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Just a story. ...

They were in a rental car headed to a conference in Charlottesville. The driver, in her early 30s, was an assistant professor; he, about the same age, was her student. When it was learned that both had had their papers accepted for presentation, they agreed to share the expense of the rental car. The drive would take most of the hot day, and the air conditioner labored to keep the car cool. Where the sun struck his face and neck, it burned.

She was agitated for reasons he didn't understand. Or rather, he knew plenty of reasons but not which applied, now. She drove fast, aggressively, one handed, the other rubbing her neck. He had to fight the urge to push his hands forward when she tailgated or braked at the last instant to avoid hitting a car driving at the speed limit. If he thrust his arms up, she would take it as a criticism, and he didn't want the gestures he’d have to make to defuse the moment, or, rather, to get it filed away as another injustice.

"Fuck," she yelled, pounding on the steering wheel. He looked at her, a short, stocky woman with blonde hair cut in severe lines just under her ears. She was glaring at the rear view mirror, and when he twisted to see behind the car, he saw the flashing lights of the highway patrol. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She lurched the car, doing 85, onto the shoulder, and hit the brakes, hard. Now he did say, "Gently, don't make him have to slam on the brakes." As they came to a stop, he pulled out his wallet and got his driver's license. Then he opened the glove compartment and located the rental papers and insurance card. She sat rigid, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard her fingers had turned white. She didn't move until the patrolman rapped on her window. Muttering, she jerked a hand toward the window crank, prepared to turn it with the quick stabbing motions he’d seen her use in her own car. But the rented car had power windows and she had to sit there, rigid once again, while her index finger held down the button. That would be funny, he thought, if humor were allowed. Maybe later, with friends at the pub, and he could imagine himself telling the story, mimicking her gestures, working his face into a paroxysm of rage. He was quite good at that sort of thing, and he knew his friends would be appreciative. He pushed the thought away.

When the window was down, she continued to sit, staring straight ahead until the patrolman asked for her driver's license. She impatiently thrust a hand toward the student, and he leaned against the shoulder strap and retrieved her purse from the floorboard. He wished he wasn't there. Why had he agreed to travel with her? But he had had little choice. When in the department mailroom she asked if his paper was accepted, he nodded, knowing what was coming.

During the three weeks before the conference, he'd done his best to avoid her. If he saw her down a hallway, he darted into mailrooms, down other hallways, even into empty classrooms. It wasn't easy; twice a week he was in her seminar, and once the class met at her house. The topic had switched, somehow, from the subject of the course to feminism. The guys sat back and carefully avoided glancing at each other. The women leaned forward. After one of the students, a gentle and bright woman with whom most of the guys were a bit in love, made a point about how women had been silenced, the assistant professor said, "Yes, and now it's time for the men to shut up and listen." The men hadn’t said much anyway; they hadn’t the entire course. Now their silence was hostile. The student heard what they were not saying, what they would say to each other as they drove home. He was embarrassed for her, for himself.

Before the seminar, during the Christmas break, she had asked him to house sit while she went to Paris with her fiancé. He agreed out of reflex. Later, it occurred to him that he might get paid, and even a few bucks would make the effort worthwhile. For ten days he stayed in the small house she rented, far from his haunts near campus. He used her computer, made meals in her kitchen, slept in her bed. When he masturbated, he used a tissue to avoid staining her sheets. The only mishap: he almost scalded himself in her shower, she had the water heater set so high.

His only instruction concerned the cat: he was to open one of the many varieties of canned cat food she had in her shelves; if the cat didn't like what was offered, he was to open another. This was to continue until the cat ate.

He'd opened a can of Salmon Delight and placed it before the cat, a Persian named Winnie. The cat sniffed at the food, made a moue, and sat down a few feet away. It didn't look at him. He got down on the floor, moved the bowl closer to the cat, and, looking directly in its eyes, said, "That's dinner." The cat looked back, not moving. Enraged in a way he knew was unreasonable, he said, "Fine." And left. The cat did not eat the food, and that night, he threw it out. The cat, watching out of the corner of its eye as it groomed itself, sat and waited. He just stood there. Finally he went into the living room and read a book. On the second day, he opened a can of White Chicken Gourmet, left it in a bowl. He didn't wait to see if the cat ate it. That evening, he noticed half of the cat's dinner was gone. He left the rest until late that night, and then threw it out. This continued. He never gave the cat a choice. By the fifth day it was eating all of what was offered. He stroked the cat and said, "Good kitty."

The night before the assistant professor was to return, he put half of the remaining cans of cat food in a paper sack, walked a few dozen yards down the alley running behind the house, and threw the sack into an empty dumpster.

When she got back her eyes were red and her round cheeks were flushed. There'd been an argument; her fiancé left her luggage on the driveway and without a word got into his pick up and squealed out of the driveway. She ran back outside, crying, and looked down the road as her lover flashed his turn signal, came to a precise stop, and turned away. He followed her and stood by her, helpless. All his instincts told him to hug her, cradle her. He picked up some of her luggage and carried it inside. The cat sat next to its dinner bowl. She came in, struggling with armfuls of luggage and packages. She couldn't get the door opened. He opened it and took some of the packages. She let the rest drop onto the kitchen floor. Startled, the cat sprang away.

He didn't know what to do, so he picked up the packages and placed them on the kitchen counter. The luggage he took into the bedroom and placed on the bed. When he returned to the kitchen, she held a small box, wrapped in gold foil. She gave it to him. The sun shining through the window reflected off the foil into his eyes. He realized, I'm not going to be paid. She said, "Thanks for watching Winnie," and he said, "It was no trouble. You didn't have to ..." and he made a small gesture with the box. She said, "Open it," and a sob escaped from her chest, like a cough or hiccup.

He carefully unwrapped the gold foil. It was a box of expensive chocolates. A fleur-des-lis was stamped onto each one.

She sank to the linoleum and leaned against the front of the oven. She looked at him. She looked exhausted. He wanted to go home, but he had no car, and the bus didn't run on the weekend. He sat down beside her and said, "I'm sorry." She nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and she began to talk about the trip, what had gone wrong, the arguments they'd had, their conflicting expectations. Her fiancé, a muscular and handsome man, had flirted with a waitress at a cafe. One night he left the hotel and did not return until morning. Frantic with worry and jealousy, she had stayed up all night, and when he returned, stood with her hands on her hips and accused him of a litany of charges and failures. The student said nothing but stroked her shoulder.

He listened to her that day and evening, occasionally saying soothing words. She tried to call her fiancé -- or "ex-fiancé," as she referred to him once or twice, with bitterness. That night, realizing that she wasn't going to take him to his apartment, he offered to spend the night on the couch, so that she wouldn't have to drive in the dark. She agreed, and smiled at him, and he thought, good lord. She left him to take a hot bath, which she said was all that helped relieve her fibromyalgia, a condition she described in detail. It seemed to amount to joint and muscle aches with a bit of depression tossed in for good measure.

That night on the couch he woke from a dream about an unavailable woman he longed to pursue. The assistant professor was sitting on the floor beside him. "Is everything all right?" he asked, and she said, "Please hold me." He slid off the couch, pulling the blanket with him, and sat beside her, and she leaned against him, and placed her hand on his semi-erect cock. He was so shocked he didn’t react, even when she pulled the blanket off him and leaned over his lap.

Afterwards, he avoided her. When he did look into her eyes, they were cold and challenging. But when he heard that her mother had died, he mailed her a sympathy card. He didn’t want to take her seminar, but his other professors said he must. It was devoted to his particular field. Not to do so, they said, would be a slap in the face, and she had connections, sat on editorial boards. Only a few students were expected to take the seminar; she wasn’t a popular teacher and her field was rather esoteric. Don’t burn bridges, they said; don’t rock the boat. He felt sick. He was disappointed that his professors talked that way. His friends took another line. “She’s a stone cold bitch,” one said while they were getting drunk at a campus hangout. “No, she’s not,” he said. “She’s just scared and pissed. She might not get tenure. Besides, her fiancé fucked a waitress. Her mother just died. No one likes her.” His friend laughed: “But you like her.” He didn’t reply for awhile. The heavy metal over the loudspeakers hurt his head. “No,” he said, finally. “I really don’t.”

She gave her driver’s license to the patrolman. “I hope you made your quota,” she said. Her entire body was clenched. The patrolman looked at her driver’s license, then at her. Then he looked at the student. Finally, he took off his mirrored sunglasses and put them in his front shirt pocket. He grasped the window seal with both hands. His long fingers dangled inside the car. He leaned toward the assistant professor and said, with a cold sneer: “We don’t have quotas anymore. We can write as many tickets as we want.”

“You fucking asshole,” she screamed, and tried to slap the patrolman, but the student grabbed her arm. “Cool it!” he yelled at her. The patrolman backed away, one hand on his gun. He said to the patrolman, “It’s ok, it’s ok” but the patrolman was already yelling, “Get out of the car, now!” With her free hand, she pushed the button to roll up the window, but the patrolman reached inside, deftly unlocked the door, and yanked it open. “Get out, now!” he commanded. Holding the door open, he toggled the radio attached to his shirt and requested backup. The student yelled, “Calm down, just get out of the goddamn car and calm down.”

She was booked for resisting arrest. It was night by the time bail and been set and her parents had wired money. On his way back to the jail he stopped at a motel and rented a room. If they left early, they would arrive in Charlottesville in time to present their papers. When she came out of the holding area, she was trembling with anger. He followed her to car. “All I want,” she said, “is a hot bath.”

Rusted cars, dishwashers, refrigerators and other debris lay scattered on the other side of the old chain link fence that separated the motel and its parking lot from the junkyard beside it. The motel, a single-story strip of cracked cinderblock, had been painted bright rose, but time and weather had reduced it to a weak pink. The headlights of the rented car revealed these details, and he looked anxiously at her to see if she noticed. She had not. She had reclined the passenger seat as far as it would go, and leaned her head stiffly against the head rest. She kept her eyes closed through an effort of will, he thought, just as she clinched her thin lips. He pulled into a space in front of the room he had rented and quickly turned off the headlights.

“We’re here,” he said, softly, turning off the engine and unfastening his seatbelt. Her seatbelt, not having been drawn out far enough before she wrapped it around her chest and fastened it, bit into the flesh at her waist and just under her breasts. The vein on her temple was throbbing, her hair was a mess, and her left cheek was smudged with dirt. She didn’t open her eyes, so he continued looking at her. Now she reached up and massaged her neck. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her movement revealed a nipple inside her low-cut blouse. He quickly got out and retrieved their luggage from the trunk, which he set on the asphalt. He adjusted his erection before he slammed shut the trunk. She had gotten out of the car and was looking at the motel. He expected her to say it was a dump, but instead she picked up her luggage.

Inside were two beds, a double and a single, separated by a small table with a phone on top. Above the beds and table was a large seascape. The cream-colored walls had been freshly painted; the room looked better than he expected. He quickly set his luggage on the single bed, and reached for hers to set on the other, but she was already swinging her luggage onto the single. Then she turned and faced him.

“Thanks,” she said, “for …”

“It’s ok,” he said.

She quickly moved forward, pulled him into an embrace, and kissed him under his right ear. He reflexively returned the hug, gently, and began to release, but realized she was not finished. “I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she whispered. He continued the embrace, but lightly, his arms exerting the gentlest pressure he could manage. He discovered himself becoming aroused again, and was appalled at his body’s betrayal.

“Take a bath,” he said. “You’ve had a hard day.” He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away. He was angry because he felt trapped by his own desire. He knew his passivity was mistaken for acceptance. He didn’t think he was a coward, exactly, but he was afraid … of what? He wasn’t certain. She sat down on the double bed, the hopeful enquiry of a hesitant smile and upturned eyes struggling with the sudden suspicion of a contracted brow. He looked away.

“You go ahead and take a quick shower,” she said. “I want to find my girly bath things.”

The pulsating water overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and let it pound his face. He felt far from himself; the forceful but tingling sensation, the warm sensual massage, so immediate, somehow un-tethered him. Tension cascaded down his body, pooled at the drain, and swirled away. He thought of nothing. It was like deep sleep, a sleep without pestering dreams, a sleep without distorted and malevolent faces peering at him from the distance. When he returned to himself, he felt peaceful, and idly thought of her. She wasn’t bad looking. Now he rehearsed some fantasies. He would tell her they were friends, but he couldn’t be bounded, he was a free agent. Friends with benefits, he’d say, and in the shower he smirked. They’d make love and then he’d pat her on the cheek and roll over. Or he’d take her hard whenever he wanted, no rules, no restrictions, no tolerance for any of her nonsense. He wouldn’t be cruel, no, not cruel, but he wouldn’t take any crap either.

Finally, thoroughly relaxed, he scrubbed himself and washed his hair. After he dried off, he wrapped himself in a terry cloth bathrobe. Reaching for the doorknob, he realized, with a jolt of adrenaline, I used up all the hot water!

The doorknob glistened with condensation. He sensed her, in the bedroom, eyes fixed on the door, seething with rage.

He stood, paralyzed, his hand outstretched.

Hrrrrrrm. I read today that a movie based on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera will be released in November. Love as a romantic ideal or love as a debilitating illness -- the novel seems to have it both ways. It's hard to resist being seduced by Marquez's prose, even when you know you should. Much of the novel's power comes from the narrator's voice, which slides effortlessly back and forth through time. I assume the movie will rely upon extensive voice overs.

I find the novel irresistible, but I'll read the reviews before deciding whether to see the movie.

Update, Nov. 22: The reviews haven't been kind. I'm not certain if that makes me happy or sad.

She was either a high school student or a very young teacher. She was precise in every part, as if professonals had dressed her and applied her comestics. Everything sharp and crisp, every accessory perfectly color coordinated, every hair exactly placed, even the wisps that dangled with studied carelessness. Her base was smooth and natural; her lip and eye make-up perfect. If high schools had sororities, she would have been the leader of her chapter. The colors she wore on her face and body didn't matter; on another day other colors would have been as expertly marshalled.

Perched on a stool with a phone to her ear, she stopped talking when I walked into the copy room. She gave me a perfunctory smile, and turned away. I smiled a genuine smile to myself but stifled a chuckle. Someday she might grace the cover of a magazine I'd not buy. As I copied the handout I had prepared for class, she resumed talking with great animation. Over the rhythmic cha-chung, cha-chung of the machine, I heard the following:

"Yeah, can you believe it? He seemed like such a normal guy! But his father always was a perv! I know! Remember how he'd look at us when we went over? Ok, talk to you later!"

She hung up the phone and quickly dialed another number.

"Christy! Have you heard!?! Robbie got arrested for being a peeping Tom! Yeah! No, I'm not kidding. He put a ladder up against the Kinison's bathroom window and was watching Mrs. Kinison take a shower! I know! Who would have thought! He seemed like such a normal guy! The only clue -- remember his father? What a perv he was? How'd he check us out in our bathing suits? Yeah, I know! Must run in the family! Ok, see you later, bye!"

My task was done, but I couldn't resist making 50 more copies. She quickly dialed another number.

"Angie! Have you heard!?! ..." But now I couldn't help it. I started laughing. Not little chuckles but great guffaws. I had to lean against the copier, I was laughing so hard. She stopped talking and looked at me. I looked back and laughed. Flustered, she slammed down the phone and stormed out, her sharp movements breaking her precise lines. I liked her best, then.

Later, in my classes, I got a lot of mileage out of the incident.

Today I read,

She was in love with him because he was in love with her, and this enabled her to like herself.

Way back when, there were these silly Bud Light commercials. You know, some guy would be fumbling in the dark and he'd ask for a light and someone would hand him a flashlight and he'd say, "No, Bud Light."

I had an idea for a Bud Light commercial that could've made someone millions or at least been a juicy item on some ad exec's resume. Or hell, maybe it'd've led to boycotts. It starts with just a black screen, but you'd hear a heavenly choir slowly get louder and louder. Finally, when it crescendoed, a bright light would appear, explode in a blinding flash, and resolve into a large star. Then a God-voice would rumble, "No, Bud Light."

Irreverent, yeah, but I hate Bud Light, so there you go.

At the used bookstore a couple of days ago, I saw an attractive brunette dressed in some sort of stretchy black top and a black skirt with big white polka dots. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn, a bit, though not so skinny. We made eye contact, smiled, and went back to looking at books. She wandered off, so after a bit, I wandered in her direction, pretending to check out the best sellers. Finally I wandered off to revisit ancient history, and she wandered by. More eye contact. Then I wandered a bit looking for her and saw her at modern classics, so I squeezed by to see if any Rushdie's were in stock. Finally she paid for her books, and left, and I wondered, if, you know, and how do you know, and what the hell do I know, like that. I paid for my books, walked out the door, and saw her looking through the books on one of the cheap racks that'd been rolled outside. So I looked at some books on a nearby cheap rack. Then she headed to her car. It was in the same direction as mine, so I followed. She got into a little Toyota and drove off. I got in my car and followed, which isn't as weird as it sounds because there was only one exit from the parking lot. When I got closer, I saw a fish symbol on her bumper.

Here's 500 years of women in art -- in less than three minutes.

It just wasn't in the stars:

ORLANDO, Florida (Reuters) - Disguised in a dark wig, glasses and a trench coat, U.S. space shuttle astronaut Lisa Nowak waited in hiding for a woman she considered a rival for another astronaut's affections and tried to kidnap her, police in Orlando said on Monday.

We've shaped with modeling clay the main island. As my daughter will say in her report, Hawaii's volcanoes don't explode, they ooze. Over millions of years (fewer if you're a Creationist), they've oozed into respectable islands, with more on the way.

From my right eye oozes gunk, the result of a sty. If it were Halloween, I'd wear a pirate's eye patch, but it's January, so when I talk to folks I keep the bad eye away. It doesn't hurt, but as one medical site says, it is unsightly.

I've applied for a full-time teaching gig, a gig I really want. The vita, the cover letter, the application, the transcripts, all that -- the materials with which I shape myself into a serious candidate. The process is intense, the stakes high, and if taken seriously, transforming. We become what is sought. Hair cuts, fresh razors, and the cuts of suits are as important as stretching canvas or sustaining E flat.

After a year of emailing and phoning almost daily and half a year of incredible intimacy, the thing has flopped. What matters most? The similarities, the differences, the frame used to encompass similarities and differences? It all depends on what you want, and what you want to see. We shape what we want and hope it doesn't ooze away.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with poetry. When I come across a poem I like, I treasure it and return to it often. But I hate buying books by poets I don't know because I'm usually disappointed. So much of it is too damn precious, too ostentatiously literary, too obviously profound. And so I generally stick to the poetry of my friends or to what they recommend. My buddy Keith has shelves of poetry, and every now and then I pull down a slim volume and check it out -- and more often than not, bitch about it to Keith, who generally sighs and agrees with my assessment. Unrewarding, except then he'd pull down a volume of good stuff and I find a few more poems to add to my hoard. This system doesn't keep me up to date on hot new poets, but it does prevent wasting money.

Recently Keith pressed upon me some C.K. Williams, a poet he interviewed a decade or so ago, the results of which were published in The Paris Review. Holy shit -- what a neurotic son of a bitch, pained and funny, his long flowing lines full of self-destructive craziness; he immolates himself on the altar of his own paranoia. That so much of it struck home reveals more about me than I care to admit.

Consider "Politics" from his A Dream of Mind:

They're discussing the political situation they've been watching evolve
              in a faraway country.
He's debating intensely, almost lecturing, about fanaticism and religion,
              the betrayal of ideals.
He believes he's right, but even as he speaks he knows within himself
              that it's all incidental;
he doesn't really care that much, he just can't help himself, what he's
              really talking about
is the attraction that he feels she feels towards those dark and passionate
              young men
just now glowing on the screen with all the unimpeachable righteousness
              of the once-oppressed.
He says that just because they've been afflicted isn't proof against their
              lying and conniving.
What he means is that they're not, because she might find them virile,
              therefore virtuous.
He says that there are always forces we don't see that use these things for
              evil ends.
What he means is that he's afraid that she might turn from him towards
              someone suffering,
or, as possible, towards someone who'd share with similar conviction her
              abhorrence of suffering.
He means he's troubled by how sure she is, how her compassions are so
              woven into her identity.
Isn't the degree to which she's certain of her politics, hence of her rightness
              in the world,
the same degree to which she'd be potentially willing to risk herself, and
              him, and everything?
Also, should she wish to justify an action in her so firmly grounded socio-
              ethical system,
any action, concupiscence, promiscuity, orgy, wouldn't it not only let
              her but abet her?
Sometimes he feels her dialectics and her assurance are assertions of some
              ultimate availablity.
Does he really want someone so self-sufficient, who knows herself so
              well, knows so much?
In some ways, he thinks -- has he really come to this? -- he might want
              her knowing nothing.
No, not nothing, just ... a little less ... and with less fervor, greater
              pragmatism, realism.
More and more in love with her, touched by her, he still goes on, to his
              amazement, arguing.

When I was a dumb-as-shit 20-year-old trying to impress a long-haired beauty sitting next to me in News Writing 201, pontificating on Kerouac and the open road, striking righteous poses against cultural strictures, lauding free thinking and free love, I knew, oh agony, I didn't want free love, I wanted her.

At a dinner party or convivium, Romans, like the Greeks, reclined on divans, drank watered wine, ate delicacies, and passed the evening. What kind of evening depended upon how much water the host added to the wine -- quite a bit and good conversation was expected; just a bit and debauchery ensued. Getting an invitation to such a party often required persistence and skill. The first century Roman poet Marcus Valerius Martialis (known in English as Martial) expresses frustration at the invitation-leeches who frequented bath houses to waylaid potential hosts:

For hours, for a whole day, he'll sit
On the public lavatory seat,
Not because he needs a shit.
He wants to be asked out to eat.
       --Satire XI, 77

Guests ate with their fingers and brought their own napkins, often of excellent quality. The theft of these napkins by unscrupulous diners prompted complaints:

While everyone else is laughing & drinking
you extend
              a surreptitious claw,
Asinius,
              towards the table napkins
of the negligent ...
              an unattractive habit
you misguidedly think funny.
       --Catullus 12

Keep your eyes on his right hand, pinion his left,
and he'll still bring off a theft.
...
[He] never brings a napkin when he's asked to dine
but he always takes one home -- yours or mine.
       --- Martial, Satire XII, 8

Invitations to these dinner parties, especially when offered by the politically and socially elite, conferred status and honor, and in the case of young poets hungry for food and love, opportunity for gratification. But as Publius Ovidius Naso (Ovid) in Amores I.4 shows, frustration instead of gratification was just as likely:

Your husband? Going to the same dinner as us?
I hope it chokes him.

So I'm only to gaze at you, darling? Play gooseberry
while another man enjoys your touch?

You'll lie there snuggling up to him? He'll put his arm
round your neck whenever he wants?

No wonder Centarus fought over Hippodamia
when the wedding wine began to flow.

I don't live in the forest nor am I part horse
but I find it hard to keep my hands off you.

However here's my plan. Listen carefully.
Don't throw my words of wisdom to the winds.

Arrive before him -- not that I see what good
arriving first will do but arrive first all the same.

When he takes his place on the couch and you go to join him
looking angelic, secretly touch my foot.

Watch me for nods and looks that talk
and unobserved return my signals

in the language of eyebrows and fingers
with annotations in wine.

Whenever you think of our love-making
stroke that rosy cheek with your thumb.

If you're cross with me, darling,
press the lobe of your ear

but turn your ring round if you're pleased
with anything I say or do.

When you feel like cursing your fool of a husband
touch the table as if you were praying.

If he mixes you a drink, beware -- tell him to drink it himself,
then quietly ask the waiter for what you want.

I'll intercept the glass as you hand it back
and drink from the side you drank from.

Refuse all food he has tasted first --
it has touched his lips.

Don't lean your gentle head against his shoulder
and don't let him embrace you

or slide a hand inside your dress
or touch your breasts. Above all don't kiss him.

If you do I'll cause a public scandal,
grab you and claim possession.

I'm bound to see all this. It's what I shan't see
that worries me -- the goings on under your cloak.

Don't press your thigh or your leg against his
or touch his coarse feet with your toes.

I know all the tricks. That's why I'm worried.
I hate to think of him doing what I've done.

We've often made love under your cloak, sweetheart,
in a glorious race against time.

You won't do that, I know. Still,
to avoid all doubt don't wear one.

Encourage him to drink but mind -- no kisses.
Keep filling his glass when he's not looking.

If the wine's too much for him and he drops off
we can take our cue from what's going on around us.

When you get up to leave and we all follow,
move to the middle of the crowd.

You'll find me there -- or I'll find you
so touch me anywhere you can.

But what's the good? I'm only temporizing.
Tonight decrees our separation.

Tonight he'll lock you in and leave me
desolated at your door.

Then he'll kiss you, then go further,
forcing his right to our secret joy.

But you can show him you're acting under duress.
Be mean with your love -- give grudgingly -- in silence.

He won't enjoy it if my prayers are answered.
And if they're not, at least assure me you won't.

But whatever happens tonight tell me tomorrow
you didn't sleep with him -- and stick to that story.

Pure fiction, this is.

Of the many romantic misadventures through which I’ve careened, none is as compressed as my infatuation with Doodle. Doodle! I never knew her real name; everyone on Fry Street simply called her Doodle, often as part of a phrase uttered after a deep sigh: “I’d love to diddle Doodle.”

In a town of fantastic musicians, Doodle’s folksy singing and guitar strumming didn’t excite us. Agents didn’t hear her demo and rush to sign her. It wasn’t her music that made Doodle special.

Doodle had an aura, a presence, that made men stammer and women glower.

***

We first saw her as we were walking back from Mr. Chopsticks. Troy prepped food, cleared tables, scrubbed woks at the small Chinese restaurant a few yards from Fry Street. I don’t remember what we were talking about, perhaps books, music, or girls, but suddenly we nudged each other. A couple, a tall lanky woman and a fit, muscular guy with natty dreads, was headed in our direction. We noticed the dreads later; our attention was fixed on the woman.

It is impossible for a description to do her justice. She had long dark hair, long limbs, a shy smile, vulnerable dark eyes; she was wearing frayed jeans and a holey but clean tie-dyed T-shirt. Through the holes you caught tantalizing glimpses of her breasts. She wore no makeup, no bra; in truth she was one of those natural beauties whom artificial enhancements only cheapen. More than all this, though, she glowed with something kind and warm and a bit crazy.

I glanced at Troy. His eyes were shining. Troy’s eyes always shine when he sees an attractive woman. His face lights up, he positively glows, and his voice thickens. It’s not something he does deliberately; there is no deception here. Beautiful women are gateways.

Sometime ago, Troy asked me to write a script based on Denton adventures. I got distracted by bills, teaching, other misadventures, but did scrawl down this:

In slow motion DOODLE walks toward us. She is knock-out beautiful, a natural beauty, no make up, a smile on her face; she is tall and lanky, her hair dark and long. She glows. She is dressed in old jeans and a holey T-shirt. Flashes of skin, of breasts. She is not wearing a bra. Walking next to her is her husband, MARK, also dressed in old jeans and T-shirt. MARK’s blond hair is in dreadlocks. He is fit and muscular, but not overly so. They look happy.

FADE

We considered ourselves connoisseurs of women. Not because we were Casanovas or Don Juans; we weren’t lady killers though a few had done a number on us. But from the balcony of the big white house on Fry we had idled many hours watching the co-eds head to and from class. We’d roll up a big fatty, position our lawn chairs far enough from the edge that we probably wouldn’t fall over, light up, and engage in fantastic discussions of philosophy, literature, music, discussions punctuated by pauses and trenchant comment whenever walked by a particularly noteworthy co-ed. Enclosed by a profusion of oak leaves, we had a clear view of the street below, but no one looking up was likely to see us through the green abundance. We were the lords of Fry.

Summers in Texas are hot, humid, and the one old air-conditioner in the apartment I shared with an avant-garde artist in the big white house barely cooled one room, let alone mine. So we threw open the windows, pinned the sheets that served as curtains to one side, and draped wet towels on makeshift supports before fans. We sweated, got stoned, cranked loud reggae and Frank Zappa, Ten Hands and Red Hot Chili Peppers. When it got too hot, we took refuge in Jim’s Diner across the street, read books and newspapers, played chess, had our long hair braided by hippie chicks in peasant dresses.

It didn’t take long for the word to get out. “Have you seen …” the guys would start to ask; “Yes,” we’d interrupt, and sigh. Jim’s Diner, smack dab in the middle of the street scene, was information central. Two doors down the used book store hosted weekly poetry readings, a few doors up The Corkscrew supplied alcohol and soda, across the street the Delta’s hosted live bands in their back yard. Nothing happened without word going through Jim’s, and Doodle was a happening.

A day or two later, while sitting on the verandah of the big white house, Troy and I saw her again – and the effect on the street was immediate. Heads turned as she strolled by, she was a ship breaking water, waves spread out behind her as she moved; it would have been comical to us, sitting above it all, watching her and her effect on those around her, if we weren’t also affected. We didn’t say a word until she turned the corner and left our sight. “Good god,” I said. “Amen,” Troy said. And we sat, silently, for awhile.

To be continued.

I dare not ask a kisse;
       I dare not beg a smile;
Lest having that, or this,
       I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share
       Of my desire, shall be
Onely to kisse that Aire,
       That lately kissed thee.

              --Robert Herrick, H-663.

By applying game theory and a heavy dose of mathematics, two researchers for The Royal Society attempted to discover the optimum strategy to win, euphemistically speaking, a woman's heart. It should be no surprise that we are speaking about an economic transaction, one with peril for both sides. The male seeks to mate with an attractive female; the women seeks to mate with an attractive male who will not desert her after mating. The mathematical model created by the researchers assumes that the male is interested in spreading his seed and that the female is interested in receiving assistance raising children.

Gift giving by the male is the primary tactic, one for which a negative outcome is experienced if the female accepts the gift but declines sex. A positive outcome, of course, is one in which the tactic works. After being paid off with sex, the male then must decide whether to stay or desert. If he finds the female attractive, he is likely to stay; if not, he is likely to desert.

For the female, she has to decide whether to accept the gift. After that choice, she then decides whether to mate. There are several possible outcomes. She could refuse the gift but then decide to mate (unlikely); accept the gift but refuse to mate; or accept the gift and decide to mate. Her decision is based on a combination of two factors: whether she finds the male attractive and what she preceives as the value of the gift because an expensive gift is more likely to indicate the male is attracted to her (and thus not as likely to desert) as an inexpensive gift. The optimum outcome for the female is to mate with an attractive male who does not desert her. If she overestimates her attractiveness to the attractive male, he is likely to take the short term payoff (i.e., sex), but desert her afterwards. To successfully play this game, the female must be able to read the male accurately. If she mates with an unattractive male who does not desert her, then she may have to forego possible mating opportunites with attractive males in the future (in practice, however, it is common for both males and females to "trade up" when the opportunity presents itself; the model used by the researchers clearly does not cover all possibilities).

It turns out the optimum strategy for the male is to offer an expensive gift that cannot be converted to cash. This helps eliminates the possibility of gold diggers, i.e., those who accept the gift but have no intention of mating. An expensive gift impresses the women (in terms of economic status and in terms of his perceived attraction to her), and if she finds the male attractive, she is likely to mate. Of course, even if she does not find the male attractive, she may decide to mate based on the value of the gift. But by eliminating the possibility that the women can convert the gift to cash, the male weeds out females who do not find him attractive and thus are less likely to mate.

In short, the male's best tactic is to take the women to a fine restaurant, or something similar. Giving jewelry is a poor substitute. Costly but worthless gifts are the way to go.

Here is The Royal Society article.

Bear in mind that this research cannot cover all possibilities; it rests upon assumptions that may be generally valid but canot account for all observed behaviors, such as a male not deserting an unattractive female or a female who, after being assured her partner will take responsibility for raising her children, deserts him in order to mate with a more attractive male.

That last post got a bit heavy, so just for fun, check out Suicide Girls. Hot, pierced, naked, tattoo'd women, all with attitude. Great to look at, fun to talk to, terrible to date -- thank god for the internet. Damned silly, but mucho entertaining. You can also read their blogs, but the poor grammar and sheer vapidity are depressing. I recommend sticking to the pictures.

Please read Jamaica I first.

I call the Jamaicans natives, but that’s not strictly true. Most are descendents of slaves imported by the British. The original inhabitants, the Arawak Amerindians, were killed off by the Spanish, who introduced slavery, hard labor, and European diseases. By the end of the 16th Century, the Arawaks were dead. In the middle of the 17th Century, a British expedition, having failed to take present day Haiti and the Dominican Republic, descended on Jamaica. Slaves were imported to work the sugar, coffee, and cocoa plantations. A bloody series of slave rebellions finally culminated in the 1831 Christmas rebellion, in which up to 20,000 slaves razed plantations and killed planters. Tricked into laying down arms by promises of abolition, 400 slaves were publicly hanged and many hundreds more publicly whipped. The Jamaican Parliament finally abolished slavery in 1834. In 1962, Jamaica received full independence from the British Commonwealth, but of course that was not the end of Jamaica’s troubles.

Anyway, as we sat on the beach frying in the sun, Jamaicans would approach carrying baskets of Red Stripe – one dollar, and a Jamaican one at that, would get you a warm beer. I drank several.

By the time we left, I was in real pain. My back was on fire, the very weight of the cotton shirt I wore was excruciating. Celia rubbed lotion on me, which helped, but it still hurt like hell, the worse sunburn I’d ever had. Still, there was nothing for it, and after I carefully put on another shirt, we set out to meet my young Jamaican contact at the beachfront restaurant.

He said to meet him as the sun went down, but I had been on the island long enough to learn that the Jamaican concept of time bore little resemblance to the American. If a Jamaican says he will meet you in an hour, he really means in two or three. He will show up, eventually; it’s a code of honor or something, but if you have a bent for punctuality, Jamaica will drive you nuts. Time runs slower, no one rushes, things get done, but later. Relax.

The sun had set by the time we arrived and ordered our drinks. We sat on a deck a few feet above the surf. A cool breeze ruffled the palm fronds above us. After a while, the young Jamaican arrived and launched into his pitch. An entrepreneur, he proposed an arrangement by which I would send him several hundred dollars a month and he would mail me shipments of ganja. He insisted that he was going somewhere, that he was going to get an education; he planned to go to university in the States. All ganja profits for a noble cause. Of course, there was no way I was going to agree to any such thing, and I raised the usual objections, not the least of which was that I didn’t want to go to jail. Then I asked about the quality.

He pulled from his pants an enormous plastic bag, one of those industrial-sized things suited for haunches of frozen meat. Inside the bag was a branch of ganja, the largest I’ve seen to this day, very pungent, covered with red hairs, worthy of a High Times centerfold. It made me forget my sunburn. My eyes widened and I gasped. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I said; I remember the incident vividly. I got reflective. “How can this be mailed safely?”

“No problem,” he said, and then described the process by which ganja is woven into the baskets many tourists buy and take home. I remembered the custom agents at the Kingston airport closely examining baskets, and gave up on the idea. But the ganja was so beautiful. What could I get for $5?

From the branch he broke off a twig, perhaps two fingers in width, and handed it to me. I apologized, sincerely, for resisting his scheme, and he shrugged, pushed the ganja down his pants, and left. We paid our bill and I headed back to the room, practically dragging Celia in my wake. Along the way we passed a young Anglo couple embracing in the street. “How nice,” Celia said, “to be in Jamaica with a lover.” “Yeah,” I said, thinking longingly of the red-haired beauty in my pocket. My sunburn still hurt like hell, and I’d learned to keep my back straight as possible to prevent my shirt from rubbing unduly.

Back in the room, I got out my tiny bong, loaded up a hit, and took a long drag. Halfway through the hit, I realized that I was in for it, that I was already as stoned as I’d ever been in my life. Later in the '80s I’d encounter some weed as good, but that was several years off. After I finished the hit, I realized my sunburn didn’t hurt anymore. Stretching my arms, I could feel my damaged skin tighten and resist, but there was no pain. It was the first time I experienced the anesthetic qualities of good marijuana.

I could barely stand, and fell back on my bed and closed my eyes. “Is that it?” Celia screamed, furious. Through the fog, I asked her if she wanted a hit, too, but I knew that what she wanted couldn’t be burned in a bong. She jumped onto the bed, cursing. I suppose it may be my Southern Baptist upbringing, but I hesitate to describe what occurred next. It was surreal. I was so stoned I could barely think. I remember making at least one feeble gesture of resistance, but I also remember thinking, all I have to do is just lie here and not move. During the entire sad and pathetic encounter she bitterly berated me, asking variations of “Why the hell did you think I invited you on this trip?”

Honestly, I hadn’t thought much of it; I just thought she wanted some company. In retrospect I know I was terribly naïve, but a certain type of guy learns through hard experience the perils of interpreting what may or may not be flirtation, and most of my previous encounters had literally consisted of being grabbed, shoved into a car, and taken home. Anything less than that, I just couldn’t be sure. It sounds comedic, and it is, but it’s also the sad truth.

When it was over, I sat stunned on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed and more than a little frightened. I hadn’t seen her so angry before, so fatalistically aggressive, and frankly I was at a loss for words. Finally she got up and lay down on her own bed. I fell back into sleep. What I dreamed I don’t remember.

Obviously, the nature of the trip changed, and I counted the days until the return home. We’d been there a week and were leaving in three days. After waking up and seeing her watching me, I felt a surge of … I don’t know. I hate to call it pity, but it was something like that. I didn’t love her, I wasn’t attracted to her, my heart belonged to another back in the States, but I hated to see her suffer, I wanted to comfort her. I can’t really explain it except to say that people get involved with each other for a host of reasons, only a couple of which are love and desire. There was only one way I could make her feel better, and I won’t deny that part of the calculation involved selfishness, but mostly my heart was breaking for the sadness of it all. I decided to go along with it, for now.

That morning we said goodbye to Mama and hopped on a bus to Montego Bay, or Mo Bay. One couple planned to fly out that day, and they offered me a considerable bag of pot. I looked at it, shrugged, and said no thanks. On an island of great pot, good pot is just weed. I was to turn down several other offers from departing tourists. When I left, I gave what remained of my pot away, but only after I was assured the lucky recipient appreciated the gift. In Mo Bay we met Danny, who had found inexpensive lodgings for us not far from the beach. Whitewashed arches separated the rooms of the boarding house, and a basket of fruit sat on a table before a mirror. In Kingston we had seen a few Rastafarians in with their distinct dreadlocks and clothing, but not to the extent we saw in Mo Bay. As we’d walk down a street, close behind some young women, a Rastafarian or two would walk on the other side of the road, a few paces back. Danny said they were just keeping everything cool.

Although there is much to admire in Jamaica, it does have a chauvinistic culture. It led the Rastafarians to be protective of their women when foreigners were around, but it also relegated women to second-class status. Women typically walked a few paces behind their men. When we had first arrived, Danny warned us that I should do most of the dealing with Jamaicans, that although tourist women were given greater latitude than Jamaican women, it was prudent to be respectful of Jamaican customs.

At some point after arriving in Mo Bay, Celia and Danny went off and left me in a small bar drinking Red Stripes. In another room, a reggae band played Peter Tosh tunes, and behind the counter the barkeep rolled a huge spiff. The cultivation and use of marijuana was and is illegal in Jamaica, but ganja is such a part of the culture that open smoking was common. Near Negril I had seen two Jamaican cops sitting in a car, passing a joint. Danny said that occasionally a grower or seller might get busted but that tourists were safe. No one wanted to drive away the money.

After a bit, Danny came back by himself and ordered a beer. He said little, and when I made an innocuous observation, he rolled his eyes and said, “Of course.” I knew he had expected to sleep with Celia before we left, and now he was disappointed. He was a few years older than me, and I knew he didn’t care in any meaningful way for Celia, so I shrugged it off. It was awkward, so eventually I headed back to the room. Celia was there, eyes shining, and launched into an account of her discussion with Danny, who, she said, thought I was a good guy for her, that we made a good couple.

I was noncommittal and loaded up the bong. Celia was desperately amorous; the kind of desperation that comes when you know what you have could be gone in a flash. The next few days were eventful – we danced in open air halls to island music, often punctuated with the dulcimer-tones of steel drums made from old U.S. supply barrels. We sat in little shacks up in the jungle and drank Red Stripe and watched hard-fought domino games. Danny left the day after we arrived in Mo Bay. He managed to be gracious but clearly was pissed. There was nothing I could say, so I didn’t even try.

We arrived in Jamaica with little money. Staying out of tourist areas saved some money, but by the last day we were broke. I traded the touring cap I had worn most of my stay, a silly little corduroy cap I bought to tool around in my parent’s MG Midget, for a ride to the airport. Danny had said that if we ran out of cash, offer T-shirts, jeans, any clothing, and someone would gladly barter with us. The cab driver clearly thought he got the best of it, and proudly donned the cap the instant I gave it to him.

At the airport, custom agents thoroughly examined our luggage, and, again, I saw agents intently fingering the fiber in the baskets many tourists were taking home. I may be clueless in many ways, but I knew better than to take ganja out of Jamaica. I was sad to go. The island and its people had a huge effect on me. It was a paradise, but one which was becoming corrupted. For the most part, Celia and I had lived among the Jamaicans, but really the island, even then, was torn in two. Huge resorts line the beaches, and most Jamaicans, it seemed, relied on the tourism industry to feed themselves and their families. And the violence that erupted on the island leading up to the 1980 elections, the remnants of which I’d seen in the political graffiti in Kingston, lay just under the surface. Although I saw no violence, and was never threatened, I could feel the hostility, the class warfare, bubbling underneath. It’s no accident that reggae is the music of rebellion. For all that, though, there is love and warmth, generosity and kindness on the island. The people seemed to me to be inherently peaceful, and in a perfect world, the CIA wouldn’t try to topple its government, the corrupt rich wouldn’t exploit their labor, Americans and Europeans wouldn’t use their land and bodies as a vacation pastime, they wouldn’t be the descendents of slaves.

The thing with Celia lasted a few more weeks. Both of us wanted to keep the affair quiet. She was a graduate assistant concerned about her reputation, and I didn’t want the woman I loved to know what I’d done and was doing. My Nifty colleague says I’m the only guy he knows who can feel guilty for “cheating” on someone he’s not dating. Whatever. The truth is, I was embarrassed by the whole sorry mess. I finally ended it in a terrible way. I vanished, ignored the notes shoved through the letter slot, avoided situations where I might see her. A few months later she was married.

Epilogue. My world-traveling friend says she’s heard from fellow travelers that Jamaica isn’t what it used to be. Tourists now stay within resorts bounded by concertina wire; they must be protected from the island’s inhabitants. I hear on National Public Radio that American rap has influenced reggae; that instead of “one world” or “stand up for your rights,” now the lyrics boast of killing homosexuals and beating women. According to the CIA World Fact Book, civil unrest and gang violence are on the rise.

A friend recently visited Costa Rica and wrote me of her impressions. It reminded me in some ways of a trip to Jamaica I took more than 20 years ago. It's a story I've never told completely, but one worth the telling, I think. Anyway, treat this as a fictional account.

I thought afterwards that I should write something for the travel section of The Dallas Morning News or The Dallas Times-Herald (now defunct, alas), but the real story is not suited for a standard newspaper or magazine article. In 1983 I was an editorial page editor on the NTSU campus newspaper (and would be editor of the paper in fall 1984). One of the journalism graduate assistants was planning a trip to Jamaica before the fall semester and asked if I wanted to go. For some reason the airline ticket was very cheap, and I guess we didn't have to have a visa -- anyway, I somehow had the cash, maybe student loan money. So I agreed to go.

She had a friend in the Peace Corps stationed in Jamaica; he was going to see that we got cheap lodgings. I can't remember his name, though I still have a picture of him. I'm going to call him Danny and the graduate assistant Celia; years later I would play correspondence chess with her husband, whom she met and married shortly after the trip. She was an acquaintance, had a bit of a temper, but frankly wasn't my type. I mention that only because it's relevant to the story.

Anyway, we landed at Kingston and were met at the airport by her Peace Corps friend. I remember watching custom agents closely examine a bunch of baskets someone was trying to take out of the country. We got on a rickety bus and headed into Kingston. I remember driving by lots of really depressing slums, the buildings of which were covered with political graffiti. I was assured, though, that there shouldn't be any trouble because it was an off year, electionwise, but also was told that we shouldn't remain in Kingston long, that if there was a dangerous area on the island, Kingston was it.

Danny had arranged with the former mayor of Kingston to let us have his apartment for the night in return for letting him exchange our American currency for Jamaican (he gave us a better rate than the banks but not as good as we could get on the streets). Anyway, it was a nice apartment -- nothing really fancy and a bit small, but clean and attractive. After the ex-mayor left, Danny pulled out some weed, apologizing for the quality. Back then I was sooooooooo much different than now, and eagerly got stoned.

Then he took us out into Kingston to have a couple of beers -- I'm guessing he didn't take us to the real slums, but it was a section of town with clapboard little shacks. We went into one, passed a bunch of old Jamaican men sitting at a table, and into another room. Everything was of wood and in disrepair, gaps in the walls and all that. Anyway, we sat at a small table and drank warm Red Stripes (I was to learn that many "establishments" in Jamaica didn't have electricity). I think lighting was provided by a kerosene lamp. By this time -- what with the weed and the beer -- I was pretty blasted. Then I started hearing these loud, sharp reports, and I knew it was gunfire. I felt very far from civilization, wondering how the hell I ever got into this situation.

I realized that all I could do was remain cool and hope someone didn't break in and shoot us all. The gunfire continued the entire time we were in the room. When we left, we passed the old men again, who now were playing dominoes. Whenever one of them had a good play, he'd jump out of his chair, do a little jig, and slam the domino on the table. Of course, that was the loud sharp report I'd mistaken for gunfire. I was to learn that dominoes are a national pastime.

Celia and I shared a bedroom in the ex-mayor's apartment. It had bunk beds, and before I passed out from the weed and Red Stripes and nervous exhaustion, I remember her crawling down off the top bunk and sitting on the edge of my bed (it only occurred to me now why she insisted I take the bottom bunk).

In the morning I was woken by a street vendor selling coconuts and tropical fruit (he had some short expression he'd yell as he pushed his cart down the street -- I wish I could remember what it was). We stayed in Kingston a couple of days, saw the government buildings, ate the local cuisine -- lots of West Indies spices, lots of curry, plain rice supplementing every meal. I loved the food, for the most part. Encircling part of Kingston are large hills upon which are the beautiful and elegant homes of the wealthy or politically connected. Down below, of course, was much poverty. It reminds me now of Akira Kurosawa's High and Low. Somehow Danny got us invited to a party in one of these houses. It was beautiful -- gorgeous white-washed little villas on a tropical mountain overlooking Kingston and the ocean. It was there I encountered my first Euro-trash, vapid, wealthy beautiful people disadvantaged by having the spoils handed to them. There were other cool people -- ah now I remember, it was a party for Peace Corps volunteers, so in addition to the Euro-trash there were lot of young idealistic people. I wish I remembered more details.

From Kingston we took an old battered bus up into the mountains, where Danny taught at a boys’ school. Along the way we picked up lots of people, most carrying something: chickens in wire cages, bushels of fruit, whatever. Soon the bus was packed. Small boards folded down from the right side of all the seats; these allowed passengers to sit in the aisle. So there were five people sitting shoulder to shoulder on each row of the bus. It was sweltering humanity, an assault on the senses and American notions of personal space. Behind everything was the music – reggae, usually – blaring over the radio, over radios across the island. It wasn’t all island music, though – whenever Men at Work’s “The Land Down Under” played, the passengers would yell, “Turn it up.” I guess they liked the notion that an Australian pop band was using reggae beats.

Whenever the bus approached a shack or two, people would run out with baskets of fruit to sell to the passengers through the window. The bus practically careened around the sudden turns of the mountain road, which had patches of asphalt but was mostly packed dirt. As he barreled around the turns, the driver would honk his horn, warning anyone coming to get out the way. There wasn’t much way to go; the road was just large enough for one vehicle; two could squeeze by, I guess, if the drivers were careful. Anyway, I was glad when we got to the school. Every bus trip we took in Jamaica was much the same.

The school was in center Jamaica, both in width and breadth. We had a little guest house; Danny had a room in the dorm. All the boys wore uniforms, white shirts with black slacks and ties. If I had to guess, I’d say they ranged in age from 8-9 to 14-15. While there, I spoke in front of a class about American journalism. (I have a picture of that, somewhere.) I’d like to describe the school a bit more, but in the 20 years my memory has faded a bit. Here are some impressions: white walls, courtyard laid with large stones, wooden construction, jungle intruding everywhere. Everything was very clean, and though you could tell the people were poor, no one was starving. (This was true of the entire island – lots of poverty, no starvation and little malnutrition – when you can just reach up and grab fruit off the trees, no one goes hungry.) We stayed for several days. At lunch, I remember we ate along with the boys and teachers curried ox tail. It wasn’t bad.

The evening we arrived, Danny took us down a little dirt road to a single shack. Off to the side was a slab of concrete, jutting straight out of the ground. I eventually figured out it was the urinal. It was a "rum shack," and similar ones were scattered all across the island. You could get warm Red Stripe or rum; you set your drink on a board running across three walls of the tiny shack. Everyone stood; there were no chairs. There were no women except for Celia. In this shack, Danny took out his guitar and played a reggae version of “The Green, Green Grass of Home,” except he changed the lyrics throughout; the chorus was “The green, green home of grass.” They loved it, and when a Jamaican loves a new song, he will stop the musician and make him start over, sometimes many times. Of course they were learning the song. All during my stay I heard reggae – everything was reggae-fied, Broadway show tunes, pop songs, Roger Miller’s “King of the Road."

The guest house had two bedrooms separated by a short wide hall. Lots of jungle flowers and vines everywhere. The first night, Celia spent with Danny, which was fine with me because I’d started to have a nagging suspicion. Afterwards she slept in one of the guest house bedrooms, and again sat on the edge of my bed after I had blasted myself with fine Jamaican weed. For two or three days we lived at the school, met the teachers and boys, shared meals, explored the area. Then Celia and I hopped on a bus and headed to Negril. Danny had given us the name and “address” of “Mama,” who ran a little guesthouse up in the hills above the beach, a good distance from any resorts. The address and directions we got from Danny were 1) get off the bus, and 2) ask for Mama’s place. He also gave us a baggie of pot, again apologizing for the quality, some papers, and a small bong. I thought he was being modest about the pot.

After careening through more sharp mountain turns, we arrived in Negril, or at least a small village near by. During the trip, I talked with older, silver-haired women from America who had lived in Jamaica for years. She pointed to a group of young Jamaicans playing cricket and said, “Aren’t those picknies cute?”

The small village was off the general tourist path, but we started to see more Americans, usually young people carrying backpacks. We asked for Mama and were pointed to a small dirt road heading up into the hills. The market of the village was busy, and here we exchanged the rest of our American currency for Jamaican. Jamaican men would stand in the market carrying thick wads of Jamaican bills. Whenever they’d see a foreigner, they approach and offer an exchange rate, usually much much better than you could get from the banks. The natives offered much more, besides. A young boy approached me and asked, “Coke?” I shook my head and held up the drink in my hand. The boy laughed and pulled out a small tin foil pouch – I got it then, and shook my head. I was offered weed many times, but I always declined because Danny had plenty. Now I was curious, and eventually a teen-age young man persuaded me to meet him at a small restaurant on the beach that evening.

The whole time I was in Jamaica I never heard an angry word uttered at a foreigner, except once. Whenever you’d walk through a market, the natives, sitting on small rugs and surrounded by whatever knick-knacks they were selling – often sea shells, baskets, fruit, would call at you, trying to get your attention. One large, burly Jamaican said, “Hey whitey!” That was the only offensive term I heard directed at foreigners, if the term could be said to be offensive. Something else interesting – I had been hesitant about exchanging money outside of a bank, but Danny assured me that Jamaicans were honest. If anyone ever did steal anything from me, all I had to do, he said, was yell “Teeth!” and everyone in the village would chase the thief down and beat him with clubs. Honesty, like reggae and dominoes and cricket, seemed to be part of the national psyche.

Mama’s place was a clean, long, whitewashed building cut into various rooms. Mama was a small, elderly, very kind woman who knew Danny and was pleased by his reference. She gave us some business cards, which I believe I still have, buried somewhere. The room really was just a room, not large, not small, with two beds and a tiny closet containing a toilet and shower. Indoor plumping indicated Mama was doing all right. Everything was going fine, though for some reason Celia was becoming more and more surly, dropping cryptic and embittered comments all the time. I was 90 percent puzzled and 10 percent anxious.

After we checked in, we changed into swimming clothes and headed to the beach. White and blue, white sand and a few fluffy white clouds, blue ocean and sky -- postcard beautiful, cliche pretty. Because of my Scottish heritage, I have pale skin, lots of freckles, and a low tolerance for the sun. The August Jamaican sun is furious in its intensity; its rays hit you with physical force. Until now, I kept covered up fearing sun burns. But now I was in swim trunks and playing in the surf. Celia kept applying sunscreen to my shoulders and back, but I couldn't sit still longer than a few minutes before I'd head back in the water and wash all the lotion off.

Further up the beach was a resort. We could see Anglos frolicking in the water; on the beach were thatched huts, wicker tables, servants carrying drinks. On the shoulders of one balding, fat, middle-age guy was a beautiful, young, topless Jamaican girl. It wasn't the first time I'd seen tourists frolicking with the natives. The day before I saw a dumpy, older American woman locked in an embrace with a young, muscled, classically proportioned Jamaican male. It disturbed me; not because, I think, of any moral reasons, but because of the economic straits that lead some into prostitution and the caving in to desire that leads others to exploitation. It's substituting the forms of love for love itself. The thought occurs to me as I write this, and I remember now it occurred to me then, that the tourist industry is not far from prostitution. I'm sure if they had their way, the natives would like to keep their island to themselves, and not cater to the rich tourists who treat their land as a playground.

Continued in Jamaica II.

I've been listening to some love songs lately.

Joan Armatrading, one of the under-appreciated voices in rock and blues, opens her 1976 song "Love and Affection" with this:

I am not in love
But I'm open to persuasion

This expresses exactly an emotion I delight in, that of awaiting the next instance. The singer isn't expecting love, nor actively seeking it, but ready if that...that...that right other person comes along, singing the right tune. And the sound of Armatrading's rich voice is what takes "Love and Affection" beyond a few emotions well expressed. If you haven't heard her, check out a few samples. (You'll find 'em at the bottom of the page.) Hers is one of those voices you believe. Not just that she means it, but that it's correctly speaking for you as well. It translates: that near dream state of gazing a wee bit into the future, with closed eyes, sucking on your teeth and raising an eyebrow at possibility that one of those people you might be interested in will actually say or do or give off the scent of the things that turn you on and turn you inside out. The right stuff. The good dream. That you might look at this person in shock and surprise and think "my god, here we go again." The two lines aren't all Armatrading has to give. She goes further to show precisely where this love moves beyond friendship:

With a friend
I can smile
But with a lover
I could hold my head back
I could really laugh
Really laugh

Yeah. That. The difference between a smile and a laugh. The first moves the face, the other the whole body. There's the dream, to give oneself over wholly and not give a damn. To trust, the voice in the headphones sings:

With friends I still feel
So insecure
Little darling I believe you could
Help me a lot
Just take my hand
And lead me where you will
No conversation
No wave goodnight

And here, Leroy Champaign comes in with a deep, Barry White bass that makes one's groin growl, singing "Well Baby" (or something like that), followed by the chorus:

Just make love
With affection
Sing me another love song
But this time
With a little dedication

Of course it may not work out so well. And that's part of the dream too. The connections may be ephemeral; they might become almost insignificant in the face of other, larger concerns. Some divisive thing one can't see early on. It's over.

After finding the singer of the song like one's own, one finds that the song perhaps is all there is, that the depth of trust which made one feel free to laugh is absent or non-existent or a deeply believed but false construction of one's own desire.

On his album "Grace," Jeff Buckley writes a full version of the agony of love, from desire, to surrender (in a fabulous version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujiah"), to the final breath of failure. Buckley gets to the heart of it in "Last Goodbye."

This is our last embrace
Must I dream and always see your face
Why can't we overcome this wall
Well, maybe it's just because i didn't know you at all

Kiss me, please kiss me
But kiss me out of desire, babe, and not consolation

Buckley's voice is ethereal, and almost convinces you of the impossibility of love in the long run. Almost.

Because still there's the dream, never so actively pursued as when you discover that the very person you're just turning your head toward is engaged in a love that is terribly wrong. Armatrading goes here, too, in "Drop the Pilot," an exhortation to quit being pushed around and start getting loved. To ditch the mahout, Indian for the driver of an elephant and a great metaphor for a disastrous lover interested only in power games, and get on with the easy ride you promise if just given the chance.

Drop the pilot
Try my balloon
Drop the monkey
Smell my perfume
Drop the mahout
I'm the easy rider
Don't use your army
To fight a losing battle

Animal, mineral, physical, spiritual
I'm the one you need
I'm the one you need

The dream. To use Shakespeare, from The Tempest:

Be not afeared; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

The songs of Armatrading and Buckley give voice to both the necessary desire and possible disaster of singing a dream into the waking world.

It is a wondrous and terrifying thing, each time it comes 'round again, and still, despite the good possibility of in the future a last embrace, we sing it, again and again:

I'M THE ONE YOU NEED
I'M THE ONE YOU NEED
I'M THE ONE YOU NEED
....

The last few days I've been in Texas, not far from my old Denton stomping grounds. It's been four years since the last visit, since I've surrounded myself with family at Christmas. It's been good for my soul, gives me grounding, revives the old jokes, pranks, and traditions: "I expect that disrepect from you," my brother says; "I'd think you'd expect it from everybody," I reply, as my dad surreptiously rings the doorbell and fakes a conversation with someone from the Salvation Army who wants the last of mom's famous peanut brittle -- my niece and daughter fall for it while the rest of us see who can most dramatically roll their eyes.

It took 28 hours to drive here, twice as long as usual, thanks to a mega storm that obliterated the roads in Arkansas. The highlight of the journey was to be a ritualistic sending of good will north as we passed through Memphis, but instead we crawled over ice, slid over bridges, and sat for hours behind 18-wheelers while, presumably, the road ahead was cleared of wreckage.

At first we were pissed, my six-year-old and I, but after spending eight hours to travel 100 miles beyond Memphis, it became an adventure, and my daughter and I started to laugh. "We'll get there, I promise," I'd say; "I know, daddy," she'd reply. She slept, played her new GameBoy, sang songs. I thought a lot about her, about what a trooper she's been since her mother left; how she's gotten more mature, more somber in the last few weeks; and how I now often think of her as a friend and buddy instead of my daughter. She's gotten more sensitive, too. The other day, seeing I was blue, she came up and patted me on the shoulder and said, "It's ok to feel sad, daddy."

Tomorrow I'll see my musician friend, scary smart, like all my closest friends; in recent months he and Keith have exchanged emails, gotten to know each other, recognized kindred spirits. I've always been a sucker for gifted people. If they are cool, fun, and talented guys they may become best friends; if they are cool, fun, and talented women -- well then.

It's good to be here in the Lone Star State. Yes, it does have scary cops, criminally ignorant racists, and moronic politicians, but it also has Jim Hightower, kickass Mexican food, awesome music, and family.

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
      --Wallace Stevens

In the photo she stands through the skyroof of her Mini Cooper, smiling, leaning forward, her dark hair brushing her shoulders. It’s in a driveway, presumably her boyfriend’s; I suppose the picture was taken by him.

Wallace Stevens has thirteen ways to look at a blackbird; that’s twelve more than Keats. It’s a funny line, and I wish it were mine, but a professor said it twenty years ago. The same professor, in response to my enthusiasm over Bellow, called the Nobel Prize winner “an inveterate name dropper.” It took a decade to realize he was right.

In another photo, taken a dozen years earlier, she stands in a Japanese garden, shy, hesitant, with a smile that’s more a question than a position. It’s the eyes that get you, that reveal more than intended, wandering lights in black depths.

In a downward spiral, I say the smile, the gaze, the question, given to the photographer but captured by the camera, are not for me, that here is theft, meaning intercepted, taken for my own.

Exasperated, my friend reminds me that these are objects, chosen and given freely, original circumstances subsumed in new context. It’s like a slap, and I realize I try my friends, that sometimes they want to shake me sense-full. It’s a comfort, and a truth, and it has to be enough.

My brother and his wife surprise me with two Loeb editions of Plato, twelve dialogues in all, Greek and English juxtaposed. It’s a perfect gift, stunning in its appropriateness, and I’m shaken. Sacramental texts, and long missing from my shelves, but they learned that not from me. They asked my friend who had heard my laments over lost text, lost love.

If now the better elements of the mind, which lead to a well-ordered life and to philosophy, prevail, they live a life of happiness and harmony here on earth, self controlled and orderly, holding in subjection that which causes evil in the soul and giving freedom to that which makes for virtue; and when this life is ended they are light and winged, for they have conquered in one of the three truly Olympian contests.
      -- Socrates, Plato's Phaedrus

Upon arriving home from an afternoon of holiday party menu planning and mild imbibery with my favorite rioutous feminist left-wing southern Christian gentlewoman (a subject which, if no one puts molasses on the doormant so the little girl's feet stick fast when she comes in to play checkers with my pussy cat, I intend to go into at some length), I found awaiting me on my doorstep a tin of nuts.

A two pound tin of Hubs Home Cooked Salted Virgina Peanuts. Now, I don't come from Virginia peanut country but I do come from Virginia and I did serve as a youth pastor about 30 miles from Southampton county, home to Hubs and perhaps the best sugar cured and country hams available. A bit of pride for my home state there.

But this wasn't my first experience today with Hub's nuts. I had been offered Hubs' first-rate butter toffee peanuts while sitting around the kitchen table with my elegant and bawdy hostess, who earlier had embarrased the hell out of her daughter by using the phrase "I said I'd give him a little pussy" when asked how she had gotten a positive reponse out of a usually recalcitrant man. Upon seeing the shock on both her daughter's and her future son-in-law's faces, she added, "my god, children, I meant I was NICE."

And thus a theme for my day. The card on the shipping box on my doorstep read: "Happy Holidays, Patrick." Patrick? Patrick: my realtor around seven years ago when I was in the midst of purchasing a home with a certain woman of whom I was perhaps overly fond.

The deal fell through when we discovered plans (undisclosed by the seller) for a I-75/I-40 connector running through the front yard. The relationship fell through soon after. No house for me; no money for Patrick. I came back into his graces this past summer, however, when I engaged his services in finding a Knoxville home for my folks.

I got him the money. He gave me the nuts.

The holiday party is on Monday the 27th: 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. She means it—I've been there in years past. The better part of 300 invitations have been sent out. If y'all are going to be in Knoxville, let me know and I'll send you directions. Hopefully, Patrick can make it and this whole nut thing can resolve itself into a neatly framed tale of lost love, financial destiny, legumes, and family values. Winnie is making her deviled eggs and I'm cooking the pork. It'll be a hell of a time.

As Chiefs of The Royal Midgard Explorer's Society, we took our responsibilities seriously. We ran recruiting drives, Marge first started to run her amazing quests, we mapped out areas (one of our primary missions as Explorers), and we began plotting ways to further enhance the reputation and status of our Clan.

At the time, the most powerful god on MadROM was Etaine, a funny, irreverent goddess with a penchant for witty one-liners and practical jokes. Marge and I got to know her a bit by talking to her when she'd slum in mortal areas. Going to her place was impossible -- the gods do not often grant mere mortals entrance to their divinely protected lands. We mortals would exchange hearsay and speculation about these lands, but few of us could speak from direct experience. The gods were mysterious, dangerous, and often a bit psycho. Etaine, however, was just cool.

Crash was another powerful god; he served as the MUD's Questmaster during our time on MadROM, and Marge got to know him very well through her efforts to sponsor MUD-wide RMES quests. Ozymandias was high in the divine hierarchy, too. Although a bit capricious and sometimes abrupt, Ozy wrote the coolest areas on MadROM, including the awesome Hades, which served as partial inspiration for a massive project Marge and I undertook later, on a different MUD.

As you can see, when Marge ... er, Keith ... and I fell into MUDding, we did it in a big way. Why? It's not as if we didn't have enough real-life demands on our time. We were both doctoral students in the English department of the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. We had classes to attend, papers to write, prelims to take. Keith will have to give his own reasons, but for my part, I was a bit insane at the time -- and, of course, that means there was a woman involved. Thwarted love, agony, watching your desire walk off with another guy, crazy treks across half of Knoxville to deliver heartfelt statements, scads of verse written and then buried, never to be seen by anyone -- it's all damned pathetic and embarassing. What's more, the affection persisted, became part of who I am today. Anyway, MUDding was a diversion, an escape more encompassing than chess, a way to have some control, albeit virtual.

It's difficult to explain to an outsider how addictive a MUD can be. When we eventually decided on what direction the future expansion of RMES would take, we devoted our energies to it with a passion we rarely devoted to our scholarly papers, even the papers we published.

This obsession of mine and Marge's soon led to our greatest triumph on MadROM.

More to come. ...

It's been raining for the past couple of days. My daughter likes the rain; it's an excuse for her to use her multi-colored umbrella, which she twirls like someone in one of those big song and dance productions in a 50's musical. I'm less thrilled, and worry about stupid stuff -- mud and dirt getting on the just-steam cleaned carpets, getting soaked while getting the mail, getting the leaves out of the gutters.

I may be going through a mid-life crisis, but instead of sporty new cars I'm buying paint, art, lighting fixtures, door knobs, furniture. Don't get me wrong, a jazzy Jag would be cool, but I don't think there is much room in such things for booster seats.

A friend with whom I'd lost touch for several years said recently that she feared being forgotten, that she'd forget herself through an unlucky bout of amnesia, and that her friends were a comfort, because even if she didn't know herself, they would know her. It's an individual fear, quirky, worthy of a poet's imagination.

I fear atrophy, that if I don't keep exercising my mind and heart, I'll lose what shouldn't be lost.

In the interest of full disclosure, inspired by the implied courage of the impending revelations in my colleague's Mirkwood entry, I find it necessary to show to the world that mishap, that summit of silk-screen shame, the very artistic albatross hung round the neck of a weekend's desire that has been cited in entries apropos art and painful pulchritude. Go read the entries, then return here and gaze upon the wages of a moment's madness.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
       -- John Keats, On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

This is an unlikely tale, full of all sorts of unlikely things. It's a tale of serendipity, coincidence, unbridled power, near omniscience, lust and love, and unfettered creativity used for grand and sometimes bizarre purposes. But I mislead -- it is not a single tale, but many, and for the most part they all occurred while I was sitting alone in grungy apartments and dilapidated houses.

Sometime in 1994, Keith and I sat in his apartment using Gopher to cruise the internet. For those not born before the the first moon landing, the internet back then was shiny, new, geeky -- and, for the most part, text based. Oh sure, even then, for a few bucks a month, we university students could get something called a SLIP account that would allow us to cruise the spanky just-out-of-the-packaging graphics-oriented WEB, but -- well, you know, we were snobs. Words not pictures, don't you know.

As a diversion from love gone bad and as an alternative to dark corner, fetal-position whimpering, I had gone to visit Keith and to imbibe in various freely available intoxicants. I recall we used a 161 gram Frisbee, that marvelous invention that served more than one of our recreational pursuits. It was around the same period that Keith acquired from some hot-to-go student a fucking incredible video of Bill Hicks, who could in one deeply funny line speak truth about God, sex, and drugs.

Anyway, somehow or other Keith had a laptop, so we entertained ourselves by poking into the hidden backwaters of the internet. At some point we came across a Gopher listing for MUDs, with hundreds of sublistings with strange names such as Rivers of MUD, Twisted Realms, and Blue Facial Mud. We randomly clicked one, got a telnet screen asking for login information, and, after making up some goofy name, got dumped onto a bizarre, continually scrolling screen.

Eventually, we figured out that we had created a character and were in a text room with lots of other characters, all chatting and moving and brandishing weapons in a blur of rapidly scrolling text. We were too nervous to do much, though I think we figured out how to move into another room with more rapidly scrolling text. Finally, we logged off and got out the Frisbee and panned for more gold.

That was our first, inauspicious encounter with a MUD, which we eventually learned stood for Multi-User Dungeon or Multi-User Dimension, depending upon whom you asked.

We didn't know, then, what we had gotten into. ...

I've got a nice, long soulful entry in the works, something with a little political spice and literary cream sauce, something tasty. But for now, just a little curve and link.

Got a phone call a little while ago. You get interested in someone, soul to shoes, and then...hrm. Not a yes, not a no, just a little of the ambiguity that makes things so appealing. Trent would say something about a glint in the eye, but my attention's focused elsewhere.

The ball's in my court. Don't think I won't play with it.

With that overload of metaphors, it's time for some OddTodd! (Be patient—it's worth it.) I'm off to have some coff-ay! See you soul-folks later.

NOTE: I'm gonna take Trent's Mom for TONS of money in poker this week!

Got some interesting mail today. Besides the usual bills, I got an EnergySmart Update, published by the DOE's Weatherization and Intergovernmental Program; a $200 poker check; and ... a brochure from MatchMaker International, which asks, in elegant script, "How do you meet quality people in today's world?"

Now, disregarding the gag reflex prompted by "today's world" (it hasn't been THAT long since I had to grade freshman papers), I was intriqued for a number of reasons.

First, how'd I get on the mailing list? Second, if MatchMaker knows enough about my recent life to send me a fancy brochure, how come it doesn't know I'd likely respond with a rolling of the eyes, if not a churning of the stomach? Third, where are the glossy glamour photos?

Unfortunately for MatchMaker, the writing in the brochure sucks. A slick brochure, like physical beauty, just isn't enough. Here's a sample:

Throughout the years the face of dating has changed dramatically. Today you must be careful whom you choose to spend your time with. Quality people are hard to come by and chance encounters are not safe. Turning to a friend for help is the safest route to follow, but, what if it doesn't work out? Will your friend be upset? How will it affect your relationship? Don't risk a friendship in the quest for a date. Make a new friend.

I had to read this uninspired drivel several times before I realized what kind of "help" from a friend it meant.

Enough said.

While flipping through an anthology of Dorothy Parker's writings, I came across this poem. I used to like Parker much more than I do now -- the cynicism and cheap (though clever) shots she is famous for wore on me after awhile. However, this poem is quite fun:

From a Letter from Lesbia

... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
Except a poet. All of them are queer.

It's just the same -- a quarrel or a kiss
Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this;
Myself, I much prefer the business type.

That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died --
(Oh, most unpleasant -- gloomy, tedious words!)
I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
The stupid fool! I've always hated birds....

Of course, Parker's poem refers to one of the more famous of Catullus' poems -- "Lesbia's Sparrow" I guess we could call it; his poems don't have conventional titles. When I was going through my embittered Catullus phase, I didn't post this poem because, well, it's the poem always anthologized and cited and I'm much too cool to be so obvious. ...