkward. Our intimate pleasures and satisfaction were purely sex, not tender lovemaking. Buddies with favors, was how she described it. I eventually came to understand her unspoken rationale; if one never falls in love, one can’t be forsaken.
Once, she asked me if I wanted her to wear lipstick to a social event.
“No. Why? You’re beautiful.”
N wasn’t referring to a beauty enhancement. She wanted to know if I’d like her to appear more feminine, more heterosexual, as my partner. I didn’t. I knew who I was with and I was satisfied.
I kept looking at the side of her face as we drove out of Palm Springs on North Gene Autry Trail headed north on Highway 10 toward Barstow to retrace my path with her. On the way, I filled her in on what I had experienced so far. N looked at me and smiled. She understood what I was were looking for, and what I wanted from her. A long pause ensued.
“A notion is beginning to take shape.” I said to her.
“Or has already done so.” she replied, glancing down at my lap. “Do you want me?”
We stopped, well off the road, and struggled in our hot confinement.
- continued -
copyright © 2018
Martin Higgins
All rights reserved
Near Joshua Tree, I found an unpaved road leading back to a wash lined with scrubby Juniper bushes, encircling a clearing where I could park. The cedar aroma of the shrubs was a natural incense to sanctify my twilight meditations and the ground was firm, flat, and clean. Less than half the blazing sun remained, squatting atop a rock ridge that ran along the wash toward the western mountains.
This is as good a place to stop as any.
I chose a place to sleep on the ground, set down a sleeping bag pad, and put my camera atop my camp cooler. Inside, a half-empty, plastic water bottle bobbed in its melting ice water. My first swallow tasted unnatural; warm and disappointing. so it remained imprisoned. I had a granola bar in my pocket, but I had no desire to taste its cloying sweetness.
The sun slowly disappeared behind the hogback, gradually turning the pure cerulean blue sky to a ruddy-clouded, purple landscape, suggesting a far-off indigo bay beyond a red, shoreline scud high above my head. My mind accepted the illusion, giving me the unmistakable feeling that I was hovering above this imagined estuary, looking down from an illogical perch. The disorientation was spellbinding, at once majestic and quietly troubling, blue and red, diametrically opposed and brewed into the royal firmament that surrenders to pitch black.
The ground pad felt soft and comforting as I laid back, relieved I had chosen the whisper of cooler night air flowing down from the shadowing mountains. The alternative was the ice-box chill and shuddering drone of a motel-room air conditioner. And, the crusty earth was infinitely cleaner than a broken-down, sweat-stained mattress – my every breath free from the acrid tinge of tobacco-sullied, stained furnishings. At every roadside flop, the room reverberates with the undulating, hypnotic, whoosh of tires and swishing airstream noises. Here, on the Joshua Tree ground, the highway was far off, a murmur, a distant, subdued, road-weary, highway sigh.
No motel tonight.
The nighttime desert sky was bruised and pummeled, rudely trod upon by Helios’s sun chariot-transit of the daystar, which burns and is not consumed, above the cedar-incense bushes around me. Slender strands of cirrus ice clouds limned the ruts of his carriage wheels, stretching across the heavens. Before me was the inspiration for our ancestor’s creation of divinity and worship; the evidence of gods, the sun, the moon and all that nature holds in store from season to season. Elysium stretched across the bird-ocean above me - waiting.
My skin tingled; no longer the outer margin of my body. I was viscerally connected to everything around me; the ground, the sky, and the emerging, dim glint of gemstone lanterns in the deepening black-velvet, celestial dome. A staggered breath whispered out of my lips, mouthing a long-neglected, altar boy prayer: Munda quod est sordidum, riga quod est aridum, sana quod est saucium… Cleanse that which is unclean, water that which is dry, heal that which is wounded.
As the sun gave up its last rays, Joshua Tree’s nocturnal inhabitants awoke. Coyotes roamed across the far-off landscape looking to satiate their unending hunger. They howled into the night, barking and baying as they moved along the floor of what had once been an inland sea.
A dry seabed is a fitting home for these omnivore, bottom-dwellers who eat just about anything: rabbits, rodents, birds, snakes, lizards, even thick-shelled tortoises. In dire times, hungry coyotes resort to fruit, nuts, or grass of which I saw very little on my travels. Whether hunting freshly-captured prey or scavenging a long-dead, carrion meal, coyotes thrive, needing only a bit of water now and again. This parched sea bottom offers its sparse tears to quench thirst and grant life; a salient point to consider when unraveling the web of existence.
The waxing moon began its passage, set royally in a wispy corona, just before midnight and it cast gauzy, grey shadows where the sun had set down deep, dark penumbras. I knew the moon would be a full disk the next night, shining its lunacy light on this heartland of spirits. My cassette player provided a whisper-soft, heavenly score to accompany the show; Eno’s Thursday Afternoon with its ethereal ambience and seemingly random construction, soothing piano fragments blended into a spiritual, synthesizer groundwork. I was an audience of one, presented with the incomprehensible complexity of the performance.
Sublime.
As the coyotes drew close, I noticed a background chorus of whimpers within the pack, conveying the endless struggle for dominance that rules every community. Triumph or succumb; adapt or die; the dogged demand life makes upon each one of us.
I’m sure my scent extended a perfumed perimeter about me that signaled them to sniff inquisitively, but prudently skirt the area. I was an uninvited guest in their world, an interloper, an obstacle in their search for food, and possibly an outright danger. As they skulked away, roving out of earshot, I let the ambient music overtake my flooded senses until it enraptured my thoughts and I drifted off into a restless sleep.
I was standing at attention in a hot, intolerably humid metal building, burdened with sweat drenched clothes, heavy boots, feeling hopelessly abandoned. A fist-sized bloody hole in my chest revealed that my heart was missing; torn out, leaving arteries and veins in a bloody tangle. I felt no pain save pangs of loneliness and desperation so great my breath came in staggered heaves, my eyes burned with tears, and my chest ached.
“This is not where I belong.” I called out.
My sole desire was to return to the little brick, Tudor house where I grew up. I craved that long-missed security. I needed the safety and unity I felt in the company of my family.
I was alone in the dream, although it looked like many people lived in the building. None of the numerous beds, footlockers, or belongings were mine. I stood silent with the sad knowledge that my situation could never be any different; I would forever an orphan in a world others had abandoned.
I was in a boundless graveyard of tall weeds, in full summer swelter, surrounded by the drone of insects, punctuated by piercing bird calls. The tombstones around me meant I was about to die or had died and was waiting for my last glimpse of earth to fade away. That last living moment given over to a slow, unavoidable loss of sight, before loss of breath and sound. My boots, sunk well into the ground, had thick roots extending downward, holding me fast. Only with great effort, could I manage to dislodge them and lumber across the field, leaving clumps of dirt and small stones behind me. The exertion so overwhelmed me, I closed my eyes to summon the strength to continue.
When I looked again, the field spun and shifted its shape. It became a street and I stood at the walkway to my childhood home. I lurched forward, opened the front door and entered, stiff-legged and dismayed to see the trail of soil I left behind me. In the kitchen I could hear a young Mom and Dad, talking and laughing while they cooked breakfast. My brothers and sister - Danny, Maureen, and John - sat at the dining room table, just as I remember them when I was a teenager. I felt somewhat restored to a tranquil state of mind until I saw the table setting for breakfast. There was no place setting for me or my brother, Paddy.
“Where’s Paddy?” I asked.
No one answered. No one heard me.
“Where is Paddy?”
Loneliness gripped me.
“Where is my place?”
I staggered toward the kitchen on my wooden, trunkfeet, to ask my parents where Paddy was but, as I stepped through the doorway, I found myself standing in the backyard my current home in northern California at twilight, just as I had left it, days ago. My wife and daughters were having fun in our pool, playing and splashing. They saw me and called out, urging me to dive in.
“Come on in!” they said, showering me with cool water, “Come ON!”
“Where’s Paddy?” I asked again, to no response.
I saw them enjoying their play. I wanted the love and joy showered on me. My feet were bare, so plunged in, fully-dressed. The water caressed me with a refreshing chill as I swam downward, turning and tumbling as I went, weightless and thrilled by the pleasure it gave me. I was a zero-gravity aquanaut in my backyard ocean. I stroked downward vigorously to touch the bottom, but the deeper I swam, the more forcefully my buoyancy held me back, tugging at me, yanking me upward past the sparkling curtain of my breath and loose clothing bubbles, upward to gasp the surface air. My burning lungs prodded me, reminded me I must have that air to live, but I ignored the bouyancy’s attempt to save me, befriend me.
After touching the bottom, I surrendered to the upward deliverance and rose limply. My first breath was intoxicating. I exhaled slowly, blowing it out through pursed lips, then turned onto my back and floated, paddling with my hands to gyre in a lazy circle, watching heaven’s luminous superstars spin above me.
Cassiopeia, the North Star, and both Dippers were first to appear, and I looked for more constellations; Orian, Canis Minor, and Canis Major, the hunter and his hounds. I was seized by a momentary transport of rapture; I was a human, spinning in a pool of water on the surface of a planet, spinning like a top, racing through space, circling around our star. My familiar constellations fell away, now, no more than a scant connect-the-dots suggestion that spoke to long-gone sky-gazers and the world they knew.
The vast depth, height, width of space underscored my insignificance. The scatter of skydot outlines our ancient watchers associated with their everyday lives are a deception; viewable only from our position on this tiny planet for a dozen millennia or so. Stars are millions, billions of miles apart. Twinkles we see as the North Star are particles of energy that left that nuclear explosion before Galileo raised his telescope to the unexplored heavens.
“Where’s Paddy?”
Alone in the pool as daybreak relegated the far-off pinpoints to daytime obscurity, slowly outshining them, I let it all drift away. Soft light opened my eyes, and I laid on the rubber pad for a time wondering if the desert spirits had already taken hold of me. The sunrise flooded in, pushing the back the darkness and bathing everything on the ground in a most glorious golden luster.
My dream was a collection of emotions, a subconscious play, using the people, props and locations in my life – a constellation of distant experiences seen from a afar; loneliness, long ago and far away, in a land so sad I will not trouble you with its name. My childhood family and its sacrosanct unity, my wife and children immersed in the joy of our household, and my bleak estrangement when confronted with the ephemeral meaning of life were merged. In all, it was a composite sense-memory dream of being without spirit, without purpose, with emotional connotation alluding to rational denotation.
My life is an impossibly brief flash of awareness lost in the multi-billion year existence of the universe. And yet, there still needs to be a right and a wrong, some milk and bread, gas in the car, and a road ahead.
The thin groundpad did little to cushion my body during the night, leaving me with aching joints and a stiff spine. It took a moment to sit up, stretching as I rose; turning my head to free my neck cramp. Nocturnal animals had retreated to their cool habitations, and the daytime animals were reclaiming their province. I saw the rocky ridge before me had grown a tiny head. It stared in wonder, its black eyes fixed on me.
“Good morning, Mr. Squirrel I thought I was alone out here.”
I didn’t expect an answer, but the ground squirrel, scurried toward me, having set its fear aside for the possibility of a tourist-provided bit of food. He stood tall and looked about.
“You needn't stand up so tall.” Sit. Relax. We’ve got another day.”
Another day, that's how I see it. Each sunrise is a winning life-lottery ticket. We get through a day at a time, sleep through the night and, with luck, open our eyes to a new set of possibilities. That's why I'm here, in Mr. Squirrel’s home. He didn’t move, so I pursued a conversation.
“Do you dream?”
The furry sat, having done his due safety diligence.
“Did you too have an epic reverie last night?”
My visitor cocked his head as though he were thinking about how to answer.
I hadn’t thought much about it; squirrel dreams that is. When my sleeping dogs woofed and flipped their feet, my daughters said they were having puppy dreams: running in the park, scaring cats, or chasing squirrels. I’d laugh, imagining what our pet was experiencing, but now I was thinking seriously about the dreams a desert squirrel might have. Were they fearful dramas of escape from a predator, vigilant excursions into unfamiliar places, or indecipherable montages cobbled from daily encounters?
My dreams, usually nightmares, are bits and pieces of my life assembled in emotionally-charged character plays and otherworldly incidents. Somehow the chaos of existence is loaded in, bit by bit, only to be structured and set in a framework I can comprehend. At a very basic level, my innermost drives prompt emotions that bubble up into my subconscious dramas to play out in deep sleep. The logic of each is difficult to ascertain upon waking, but there is surely a message embedded in my mind’s production. Reality is a blend of chaos and order, so we need to examine a blend of both to fully breathe it all in. I suppose the simplest explanation is that dreams are a mechanism to consume chaos and sustain our sanity with a modicum of logic and order.
My desert search is an attempt to flood my mind with the chaos, then allow it to create order I can understand.
Why would this function be different for a squirrel? Its dreams may be less complicated, less narrative, and closer to its survival drives, but nonetheless helpful in behavior conditioning; preparing the creature to learn faster and respond quicker.
Perhaps this is a holy animal whose presence will enlighten me in my desert quest and reveal the wisdom of its existence in such a harsh environment. While Mr. Squirrel waited patiently, I went to my car to find something for his breakfast. In the glove compartment I found a half-eaten granola bar, peeled back the plastic covering, and turned toward him, holding it at arm’s length.
“I’ve got something you might enjoy. Breakfast, Buddy?”
The squirrel stared, his little black eyes focused on me. We were both holding still, and unsure of what might happen next. I was determined to hand this little guy more nutrition that he'd probably see in a week. He darted toward me, only a few feet away. He knew there was something he wanted in my hand. Rather than scaring him by walking closer, I took a knee and set oat bar on the ground. Another standoff.
His wariness reminded me of a revelation I had years ago. As a child I was always told that squirrels and other ground rodents were excited and happy that their darting and leaping and running were unrestrained joie de vivre. I was disappointed when I realized that their behavior was prompted by abject fear. Those little guys were gray and bushytailed and lived in the soffits of the tract homes where I grew up. They disappeared in the winter, sleeping through the cold and slowly living off stored body fat.
This squirrel lived a very different life; his home was an underground burrow deep below the hot surface, safe within his dark subsoil shelter when the temperature was intolerable.
Mr. Squirrel you have me at quite a disadvantage here, seeing as you’re home and I’m just passing through. I know you have friends over the ridge and possibly something in the bush eyeing you, figuring to make a meal of you. Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes I feel like there’s something on my trail, right around the corner, and there’s not much I can do about it. Despite knowing there is no one trailing me, there’s nobody around the corner, I still get the feeling there is and harm is near. That feeling takes over so completely; all the rational mind I apply to it I can’t dispel the gut-level notion things are going south. I guess that’s why I’m here, Buddy. Since I lost my brother, I suspect I’m next and wonder what my life is worth.
My friend scurried up to grab the granola bar. Two cautious sniffs later, he packed his cheeks with the sweet oats, almonds, wheat germ, and honey. The wrapper blew away on a soft ground breeze.
Holy animal. I understand this meeting only has a meaning I choose to ascribe to it. If it fits into the story I need to learn, it is an experience that moves me closer to discovering what I want to know. The more ways something can be proven right, the more likely it is to be true. It’s even possible for a misinterpretation to supply a correct solution. In this internal reality, I’m dealing with shades of meanings and assembling unfamiliar structures.
The squirrel took off into the brush and I packed up my things to leave.
I drove down from Joshua tree to the Palm Springs airport to pick up a friend who had asked to join me for part of the exploration. Originally I had wanted to travel alone, but this woman was part of a spiritual transformation I had started long before my brother died. Her name began with a N.
My marriage was disintegrating.
Laura and I reached an impasse in our relationship. Parenthood had become increasingly difficult with two young daughters. The demands we struggled to meet changed us; made us assume new, more restrictive roles and attitudes. Other parents have occasionally mentioned dealing with this problem, attempting to best it with counseling, controlled addiction to alcohol or pills, or divorce. I believe it’s relatively common problem. Growth is painful.
When I first saw Laura, it wasn't her sexy figure, her slinky `40's cocktail dress, her fiery long red hair, or her smile that made me freeze in my tracks and look deep. Her appearance spoke volumes to my heart and I fell into serious love, but it was her eyes that shook me. Not her sparkling hazel eyes themselves, but the lash line, waterline and under-eye. Here was a woman who laughed a lot and cried a lot. What more could a person want from a first glance? What attribute could further stir my curiosity to find out who she was? And, as I did come to know her, I pledged her my heart and soul to her, if she was enticed to have me, if she desired me.
We did not fall in love - we plunged into love.
Years later, after I had matured beyond being a madcap comedian in the San Francisco comedy scene to writing and directing films, television, and stage plays. Laura was no longer my wild-girl cohort; the Bagdad-by-the-Bay doll with a yen for love, life, and champagne. She was now a working mom with two young daughters and a corporate career that set her apart from her carefree, single friends.
We found ourselves firmly bound by the necessary maternal/paternal responsibilities and stresses. Most damaging was the emotional distance we felt growing between us; presumably a side-effect of losing the carefree romance we reveled in when we were newlyweds. We hadn’t grown together, we grew apart.
One day, Laura told me that our intimacy felt robotic and unsatisfying. That brought our half-hearted charade to a halt. I could tell she was seething within; enraged that I did not understand her alienation. I couldn’t understand the full impact of her change until I found myself resigned to a cold marriage, a joyless partnership, which was nothing less than emotional torture. Laura said if I wanted sex I should find another woman. At that moment, I felt as if I didn’t have a friend in the world. Hugging was painful.
Those were our days of regret… and heart-rending mistakes.
I met N through a mutual friend. She was a tall, blue-eyed, brilliant career woman who worked in publishing and lived alone. I found her to be enchanting. We became friends and one evening, while discussing our literary tastes, she mentioned one of my favorite authors. He was due to visit a Haight Asbury bookstore for a reading from his latest work later that week. She graciously offered to arrange for me to dine with him before the performance. I did, and had the opportunity to ask him all manner of questions about his experiences and prolific output.
During that meal, one of the author’s fans entered the restaurant and presented him with a guitar case as a gift. They whispered a bit, shook hands and the fan left hastily.
“You play?” I asked the author.
“Yes.”
Rather than explain, he opened the case just wide enough for me to take a quick look inside.
I saw an AK-47.
“Ah yes!” I said, “I’ve played with those, too. Years ago.”
We talked about Southeast Asia; Vietnam, Thailand, and the back streets of Bangkok where I had spent a week of rest and recuperation. The author had spent months there, writing a novel. Later, at the bookstore podium, the author made several observations about his Bangkok stay with quips he lifted directly from my comments over dinner. The crowd loved him and their post-read questions were reverent and astute. I watched from my stand-up comedian point-of-view; he killed… and he could write as well as anyone I had ever read. I need to write.
The dinner had been delightful, the reading was powerful, and, after the event ended, I thanked the author for breaking bread with me. We jabbered about a scheduling a future dinner knowing it would never be arranged. Such is the world of publishing, publicity, and fame.
N and I walked down Haight Street talking about the dinner and the event. She was electrifying; smart, funny, and sexy. We were quickly becoming attracted to each other, so we stopped into local bar for drinks and a chance to talk a bit more. I became excited by her charming self-confidence, alluring blue eyes and long, wavy blonde hair. The drinks took hold and we spent the next couple hours captivated by our flirtation.
I wanted to earn her affection. I wanted sex with her.
Over the weeks, we became closer friends and spent more time together. I was enchanted by her and it wasn’t long before our affections grew until we gave in to our desires and our relationship became intimate. This might have been predictable, but N was primarily Lesbian. Despite that, our lovemaking was spontaneous and uninhibited. There was no kissing or cuddling; just passionate sex. This suited us both and we became more licentious and libidinous.
My marriage was in crisis, N and I were having an affair, and casual, romantic affections seemed inappropriate.
Eventually, N and I did come to love each other but, sadly, our affections were out of sync during that year; we were not free from our other commitments. Despite the relationship’s rocky end, I’ve never stopped loving her. She is in my pantheon of goddesses.
I was with her when my brother died. Her apartment phone rang and she answered brightly, looked troubled and held the phone out toward me.
“It’s your wife.”
I took it and said, “Hi.”
“I just got a call from your sister.” Laura said. “Your brother Paddy had a motorcycle accident and he died on the way to the hospital. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.” I said. In my heart, I meant it as a humble apology for the awkwardness of her having to call me at N’s apartment. I knew Laura suffered that as a wound.
I hung up the phone and lost my self-control; tears flowed and I sobbed like a child. N put her arm around me and waited until I had composed myself.
“Go home.” she said, “You have responsibilities. We’ll talk when the time is right.”
I did as she said, and the following days were tumultuous.
Weeks later, still in shock over the loss, I mentioned my desert plans to N. She immediately wanted to be part of my journey. More than needing some time alone, I knew I might need her help if I became erratic. It was at this time that I felt the full force of her love.
“I’m planning on seven days, in two weeks; one day down, one back, and five exploring, looking for myself.”
“I’ll fly in to Palm Springs and meet you for the ride back here.” she said, “two, three days, tops. Okay?”
“Yeah. Wonderful.”
She continued “But there is a good chance I will be on my period then.”
Her wry smile said it all. I understood her acknowledgement and mocking tone.
“I don’t care.” I said, “I want you to be part of this.”
The trip was scheduled to coincide with a full moon so there would be some light for night photography. Later, I realized the moon was a significant element in a desert pilgrimage – in any pilgrimage. This would be an August Red Moon; a time of abundance, manifesting desires, sexuality, achievement, and protection.
The Goddess and Moon energy is at a peak; optimal for healing through spirituality. N’s menstruation was another piece of the developing mosaic; her cycle, the moon’s cycle and the unbroken cycle of life and death on the sandy frontier.
N would be in full aspect – astute, intuitive, and passionately sensual.
Just before noon, driving through Palm Springs, I saw how money and irrigation had transformed the desert into a lush, upscale oasis. Date palms lined the streets and everywhere that public land gave way to private, grass, bushes, and golf courses extended in every direction. The dark red mission roof tiles shared ground space with the watered greenery, further disguising the desert floor. Vast villas with outsized pools and manicured gardens were protected by development walls and gate houses. Behind these, people enjoy the sun from within air-conditioned houses and cars. They imposed themselves on the desert, ignoring the absurdity of their own wastefulness.
The sheer civilization energy took me out of my recent desert emotions. Once again, I was within the throng, caught up in the possessions and activities I had left up in Marin County. I remembered my highway brush with death and the death of Mr. Mouse …anything more than what he had right there, at that moment, is window-dressing and illusion.
N was standing in front of the Palm Springs Airport when I got there. Her hair shimmered in the sunshine and I saw her in a way I hadn’t until then; she was gorgeous and a thrill ran through my heart. It the entrance of the parking lot I stopped to regard her for a moment. In this woman, I saw myself once again a madcap comedian, unrestrained and full of possibility.
I knew it was a fantasy, but without that delusion, I was empty.
I’m cheating on my wife, who said she didn’t care if I took another lover, but my heart is torn by desire and mournful sadness, deep regret and lust, confusion and uneasiness. I have no idea how this will play out, but I do not have the will to backtrack and resist the change – regardless of how I will be shaped by the things to come. This is a fait accompli.
N saw me, peering over her sunglasses, and nodded. She strode through the lot, pulling her overnight case. I studied her expression; the half-smile, half smirk that disclosed her singular style of enjoying a situation. It was part of the reason I was fascinated by her; she mixed enthusiasm with mock scorn. We played at being fun-loving nitpickers, sham grumblers who made every comment a comedic set-up or punchline. Our comic banter was a perfect complement to our physical desires; intellectual intimacy and satisfaction. I was in love with her and our unorthodox union.
She opened the car door, “It’s fucking scorching!”
“It’s early. Don’t worry, it gets hotter.”
She tossed her case over the passenger seat and climbed in.
“Do you have air conditioning?”
“It’s on.” said,
Her eyes went wide. “Jesus.”
N was wearing a tan shirt and khaki shorts and her hair was pulled back into a long, wavy ponytail. She didn’t wear make-up. She never wore make-up when we were together. Her face was naturally beautiful. Our greeting was no more than leaning together to press our cheeks together for a moment. This sufficed, both aware that she would find a kiss unwelcome; too awkward. Our intimate pleasures and satisfaction were purely sex, not tender lovemaking. Buddies with favors, was how she described it. I eventually came to understand her unspoken rationale; if one never falls in love, one can’t be forsaken.
Once, she asked me if I wanted her to wear lipstick to a social event.
“No. Why? You’re beautiful.”
N wasn’t referring to a beauty enhancement. She wanted to know if I’d like her to appear more feminine, more heterosexual, as my partner. I didn’t. I knew who I was with and I was satisfied.
I kept looking at the side of her face as we drove out of Palm Springs on North Gene Autry Trail headed north on Highway 10 toward Barstow to retrace my path with her. On the way, I filled her in on what I had experienced so far. N looked at me and smiled. She understood what I was were looking for, and what I wanted from her. A long pause ensued.
“A notion is beginning to take shape.” I said to her.
“Or has already done so.” she replied, glancing down at my lap. “Do you want me?”
We stopped, well off the road, and struggled in our hot confinement.
- continued -
copyright © 2018
Martin Higgins
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