Scroll all the way down -- to Carol. I no longer keep any photographs of Carol, I burned them all . I sort of regret it now because sometimes I'd like to look at the head shot again and see if it was really as powerful as it seemed then. I kept an 8X10 headshot of her, in my briefcase, always. Along with that pamphlet.
You will be one of few poor souls who know this sordid, messy, sorrowful, wonderful Carol and Zed story. Within my own heart, I consider it to be up there with " Wuthering Heights". (Indeed, THAT song makes me tear up, always.) To even pick up the rake thinking of raking those coals over has me choking up and resisting it heartily so might be I started thinking about getting it out there; like, for real, not in some sort of fantasy journal you hope to be a thing a some day. Tell the real deal. You own it, because you're the one ashamed of it. Not them, or if they are, you'll never know. They've owned it in their own ways. How you own it is up to you. Now...
It's always bothered me-- and probably always will bother me-- how I was left in the dark for so much of the end of all of this. I was promised an answer. I received only a hint of one; it will never be enough. And, a thread left dangling.
Once upon a time, in Richmond, Virginia, I was following my instincts and living like a cockroach among the punks in a squat I'd formerly had a 'bed' in with a girl I really liked. I had a job as a bouncer or something, making just enough to keep everybody happy. A little rent, some food, some beer. Some smokes. But the main dude on the lease AND my 'girl' friend left me there, high and dry! What the fuck at least tell me you think I'm a loser, whatever. Holy cow that hurt. I squatted until they locked me out.
But before they did, I met this guy I'll call Alan because I don't remember the guy's name. Someone may remind me one day and I will correct it. He was an older punk like me, IS THIS BEFORE OR AFTER RUGBY?? I ask myself. I honestly cannot remember.
Alan was pret-ty cool in my book. I sort of copied him some. At some point, bless his black little heart, he took me aside and asked me if I had ever done any theater. I started talking about how my mother was a director and yes I had done children's theater in Flagstaff (MASTERCRAFT PRODUCTIONS) (then MAGIC CURTAIN PRODUCTIONS). . so Alan introduced me to ...
Alan took me to this big theater, college I think it was, we entered from the alley way. Alan called over a slim, boyish, impish even, shy happy creature named Terri. I was disarmed. (Get used, dear reader, to me falling in love with people, mostly women, left and right). (And may I please add: I am still in love with each and every one, and always will be; and to think of any or all is to begin to cry. They may seem many to you, but each could only in the end give a small choink, because to give more was to have me try to grab on to all and bring them down in here with me. And to have any large pile of choinks is to be blessed, if you ask me. Because without any human contact (save M. last Sat. night-- the DEAR! God she's fun. ) for so long, what would I be without memories.
And I will be the first to admit: I do believe my love, my depth of desire and my devotion to some of these women, a very few in fact, is a condensation, an attempt to make known the depth of feeling, of love and gratitude I possess for all they have taught me in all aspects of all areas of life and love. There are those I am in touch with. There are those who have gone no contact. With understanding! Anyone who has weathered the storm of Zed. knows. Just like you read about any other nut job. Mine due to (according to those who have diplomas!) C.P.T.S.D. (I'll get into it at some point, you owe it to yourself to look it up, because.... dun dun dun.... turns out way more people have it than you would think, and the reason is, cptsd is the ROOT CAUSE of all of these little problems that we have heretofore tried to treat individually. It turns out that learning about, and treating C.P.T.S.D., we stem the flow of those problems.
Honestly, if you have read this far, congratulations. That is how I learned about CPTSD: social media. My EX told me via e-mail that a friend of ours on Facebook that I had not been in contact with for a while had been talking about CPTSD. My ex sent me a few books on the subject, self help books.
Now. Back to the theater. *I am so dramatic. And I would not trade that for the bloody world. I blame Monty Python.
This young woman Terri comes up to me with a clipboard and introduces herself. I am wearing a black leather jacket with all these sharpened studs and Terri kind of enthusiastically shook my hand-- and we talked about volunteer opps. Eventually I found a place assisting in the raising and lowering of a curtain-- a play IN THE SHOW had a curtain OF IT'S OWN in the fly gallery and I brought it up and down. A fellow named Doug (IS HE A DOCTOR YET? - - YOU call him DOCTOR JONES heh heh) (I can hear Carol giggle)
(But not Doug. Doug sort of forced me into unfriending him last year when he point blank said "Z, what do you WANT?" (I used to be called Z until H called me ZED and it stuck) -- and I was like, huh? And good ol' dougie whom I had once given a skeleton hoof (please "flesh that out better later, zed-- omg that is a very good pun I must say. Who put the PUN in punk, I did :) -- this is ridiculously corny right now. Remind me to have one day a week when I post in this blog while smoking keef. Because this is productive if difficult to parse. I will trim it later while leaving raw for perusal by odd passer-by. Because lord knows it may take a while to come back and edit this damned thing. Then again the productive streak may last. I just noticed earlier the pain in my leg was gone and has been for hours. I did feel a bit gleeful this smoke session, which I did not last night. Last night I just felt exhausted, from contemplating the void. I had just cleaned my computer and played Fallout 76 and missed S. so much that I shrugged and kicked myself and brushed my teeth and hung my head and pouted then I raised my head and remembered that we were on good terms again, and the spring in my step was a bit bouncier and I fell into bed with a sigh of relief to battle other demons.
At this moment in time, Carol is not answering my e-mails. Or let me say this (because I am going with 100 percent honesty as much as I can) Carol did not answer my last e-mail. I have not the guts to e-mail her again. I think I just asked her how she was doing. I should look it up. I could have said more. I don't think so. Anyway, it's not like her not to answer at all. She has always answered. I assume it is because of my politics. We were Facebook friends (brave of her, considering Brenna and all) then I noticed we were not. I assume that Carol dumped me for my politics. I go to her page from time to time to make sure she is ok. To see if there is any big announcement. Not that I would dare insert myself. Not without an invitation. (REORDER THIS OR SOMETHING FFS ZED)
Terri has me doing that curtain thing with Douglas Jones showing me how. When I ask how he got involved he pointed up to the harpist and said "Carol."
I'd not ever seen a real harpist before. To be honest I had had not either noticed the (is it-- quintet? ) up on the platform. They were all dressed in black. The music was haunting! If you have never heard it, it's lovely. Just lovely! The Quartette is my favorite aspect. "The sun sinks low, as low as it's going to go... FIVE O'CLOCK, TWILIGHT.... " oh it is so beautiful. Let me post a link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kd4qV8UaKJU
REMEMBER! OH HOW I LAUGHED! and OH HOW I CRIED!
I am crying now. God I loved this play. And no one ever knew how much Carol was a part of it. Listen to the harp! The harp, Carol's harp. Carol's harp. I'm mesmerized again. Her bare feet pressing the pedals while I record a song for her grandmother. I can hear it in my head. I try to remember it in my head from time to time in case Carol and I ever have some time to kill and we talk about old times. I did and do love that song. I can't remember the name of it. I had a recording of the original recording of this session but it finally gave up the ghost in about 2001. I think it is still sitting there at mother's. Writing about it like this for the first time makes me feel ok about that ... other people have left things at their parents. So what. Many children have tried to reconnect with problem parents despite it being a bad idea simply because of trouble finding love elsewhere and desperately hoping to find it with a parent-- despite that parent not ever once having offered it in any amount larger than a choink. A choink flake that dissolves so quickly in the first teardrop.
Oh Carol. I do not allow myself to think of you often. As of course I should not. But I want to tell it one hundred percent as it happened to me. I just had a vision, no a recollection, of these 50 page letters I used to write to her. Not expecting anything back, happy to get a hurried but oh so warm and welcome and natural and normal and (I thought) reciprocal phone call each week. Oh how I loved those calls. Did I say hurried? A LIE. Seemingly, because I coveted talking to her so much. Let us go on. I get ahead and all that.
I was briefly introduced to Carol during that show, and certainly must have run into her at the after party-- or not, I cannot say for certain. I was there with Richard, and we intended to ogle the rich woman's house and drink her booze and lay in her very green grass to stare at the stars. I was quite in lust with the woman who played Desiree, and simply wanted to hover about, while Richard hovered near John Glenn, Oh poor dear John Glenn , RIP. I believe I need to talk about you in BYOD. Or if it was not John Glenn, who had a vaguely John Purdy look about him, then I'm sure Chard will let me know, were he to get a hold of this blog, I am certain he would set me straight on many aspects and inform you of some very gross things, just thought I would call it first. I threw up on his dashboard, who knows what else. I fucked him at Theater IV, go ahead Chard, I have nothing to hide. You do so-- just remember that. big hugs. We had a blast, you and I, I'll write about you, in a good light, stay steady mate, be a good buddhist and tell only the truth as I am doing. To yourself as well. It hurts like hell and makes you want to die. But that is the point. To kill off a part of yourself that lies.
Amazed by the mansion and the gardens, agape at the owner's wealth, Chard and I drank and talked, I did love talking to him all night. He was funny as hell and taught me some things. What, I cannot remember. He did teach me my first 'Spanish phrase'-- ' hey muchos caballos in la douche' or something. That is how I remember it though. I seem to have left out a part where Beverly and Richard and I went to clubs etc, and that was way before Carol. Now Beverly and Richard have graduated and all of that, and it's just Richard and I as friends, and he and she as friends over there. He comes to my play (I'm back stage, Richard is in the audience, I gave him a comp ticket) and watches. He's quite impressed. I was too, it was the best play I ever had the grace of working on. There will never be a better non-professional play that moves me like that, I'm certain of it but I sure am welcome to try! Quilters came close. Theater IV, I miss those days. Terri. Carol. -- Bruce. Phil. John. I had a future there. *kicks can. You'll hear what I did later.
I put myself on the volunteer list and didn't hear back for a while. But I did eventually. Theater IV needed my help as a prop handler or something, I do not remember. The show was "The White Cliffs of Dover" and Terri was the director I think. Or the something. It was a shoebox theater, I loved the experience. We sang along to 'Roll Out the Barrel' every show. It was pretty powerful. A play about WWI, set in England. I became interested in the topic, who wouldn't?
After that I went around Theater IV offices from time to time, I mean I'm a punk living on the streets now, I just want to do something cool, and be a part of something cool, and I know theater... I just want to be included. I talk myself into LIVING in the OFFICES. It's a town house, a rental. I sleep downstairs. I have a mattress from some other occupant. Not too shabby. On top of hundreds of costumes to try on after everyone has gone home (Terri, Bruce, Phil... please forgive me. If I ever make any decent money I am going to come back there and buy you guys a new shop saw or something I promise) there is a mannequin. Well, only the top part, and no arms. Just torso and head. She's bald. I immediately call her Sinead, tattoo her head, and dress her in my leather jacket. I now have a friend to sleep with, and life is good. And, yes. Theater IV was aware of this behavior, or so I was led to believe. Who told me, was it Ford? That prankster. It could have been John but, well. It could have been John.
I spend the days doing theater-y things at the Orpheum (Theater IV's future home, it needs a lot of work) and nights cleaning and messing around in the offices basement. As fas I recall, I earn my keep. I have a pretty good time doing it too. Theater life was always for me. I just never broke into it properly. I did sure enjoy my time at theater IV.
I volunteered and won "Volunteer of the Year" at the volunteer awards ceremony 2 years in a row. I was a house carpenter for a minute, fly gallery operator, stage manager, and once we had gotten that big theater whipped into shape I moved in there too. I was living in there as well, in the dressing room. I had brought Sinead of course! We were happy enough for a lost waif and her mannequin. I was a good stage manager, I know that. I got a bit of petty cash out, each show, and got each person in the cast and crew a momento. I kept the dressing room clean and stocked well and I had a really good stage manager's kit. I read books on the subject and had a nice time table for the actors to follow etc. etc. ; it was always pretty well-oiled. The actors seemed to appreciate it. I was always happy with the results. I helped around the theater itself as well, often doing things like running up to the roof to secure something that had been knocked loose by the wind... I loved that theater company, I loved the building.
Then there it was, my plum assignment. I was to stage manage a play called "Ain't Misbehavin' " ...
I'd not heard of Fats Waller before but the songs sounded so catchy and the cast so lively and fun I just had to. I threw myself into it. I took a look at the piano they were planning on using and I nearly choked. It was an upright baby grand but it was covered in about 10 coats of paint, the final result being that it looked as if it had been painted to look like a tree by a 5 year old. I had recently learned how to strip furniture, so... I begged Terri to let me strip it. To the wood. Oh my god it was a week long project. So many coats and so much stripper and so many fumes (shh, you) later, this gleaming Mahogany piano shines under the spotlight, and my heart just sings. It's like, oiled UP for fucks sake. And that guy is pounding the keys. OH it was amazing. I could see it all from up in my SM box. -- giggle--
Those rehearsals must have been as magical for the actors and backstage crew as for me. Just the music, the voices. The instruments. We all got along. And we we all forgot our troubles for a minute. This was what it was all about. A truly appreciate audience, a majestically talented cast and a devoted and dedicated crew, all volunteers save a couple of union folk. Granted, everyone involved in a production like that, of that calibre, should have been paid. And to be fair to Theater IV, they did end up paying me at one point.
Ain't Misbehavin' rehearsals were coming along quite well and it was nearing opening night. I went into the bar during a break and noticed a pile of flyers on a table. I helped keep the bar clean, and so such things caught my eye. I picked one up. Low and Behold, my roots was shook. There was this image of three people dressed in costumes, one in particular was very tall, with dark short hair, and cocked eyebrows over mesmerizing goddamn eyes, wearing trash can lids on her feet and grinning like a complete and delightful goofball. Or was it a smirk. Knowing Carol-- smirk. I haven't seen the image in decades despite begging Terri/Bruce/Ford, and, yes, John to help find me one. I have also asked for a copy of "A Little Night Music" but to no avail.
So this image. Swam in my head , so that even after putting it down I would see it still. I'd just pull it out again to make it a bit more solid. I would wear the picture out, go get another, then just resort to taking 10 to be done with it. Hopefully. I had one in every pocket just about, because I was always losing them. I had one pinned to the wall in my booth up above the stage a few nights before Ain't' Misbehavin' opened.
I'd glance at that bit of paper, tacked to the wall, and tilt my head, wondering, who IS that? How can a photograph have such-- (I would not have used this word then) GRAVITAS? Pull? But it was a small picture, the size of a modern cell phone. (Everyone but very poor people know this one, haha! ) (ugh. I suck). How much pull can one photograph have? One day a fellow crew member comes up to my booth. Who was that, I want to say Randy. We will straighten it out. He points to the picture and asks ' why do you have a picture of Carol on the wall ' ? and I explain to him I want to know who it is and no one seems to know before then. So he explains how Carol goes out with the traveling , children's theater part of Theater IV, and comes back to prepare/rest for the next show. She was due back any day, any minute. I was astounded by this great bounty of useful information. I began to search the entire campus several times daily just in case Carol had landed. Every time a Theater IV van was at the dock I was there. Carol? no. Carol? no. Eventually I sort of half gave up, turning my attention back to my priority, the upcoming musical. When there were hours until opening night, the sun burning brightly outside still, we were told that there was a movie being filmed outside, we were not to use the front entrance directly but would be re-routed to an off-camera entrance/exit. I helped move traffic and direct people, keep people out of camera shot etc-- desperate to be noticed by anyone who had anything to do with this actor named James Woods. Who the hell was this guy. Whatever.
At some point I'm told the caterers are here, and it's my job to coordinate with them, so I have to go find them as I am not sure where they are set up. KEEP IN MIND all of this is HOW I REMEMBER IT and I'm open to correction by anyone that was there.
I go into the rehearsal hall and immediately see a door on top of two spread apart saw horses, genius thinking, dishes of hors devours set all around on top the door/table. One of those rolling Hobarts? I think they had? Oh hell who cares, none of that ever mattered. It all looked so tasty, I glanced all around at it, and then at a pair of these black shoes, up to the slacks, further, it's a tuxedo, it's ... a tailcoat! It's... it's..... Carol. I must have stood there so slack-jawed for so long that Carol came gliding over to me and stuffed a food in my mouf... just as natural as could be. I blinked and chewed robotic-like, head tilted a bit. Drained of all sense, senses at an alert never felt before. Nothing. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing ever has been the same.
No doubt 70 percent of who I am comes from Carol. If you know me, you know Carol. No matter who she is now, whether she would have anything to do with me -- I'm she and she is me. Ask her about the cowpunk table. Attached to the cowpunk table I made for Carol is the jawbone of the first and only born foal of my second pony, aforementioned Ginger. The jawbone belongs to "Gem Dandy". I tried to save him but he died and we drug him out into the woods (read: I drug him out into the woods, me, a kid). I visited the body some time later, it had mostly been all eaten up, but I got the head off, and tried to get it cleaned up. I had the skull for the longest time, and the jawbone. Now only Gem's jawbone survives, on that cowpunk table.
Also on that table: a 'flint hammer' I found in the woods outside Flagstaff. Used for making arrowheads by the Navajo many moons ago; I used it as a counterweight to keep the table top from flipping too quickly open. It hangs from below, easily visible. There are coyotes howling and hieroglyphs that mean nothing I'm sure and some Saguaro cactus all painted on. It's pretty cheesy. The Coyote is actually Phoebe, the pointy headed one... we'll get to her.
Carol tells me to help and I do help them set the food up and light the sterno, my pleasure, ma'am, you betcha. I'm shaking with electricity at the nearness of this person I'd been unable to stop wondering about for some time now. And we just fall into this natural patois. Until it is time for me to go set up for the show, and she tells me to come find her at intermission, she could use the help if I wanted to pitch in. Oh you know it. I'm so there. The show goes quite well despite the interruption with the movie outside. If you watch "My Name is Bill W." you will see James Woods walking past the theater where I am inside doing Ain't Misbehaving. It's so -- weird to me. A moment caught on film from a whole different perspective. Inside, a heart is pounding so hard it's about to bust.
Opening night was a success, I helped Carol clean up, then I did my clean up and set up for the next night. Fell into bed staring at my picture of Carol. I knew I'd see her again the next night so it wasn't too bad closing my eyes. Sinead stared up at the ceiling. The play ran for a few weeks to high praise, I was too busy to miss Carol too much but I did think of her and wonder. One day I was in the bar getting a drink with lunch and I hear her voice. I turn.. she's walking up to me. I'm swallowing my food clumsily. She asks if we can talk for a minute when I'm done eating. So when I am done eating I go over to where she stands at the bar looking at a script and she asks me if I want to stage manage a play with her as director. I must have turned quite pale because she told me I could think about it. I accepted as soon as I could speak. And I often wonder how my life might have turned out had I declined -- as I wanted to, because how could I be good enough to work with HER? But declining Carol was never an option.
"Good, it's settled, I'm relieved. I heard you were pretty busy and hoped you'd have time to...." blah blah blah. I heard nothing else from that point on I just made her promise to come find me when the dates were firmed up and then I walked off in a daze. I'd not had something this exciting to look forward to in ages. I got invited to the first script reading and showed up to her apartment terrified. I did not do group stuff like this much, agoraphobic for the most part unless I was on theater business. This was not theater IV business, this was an independent troupe. I sat and read the part of whomever had not shown up to the reading. Carol's brother and mother were visiting and I was stunned at how much like Carol her brother looked. I could not take my eyes off him as he sat up on the top bunk where C slept, next to his mother, their mother, and they made quips and interjected for a chuckle here and there but mostly listened raptly. The play was an adaptation by Carol's ex boyfriend Doug... based on a short story by Nikolai Gogol entitled "The Nose" . . .
Written between 1835 and 1836, "The Nose" tells the story of a St. Petersburg official whose nose leaves his face and develops a life of its own. (Wikipedia). It's quite snarky and witty and I loved every minute of the reading. It was not my first foray into Russian lit however. Being a huge Tim Curry fan and having all his albums, I had really loved the song "I do the Rock" in which he says things like "Solzenitzyn feels exposed, builds a barbed-wire prison".. and so I'd read that book ("A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich") and it became one of my favorites.
Brainstorming over how to make a giant nose costume, or how to make it look like a jar was full of live leeches using strips of bicycle tire tubing hanging by fishing line from the cap of a bell jar... these things filled my mind with joy. Sitting next to Carol, so close I could smell her shampoo. To this day, if I smell T-Gel, I am going to have a little nostalgic cry. I kept the best stage manager/assistant director's logs you could ever imagine. No stage manager ever did their job so thoroughly. And one day when I walked out of the rehearsal hall into the kitchen only to walk back into the hall and see Carol wearing my sweatshirt... ("I was cold, didn't think you'd mind")... I nearly fainted. There was no blood in my head for a long, long time. I could not concentrate on the rehearsal. That whole session was a wash. They all thought I was ill. When she gave the sweatshirt back I pretended to be unaffected but I slept with it for ages. This obsessive behavior was new to me. In Pasadena I'd just had a crush, it was normal sized. This was huge-- monstrous. Unmanageable. And reciprocal-- although only I saw just how reciprocal. I was agoraphobic nearly-- Carol begged me and coaxed me and cajoled me out of my shell and when I finally started opening up, our friendship really blossomed. I mean it was all alright for a long time. A couple of years we were thick as thieves. Bestest buddies. The play had gone off so well, everyone was just impressed as hell. A solid friendship was born. We were like an old married couple in no time. I spent hours at her place, her cooking, us talking, reading, listening to music, friend stuff. She KNEW I was attracted to her but had firmly told me she was hetero and although she loved me very much ,not in that way. I accepted that and dealt with it. Not well at times, but I dealt with it. I was entrusted with every aspect of her life with the exception of her love life. I knew she was seeing men but I never met them. They didn't seem to be in her life long. It was always me coming over for dinner, we'd go out and eat, drink, be merry as hell. Nights in a row. I adored my time with her. In the theater, out of the theater, I'd go anywhere with her. She got a dog, I trained it. Phoebe the pointed headed one. She was part coyote, I was sure. I trained that dog so well Carol was stunned. And Carol admitted to Phipps being my soul mate at the time. I got a key to the apartment and got to go hang with Phipps anytime. Life was good. I had a dog and a friend. Richard and I had grown apart, I'd become suspicious he was a dick. He still is a dick. I'd grown lonely living in the theater despite Richard coming over sometimes, he was always only interested in getting something for himself. Borrowing a costume, or borrowing some weed, or some cash. I'd grown tired of him.
Carol on the other hand was always good to me. If I was sick, she big me come over and lay on her spare mattress on the floor while she tended to me-- chicken soup, homemade. Reading to me, pointing a fan at me, whatever it took. There was a time when I was particularly despondent and she asked me to come over and I did. We watched a movie on her black and white TV... Powaqqatsi . It's like two hours of imagery with a soundtrack by Phillip Glass. How could she know it would soothe me so? I used my truck to haul her harp around, I picked up her dry cleaning, I deposited her paycheck for her. She cooked for me, took me out, gave me hugs, made mix tapes for me. Turned me on to Lou Reed. Turned me on to one of my favorite albums of all time: RED HOT & BLUE -- tribute to cole porter. The very first song made me cry the first time I heard it.. it is re-written for this soundtrack to reflect the AIDS epidemic. It brings me back to my brother's death. "I've got you under my skin..." yeah. Pure pain you're giving me. Each song specifically crafted to pull at my heart strings. Mix in that I'd grown up on Cole Porter due to my mother's love for movie soundtracks... the music that Carol introduced me to over the time we were tight will always transport me right back.
During all this time I'd managed to clean up my act a little bit, with Carol's help, I found some ability to do art, and move into a house full of Theater IV people in which I had a yard and did some of my own art, hence the Coyote Table. Carol suggested I ought to go to college. I had no idea at this time that college was a possibility for a high school drop out who had only a GED. I began to think it over. Meanwhile I had a job at a dyke bar, as a bouncer and a cook, and between that and renovating one of my old rugby buddie's house, and the theater, I had plenty to keep myself busy. Met a girl! J was this wild thing, came in to the bar high as a kite and dancing by herself, glommed on to me for some reason and we hooked up somehow. She was a student (now a lobbyist. An elitist, always stoned lobbyist, obsessed with Carol still, and won't speak to me. Won't speak to me at all. I find this absolutely reprehensible, the COWARD). The absolute chicken shit.
We'd smoke weed and make love and I told her I was always going to put Carol first-- I'd told her that from the get go, as I had no control over my feelings for C. J said 'fair enough' and accepted my terms. I mostly thought of Janice unless C was demanding my attention. It was only a matter of time before J and C had to meet, and we got that over with one lunch and I thought they got along well enough so we all seemed comfortable around each other. I think you can see where this is going to end up. I can, now -- looking back.
I'd spend my time with one and then the other, but one night I was laying with J and the phone rang. J answers it, and goes into this animated, lively conversation with someone. It very slowly dawns on me that she is talking to Carol. Carol has called Janice's apartment without me giving C the number. The blood in my veins turns into ice water. I blink. Several times. It was the beginning of the end.
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So I did it, I got into school. All by myself. I stood in the lines and went to the tables and I picked the classes and got the loans and bought the books. All done in person at the school itself. Oh for the old ways.
I had a guy named Brent in one of my classes. I really liked him. We hung out in the sculpture studio and he showed me a lot of wood-bending tricks. I'd helped my stepfather build a circular oak staircase (I'd handcarved all 72 balustrades myself ) but I had a lot to learn in bending wood for sculptures. Brent was funny and intelligent, made class even better. I loved sculpture studio, I was always pushing the envelope. It was good.
Drawing class went well too, I had this teacher I really dug (had a crush on her too! She invited me over for dinner. In fact that teacher took all my artwork home to keep as we students had no where to store it). That 6 foot tall Saguaro cactus ? Yeah, she took that home to put on her tool shed. I loved drawing class... because I was always doing something different. I took to Gouache and oil pastel for etching.
There are inscriptions all around the borders that you cannot see, and I cannot remember what they say-- I no longer have any of my own art. But I do remember it was all Carol quotes.
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Janice and Carol and I got along swimmingly for the most part, despite that nagging phone call. I put it out of my mind. We all spent a lot of time together doing things like going to the pub for nachos or going to a club for Halloween. I dressed as a cowboy on Halloween, and took my rope with me to the bar. Carol and J did not dress up. The band was the Ululating Mummies, and I made a few bucks on bets that I could rope this or rope that. People paid to see me rope. I roped Carol and J together, pulled the rope a bit too tight, looked them in the eye and released the tension. I dropped the rope and let them step out of the loop. I was a bit drunk but I knew something was happening between those two.
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There'd been a hurricane, and C wanted to do walk the beach in the tail of it. It was chilly, and the winds were whipping the ocean all about with the sea spray laced with sand pelting our faces. I had on a black trenchcoat, and was carrying my shoes. Carol followed behind, surreptitiously taking my picture from behind with a waterproof throw-away camera. Later on, when I would see the photos, she would say that I looked INTREPID. I was, unbeknownst to Carol, walking so far ahead because to see her in her eggplant hair, matching color of leather jacket, and black Levi's with a black t-shirt under the coat, all soaked to the bone. it was all I could do to not just sit down on the beach and start crying, I wanted her so bad. But I kept on up ahead until she asked me to slow down and caught up. We walked as long as we could and finally got back to the car and she turned the heat way up and we got back to the city and changed into warm clothes. We decided to call J, and the 3 of us went out for nachos. Although J and I sat on the same side of the booth, I wanted to be sitting with C. I guess we both did.
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Well it becomes apparent to me that the two of them are becoming close and my friend from the studio, Brent, is moving in on it too. I don't even know how Brent got involved. I probably invited him in, naturally. I let the enemy in, always. Those 3 had some good times I came to hear about later. While I was in school pining over Carol, but too busy with schoolwork to really do anything about anything. I've got a job at the dyke bar still, and I get a ride with Carol sometimes if we've been hanging out. One night the 3 of us women had been hanging and decide to go to dinner before I go to work. Sounds good. When we all sit down the two of them are on one side of the table, and I'm facing them. They have a 'proposal'. J looks down at the table as she asks me if I'd be interested in a threesome with the two of them. [thinking back I bet they meant to shoehorn Brent in at some point too]. I will never forget my reaction: I bring my fist down upon the table like an ANGRY LORD. The plates jump, patrons turn to stare. I say NO. They are taken aback and make me promise to 'think about it'. I go to the car and leave them to pay and talk. They actually finish their fucking dinner before coming out to see if I am ok. I should have walked to work. But I sat on the hood of the goddam car. The car whose oil I changed lovingly... the car whose headlights I changed. The car I cleaned. Put gas in. Drove. I kept Carols' car running smoothly. ME.
When they did come out, I could not talk to them. They dropped me off at work and left. I was in a daze and did my job robotically. When the two of them came BACK to the bar at around 11 pm I lost my shit. I denied them entrance and when my boss said WTF I said 'they go, or I DO, forever". So my boss allowed me to tell them they were banned for the night. But not before they literally chased me into the kitchen to try to force a group hug on me. I stood there as still as a rock. FUCK OFF I screamed.
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I don't remember the rest of that night. I just remember my boss coming into the kitchen to see if I was ok, after that scream. I was in a strange land. A land where Carol and J were now together and not trying to hide it. And me, on the outside, again. From the safest of places where I had my best friend at hand and a smart if perpetually high lover. Gone in a night. It was never really the same between any of us again. J and I broke up, Carol moved to Kentucky to live near her mom. We spoke weekly... on the phone. I wrote her 30 - 50 page letters. I honestly wonder if she read any of that. But I sure would love to see those letters again... how full of floof and airy longing they must have been.
My time was taken up by art-- and English -- and girls. Sculpture studio, drawing studio, and Kris. There were these 4 lesbians living on my hall and two of them were hooked up. I had a crush on one of the hooked up ones so I hung around a lot; J and I had broken up and Carol wasn't in the state. We all partied and studied together and even went on a road trip to Atlanta Women's Music Festival-- during which I helped be a 'roadie' for a band called BETTY. Some of you may know Betty from the children's TV show 'ZOOM'. I was really thrilled to meet and work with them; and after that show, I got to work in the kitchen. After 3 days I had my top off and had had been put on security: guarding the perimeter from prying eyes. You'd be surprised how many men skulk about the edges of these things hoping for a look-see. It was a good time, and I got to have sex with Kris on her mom's couch while her mom was in the kitchen while we were visiting with Kris's parents for the evening on the way back to Richmond. I wonder what they thought of the age difference. I was 28. Kris was 20.
The job I had during this time in college was cook at the Village Cafe. This is the place where Carol and I had gone so many times, then J and I and J and Carol and I. Even Brent had joined us a few times. One big happy family-- now all busted up, with me in the kitchen slogging away. I worked like a horse, hot heavy hard work, then to mop and help this big brute of a dude clean the grill etc. I envied him. He washed the dishes by hand, ate well, kept his nose clean. Me, I cussed at the waitresses and threw cast iron skillets at them when they let the food get cold. I had industrial music blaring on the boom box at all times. The owner would walk through the kitchen, turn it down on his way to his office and I'd turn it back up- and he'd turn it down again on his way out. But he knew, there were people in that cafe who came in just to hear my music. They'd sit by the kitchen batwing doors. I had a friend in the dorm that fed me the latest and greatest in INDUSTRIAL music. Ah, Sean. What happened to you, where did you go brother? You haven't lived until you have cooked a hamburger to the song "Hamburger Lady" by Throbbing Gristle, just sayin'. Now that I think about it, Sean reminded me of John Purdy. We'd sit by candlelight listening to the latest industrial music and talking in soft tones and being high and philosophical. Sean turned me on to RE/SEARCH magazine: other than punk and industrial, this was my first real foray into counter-culture. One day I'd like to collect those books. I'd read his for hours.
The Village Cafe. I'd cook all night for punks then, slimey and greasy and tired, slump home towards the dome late at night, tipsy from my shift beers. One such night I was later than usual having drank longer than usual after work. My good friend had been bartending and we had such a good time when he was working and I drinking. I'd even been to court for him once as a character witness. Walking past this music venue down the block from the Village, I saw a guy loading equipment into a white van. I stopped to watch a moment then offered to help, citing that I'd helped quite a few bands when I was a bouncer at a punk bar earlier in the decade. The dude said 'sure, thanks!' and we loaded all his equipment in the van all nice and neat. He gave me a beer and I smoked while he told me about the next venue he had coming up and it dawned on me as I sat looking at his face that I knew him. It was Henry Fucking Rollins. I'd met him at Benny's. We had a laugh about that.
Richmond was empty for me without Carol. I mean it sounds like I was on top of the world but really it all paled in comparison to how life felt when Carol and I were hanging out together. But, I had to deal. I got along. I got good grades. Halfway through the first semester without Carol I got a phone call from her asking if I wanted to spend the summer with her in Kentucky. I could help her mom out, which would help Carol out. And I'd have a car to use (good ol' PUTT PUTT!). Sure thing, why not!!! I could see NO downside.
My first train ride. Richmond to Cincinnati; Carol picked me up in her station wagon. I was beaming. I think she was beaming. My buddy! We talked happily all the way back to Louisville. Nearing her house, she stopped at a 4-way stop sign and asked if I wanted to go to her mom's or to her place. I asked which is better? I didn't really want to sleep on a couch I said.
So, Carol tells me that I can either sleep in my own room on a 4 poster double bed at her mom's, OR I can sleep with HER in HER ROOM on HER BED in HER DUPLEX. By this time we have been sitting at the 4- way stop for upwards of 5 minutes. I am now sort of... bloodless and about to pass out. Was... was it happening? Had Carol decided that she was NOT entirely heterosexual? Was she going to bless me with a night in her bed, with her in it? I must have seen quite shocked and perhaps even perplexed. I remember stuttering: (something I do when tired, or overly nervous).. "So, y-y-y-ou want m-m-m-m-e to... " I must have looked ashen. Carol nodded, said something like 'yes yes it's alright, you can come home with me. My bed's big enough" or the like. She said she had to take a shower first before bed, for me to make myself comfy and get on into bed unless I wanted something to eat.
I could smell the T-Gel wafting into the bedroom from the bathroom where Carol was taking a shower with the door half open. Like Pepe Le Pew, I got up and followed the scent to the half open door and just stood there a moment before turning to walk back. There was a hint of spearmint on the air as well... Dr. Bronner's.
Once in her bed I lay there stiff as a board staring at the ceiling a while then I turned over and put the pillow over my head so that Carol would feel comfortable when walking into her room to go to bed. I didn't' want to be staring. I thought it was just nice she'd trusted me enough to join her for a sleep. The smell of her next to me; I could even press my nose almost into her hair ! But only once, and surreptitiously. I felt guilty. I turned over, and stared at the wall. Until I could no longer keep my eyes open, then I lay there in darkness, awake, feet away from the person I loved more than air itself. I have never been so glad to hear an alarm clock go off.
Carol stretched, then reached over me to turn off the clock's alarm. For all of 5 seconds or so she had her weight on me, laying across my chest. I'll never forget it. Being frozen like that, so full of desire and pain and longing and fear. Tears ran down my cheeks but she didn't see. I watched her get dressed. There was Carol, before me, in her underwear. The sight I'd longed to see since day one. And not a thing I could do but cry.
I turned over and waited for her to leave. Then I fell asleep until noon.
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There was quite the list of 'honey-do's left for me so by the time Carol came home there was a huge pile of horsehair carpet padding in the yard (Carol is allergic to horses. Had she led with that information I may well have never hooked up with her) and she ran by it get some things from her room and then left again. I worked until it was all up, and eventually got it into rolls to be picked up later. I'd scrubbed the floor relentlessly with Pine Sol and then Murphy's Oil Soap. When every fiber of equine fur was gone, I felt like I had made my friend's life better, and her mother happy (mom wasn't going to have to pay someone to do the work!) (although I got paid, in spades. Her mom is a wonderful cook and a great listener). By the time the apartment was totally horse hair free it was dinner time and Carol came back and we had a nice meal and watched TV and her brother came over and sat with us ... he in a chair, and Carol and I next to each other but at opposite ends of her couch. At some point, she begins to fall to the left, and ends up laying next to me, her head touching my leg. It's like my entire soul is in that little tiny area of contact. I dare not move. This goes way beyond "don't move, you'll disturb the cat". This was 'don't move, the entire universe is inside this moment'. I did not move, I barely breathed for some time.
When it was bed time, Carol bid her brother good night and he left, and she turned to me and asked if I wanted to stay again.
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My brain said RUN but my body said 'Oh is it ok if I stay here tonight again then? And ... do you think it would be ok if I HELD you this time? I can't sleep otherwise. ' ...
'Sure'.
Same as before, the shower, the half open door, the scent of the shampoo on the air, me in the bed waiting. When Carol had disrobed and put on pajamas, and slipped into bed facing away from me, I slid over to hold her from behind. There was no comfort in it. I was holding a prone leaden carving. Ridgid as a board, I had my arm around her but it was like throwing your arm around a fallen tree. After a few minutes of that, a person can feel more empty than a vacuum. I turned away, and again, lay awake all night, and again the same alarm maneuver, and again, my sleeping until noon-ish when Carol came home for lunch and came up to wake me. I told her I did not sleep a wink. She said nothing. Just got up and went back downstairs... I dressed and went down to eat lunch with her.
It happened again the third night. On the fourth, I opted to go mom's house. I stayed the rest of the summer at mom's. [Carol's mom said to call her 'mom'. Carol nor her brother ever said that this bothered them-- until recently]. I had all I could possibly eat, I had a comfortable bed, air conditioning, a pool table, my own bathroom. All I had to do was help out around the properties. Carol's mom had her own house that she got in the divorce from Carol's dad (and to this day, how those two hooked up I'll NEVER EVER KNOW), plus the duplex Carol lived in and didn't pay rent for according to 'mom' who always let me know that. Then there was Carol's grandparents, who lived across the street from 'mom'. Paw-paw and ... I can't remember her grandmother's pet name. I do remember the house quite well for I was always in it or on it, doing some work. I know those 3 properties like the very back of my own hand, if not better.
Summer passed fairly quickly, I'd kept pretty busy working around the properties. Carol and I had hung out enough to satisfy and I was in the best shape of my life as I walked Phoebe for miles every day, all the way to the park. Every day, like 6 miles or something. How lovely for Carol that must have been, knowing your dog was so happy. I sure loved phipps. But you know, summer comes to a close and I gotta go back and Carol takes me to the train station and makes me promise to come for Christmas break. Of course I will! See you soon C!
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School. Sculpture studio is life, I meet up with some cool kids who have this band and they are always in the sculpture studio hogging the damn machines so I talk with them to pass the time. They are not students there but were at one time and the teachers don't mind them hanging out using the machines. I get some free tickets for not whining about them tying up the equipment. I had no idea what I was in for when I got to the concert hall for the band but soon as they came out on stage I knew it was going to be a blast. I'd only ever seen bits and pieces of their costumes but GWAR was one hell of a blast. I came out of that venue with my leather jacket DRIPPING in green slime. My hair, plastered to my head with fake blood. Just as I am doing that thing where you let stuff drip off your fingertips onto the ground as you stand there wondering just how much crap you are covered in, up comes my sculpture professor on her bicycle. "Seen GWAR eh?" I nod. "looks like it was fun. See you Wednesday" and off she rode. This is the teacher who took my sculptures home with her, as well as invited me to dinner... but not telling me she was married to a man until I arrived. At some point this teacher and Carol and I had a meal, I remember that. How did that come about ?
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Elementary school and junior high and high school were the worst times of my life so far and so when the college cafeteria turned out to be the most fun I'd had since Pasadena, well... it was a welcome occurrence. Sean and me and a few others made food sculptures and food bombs and food suitcases; laughter abounded at our table, we were always reluctant to get up and leave. Would that it had been an artist's collective and we had been friends for years instead of a fleeting semester or two. Sculptures were made, and my prof told me she thought I'd be good at performance art; she taught me about robot wars too. I remembered how I loved Laurie Anderson, and I did a video-- a video which went on to be used by the local battered women's shelter. It was about how one day I was just hanging around and Carol came up to me and grabbed my arm and looked at the scars and asked if I had been sexually abused as a child. I recreated that scene on tape then I recreated the cutting using A/B mixture and a dull razor blade. It was so realistic we had to have a warning up before rolling it. They.Told.Me.To.Write.Things.Out.
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