Discovering a Rift in the Universe
I was in The Village yesterday. Bo was not. It seemed like the perfect time for another chat with the most beautiful, graceful, sexy, alluring woman ever born into this species.
And as luck would have it, she was sitting on a large rock by the ocean, wearing ragged denim shorts and a paint-splattered white T-shirt. Alone. Just sitting on the rock, massaging clay in such an achingly seductive way that I wished, for one brief moment, that when God created Man from mud He had stopped before the “blowing life into it” part and left me here on this beach, gooey and shapeless, so that Eliza could squeeze me between her fingers. I sauntered over in my most cool, casual, “wanting and needing no one” mode and sat down on a nearby chunk of granite.
“Nice day,” I said, regretting it immediately.
Eliza looked at me quizzically with those intense green eyes. “All days are nice days,” she said. “They’re gifts from the Earth and the Sky and the Stars. If it’s raining, that’s nice. If it’s cold, that’s nice. There’s no such thing as a bad day. It’s an absurd concept. It’s like saying that there are bad kisses.”
I’ve suffered through some bad kisses before, involving pressure and dryness and teeth and no hope of anything more exciting whatsoever, but I wasn’t inclined to offer any counter arguments at the moment. Besides, the ripples of Meg’s kiss last night were still echoing through my body, so kisses were high on my “these are a few of my fav-o-rite things” list.
Strange that I would think of Meg while in the presence of Godessness. Oh, well. If you can’t be with the one you love, then — no, wait. Wrong direction. If you can’t be with the one you want, then want the one you have. No. Still wrong. Take three: If you aren’t with the one you can actually get, then you might as well think about her when you’re with the one you can’t possibly have. Shoot. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young will probably want a word with me….
So I’m sitting on this hunk of metamorphic rock next to a positively volcanic woman, mangling song lyrics in my mind and wondering how I can summon an alien mother ship and ask the little green guys to beam Bo off this planet, when Eliza glances up from her clay kneading once again, shakes her wavy brown hair, and tosses out a little conversation-starter.
“Do you believe in soulmates?”
OK — this is a job for the Donovan Graham Patented Wheel of Meaning. We give the wheel a good, hard spin, andWe have a contender! By “do you believe in soulmates,” Eliza was suggesting that you might be her One and Only True Eternal Love!
But probably not. Give the wheel another spin. Pupupupupu.up..up…up… up ….. up ……… pup. Another possibility! By “do you believe in soulmates,” Eliza was indicating to you that Bo is her soulmate — and so you should just bugger off.
Too horrible to consider. One more try! Pupupupupu.up..up… up … up ….. up……… pup. She has the soulmate question on her mind for some reason, and she’s just thinking out loud, oblivious to the fact that you’re standing right there drooling onto your flip-flops.
Bingo! We have a winner! Johnny, what has our contestant won this evening?
This particular interpretation requires an answer to the question, so I tried to think of something fascinating and Eliza-like to say.
“Souls are too beautiful and too complex to lock forever onto just one Other,” I offered, stammering more than I intend to admit in this blog. “Souls, when they come together, create something special and new, something that can’t be contained in a single unbreakable pair.”
For one brief, shining moment, I was thrilled at my own eloquence. Not bad on short notice.
Flashes of brilliance live briefly and die particularly cold and sorrowful deaths.
“Well, I believe in soulmates,” Eliza said, thumping the clay with her fists. “No matter what you — or Bo — says.”
In an effort to buy the time necessary to comprehend the subtle shifts that were obviously taking place in the universe, I decided to deftly change the subject. And what better subject to cling to for safety than a cheerful childhood in Wisconsin?
“So tell me about growing up in Wisconsin,” I said. OK — it wasn’t that deft, but in my defense I was distracted by the overwhelming sense of confusion I was feeling. Not to mention the constant pupupupupu.up..up…up … up ….. up ……… pup sound happening in the back of my brain.
Eliza bit her lip. “Cool, I guess,” she said as she continued to work the clay. “It was all right.”
I tottered over to a cooler that was wedged between two rocks, found a couple bottles of warm beer, popped open the caps on the side of a stone, and walked back with great deliberation in an effort to look like I knew what was going on.
“So, in the Early Days in Wisconsin — I’m guessing you were bib overalls and bare feet. Am I close?”
She shook her head, her lustrous brown hair undulating gorgeously around her face. How can her hair look that good when there aren’t any showers in The Village? “No way. I was pigtails and plaid skirts.”
— Donovan Graham, “The Shadowless Writer”
Read previous blog entries in the Island Wars story by clicking here.