Sputterpub's Blog

Most of the time we’re in sync with our friends and family and acquaintances, enough so that we can converse and communicate. But now and then we have a surreal encounter, where our assessment of the situation turns out to be utterly incorrect. Those are remarkable experiences.

Like the conversation Joe and I had, in the small eucalyptus grove outside the kibbutz. We’d been a couple for about a month, and I was trying to break up with him, but my words weren’t working.

We’d met in Jerusalem and our initial chemistry was fierce. We disagreed about every subject for most of our first evening. Then we started conversing privately, at the back of the group of us who were walking to get midnight coffee, and something clicked. We shifted from argument to enticement and neither of us (discussing the miracle afterward) knew who started it.

We became a couple. He was adorable but way too much trouble. He had a flexible compact body, fine-pored olive skin, thick shining wavy chocolate hair, and eyes to match. He told stories about his past that couldn’t have been true. They made good narrative, but didn’t advance our intimacy. Which at first was satisfying and somewhat kinky, physically, but began to wither in the fable-full environment (I wanted to type “fabulous,” which would be precisely correct but misleading).

Joe attracted trouble. He was impulsive, gymnastic, and flamboyant; he’d try running up the walls of the old city and flipping back to my side, or cartwheeling along a parapet, or dashing after a rude bus driver, and then throw exaggerated words at the issue, so if we were confronted by someone with any level of authority our encounter was always prolonged by Joe’s manner of “explanation.”

The second night we spent together included a walk which landed us on the prime minister’s side lawn and led to our encounter with an armed guard. It’s the only time I’ve ever been at the target end of armament, and it didn’t help when Joe kept whispering that the gun was Russian-made and prone to misfiring. Our first Sunday included a minor traffic accident and our adoption of a flea-infested gray kitten we named Emmet (I left the cat with Joe when I went to the kibbutz, and I never did get a sensible report about what happened to him, but on the next visit I made to Jerusalem, Emmet was not around).

What started out as exciting and almost romantic, soon devolved into a form of tiresome pomposity. I’d never intended to make a permanent thing out of Joe&me (running as I was, away from the gap between college and the next step, away from an old relationship with my depressed college boyfriend and a new one with my formerly-platonic best buddy).

I was settled on the kibbutz with two travel companions, and Joe was a first-year student at the reform rabbinate in Jerusalem (Joe was the least fit of the students we met, to take on the rabbinical yarmulke, but there were several others in his dorm). It wasn’t like we were seeing each other that often. My friends and I made it to Jerusalem about one weekend a month, and Joe rode his funky scooter to visit me now and then, so we were getting together about every week and a half. The sex continued to be gratifying. The conversation not so much. And the escapades became drags.

So I set out to end it. Walking together under the peeling trees I said the words that work in most cases. Statements about needing more space. Comments about the problem being me, not him. No matter what I said, Joe responded with understanding, suggestions for how to give me what I needed while staying a couple, beseeching, pleas. He was not attractive and I was not effective.

I’m not proud of it, but I resorted to sarcasm (I wonder if couples would get anywhere, argument-wise, if they agreed to refrain from sarcasm and hyperbole). I began mimicking poor Joe.

“I don’t know how to be close to you,” I mock-whined. “I want to be there for you, but I’m not sure how. I’ve tried and tried, but I just don’t think I’m right for you. I’m not good enough for you, baby. You can do so much better. I want to free you to seek out what you truly deserve.”

I almost ducked as I made those declarations. I half-expected Joe to smack my face or sneer coldly at me. I was floored by what he did instead.

He stopped dead in his forward movement. He turned his body to face me fully. “Thank God,” he breathed at me. “I never thought you’d say it. I’m ready to work with you and for you, my darling. Now that you realize what you need to do, we’ll be even closer.”

Yeesh. And I’m usually articulate! I had to resort to mean words to get Joe to understand. I don’t like cruelty, but there have been occasions when someone’s hopes had to be dashed, and I’m sorry to report that I overdid the dashing.

I guess it happened again with Guy. I met a man, enjoyed a strong eccentric connection, and landed in a relationship where we were in such different places that communication was impossible.

It was after a backpack trip. It had been decades since I’d hit the trail with my needs on my back, but I agreed to accompany the man who had been my college lover and had become a platonic friend (he recovered from the depression but I married the other guy anyway).
Matt hiked the Sierras every summer. He no longer lived nearby but we chatted on the phone at least twice a year, on our birthdays, and we’d somehow cooked up the plan for me to explore Evolution Valley with him.

I did the walk. I endured the boot discomfort, used fly-infested outhouses when they were around, suffered the ever-bent posture of a burdened hiker. There were some beautiful mornings, alone as the sunlight swept the floor of whatever meadow we inhabited, but the best part of the trip was when it ended. We arrived at Mono Hot Springs, dumped our packs, paid for extra long showers, and separated to individual wooden water-rooms, where I (for one) used up the whole bar of soap. Best shower ever.

When I’d toweled off and donned my cleanest clothes, I sat back on the porch bench outside the shower rooms and waited for Matt. The sun bathed my clean face. I enjoyed the ecstasy of release from weight and dirt and dust and boots.

Then Matt emerged and we sauntered across the pavement, to the place that served food. I won’t call it a restaurant.

The salad reminded me of Wyoming. The mac-and-cheese probably started in a blue box. But it was a comfortable woody room and physical well-being made it all good. There were three other diners in the place with us: a fat couple who looked like they worked nearby and a solitary older guy, short and gray-bearded, at work with pen and paper and what looked like a huge mug of coffee. His table was near ours.

In the course of our meal we chatted with him. He started it, by commenting on our conversation. That wasn’t a rude act; it was typical of the routine friendliness one encounters in any camping situation (the truth is, it’s easier to be alone among the city crowds than in sparsely populated areas).

His name was Guy, and he described himself as a hiking guide poet. He was working on poetry at his table. I didn’t tell him that I wrote verse myself, but I was chatty. I was vivacious and interesting. Not because I found Guy attractive or was trying to charm Matt, but due to the simple relief of long-desired physical comfort.

When Matt and I made a move to leave, Guy beseeched me to write to him (this is history, far back enough that email wasn’t that common in the city, let alone in the mountains). I agreed. I didn’t mind agreeing, but I wasn’t excited.

My first letter to him, which I came upon recently in reviewing old papers, was a handwritten full page. I included a sonnet I’d been composing on the backpack trip. I didn’t urge him to write back, but I provided my office address (this wasn’t coyness – I preferred getting mail at the office, because my crazy retriever seemed to want to eat the postman, so sometimes my home delivery was skipped).

Well, Guy fired back with an envelope that required two stamps. He raved about my poem, warned me not to sign up for the writing class I mentioned because “if it ain’t broke it don’t need fixing,” and told me he read my sonnet to two Fresno State professors who praised it.

His letter contained photocopied enclosures from some of his celebrity friends. It appeared that Guy was a name dropper (I was reminded of an old fun phrase: “Oh, my foot! Ouch! Someone just dropped a name on it!”) He mentioned that he was only writing to two people now: me and Julie Harris. He added that he met and dated her when she came to the Bay Area the previous July, and one of the photocopies was a postcard from her to him. It was anything but a love letter (“I wish you happy days” seemed more like a warm response to fan mail.) He also included a note from a movie director, with the salutation using Guy’s first and last name (hardly a way to address a friend). It appeared that Guy had a habit of writing to famous people, enclosing his poetry, and only noting the few who replied. He said he was describing these encounters to me in order to “reaffirm my status so you’ll really hear my voice when I speak to you.” Yeah right.

I appreciated his appreciation for my sonnet, but was otherwise unimpressed. I didn’t find Guy attractive. I was willing to continue the correspondence for awhile, but I was uncomfortable with his latest beseech: that I agree to visit him in San Leandro, after he came down from the mountains in the fall. That had zero appeal for me.

I wrote to him two weeks later. One full page. The opening paragraph recited our initial conversation and reminded him that I had consented to his first plea: that I start the correspondence. I said I did so because I said I would, and by writing I had met him at least halfway. The middle paragraph (the longest) described my excitement and nervousness about showing him my poetry, followed by detailed comments about his comments on the sonnet.

My second-to-last paragraph, right before signing off, read:

“I hope you can understand my reluctance to meet just yet. I feel no need or desire for that meeting now, and I don’t see why I should do it solely to accommodate you. If this is worthwhile, and I expect it is, then it contains room for both of us.”

I thought I put that pretty well. Apparently not. His response was immediate. After a few poem comments, he penned:

“Ultimately, the penultimate paragraph in your letter makes it impossible for us ever to become friends. You are self-absorbed beyond reason. This really upsets me; but, honey, you are a ball-buster and (after three wars and loneliness and despair beyond belief) I’ve no balls left.”

He wasn’t done yet. He signed with his last name only but added this postscript:

“P.S. James Earl Jones phoned me a few days ago, 10 pm, out of the blue. We chatted for 20 minutes, met the next day at Stacey’s and got a neat friendship going. Some things are simple; some impossible.”

Huh? What did I say? Talk about “same planet – different worlds.” I never paid attention to that postscript till now; I’m chuckling as I try to figure out if Stacey’s was the old bookstore in San Francisco (and Guy dashed down from the mountains for this meeting) or if it was the name of the diner place where we met, and James Earl Jones had turned into mountain man for the occasion. Oh well.

I came across this old correspondence while gleaning through all my paper files, rescuing the editable and shredding the others. I’m writing this so I can now dump the paper.

But I also spent a little time remembering Guy. Possibly the most self-absorbed man I’ve ever met (the winning contestants before have been female). Our encounter was 22 years ago. I figured he must be dead by now, and I wondered who would have attended the funeral. So I googled him. Wow. Nothing came up. Nothing.

What must it be like, to have made so little impression on earth that you’re not even on Google?

Emmy spent two weeks in Paris when she was 47. The occasion was her parents’ 50th wedding anniversary; it was her father’s favorite city and he talked her mother into taking the offspring there.

Her dad was experienced at Paris. He told Emmy and her brothers the secret to social success. “Whenever you enter a commercial establishment, greet the proprietor and use ‘Madame’ or ‘Monsieur.’” That’s when Emmy realized such courtesy isn’t customary in the States; most consumers dart through a store doorway and head for what they think they want, and only look for an employee if they need assistance.

Emmy followed the advice. “Bonjour, Madame (or Monsieur)” she’d say, as soon as she made eye contact with the person behind the counter or among the stock. And it worked. She never encountered any of the ugly American treatment she’d heard about.

Emmy and her brothers and spouses were housed in a Left Bank hotel. Their parents rented an apartment for themselves, two blocks away. Everyone spent cocktail time in the apartment. Everyone checked out the books in the shelves and the photos on the walls.

There was a slim volume by Gertrude Stein there. From it Emmy learned the origin of the Madame/Monsieur greetings she’d been using. Stein wrote that, after the revolution, it was an indication of equality and respect to use the same honorific for everyone. No more classes in that society.

Emmy told her work colleague about that after she returned. Mark was a good friend and an interesting person. He had multiple degrees, excellent taste in wine, rugs, and opera, and an awesome vocabulary. When she described what she’d learned from Stein he said, “Well yes. Maybe.” He added that Ms. Stein was known for making up facts, so there was no way to know from just reading her if her statements about the use of Madame/Monsieur were true.

That was a decade ago. Recently Emmy has been reviewing all the paper files in her study. Rereading and then either saving online or not, but recycling the paper. Last week she encountered this journal entry, from a February 1:

Eustoma – Pantheistically speaking, there are low gods for every human purpose. And low is good, for it means the godlets are closer to us. Zeus and Memory had a tenth daughter, Eustoma, but the men who made use of her nine sisters had none for a muse of eating. February is her sacred month (every month is precious to one of the sisters, except July and August, which were named/claimed for people).

February is from februum, an old rite of purification. So the first project of this convention is the work of purification. We approach it with movement.

Her attention was arrested. She smiled slightly and reread the paragraphs. She had a vague recollection of looking up “February,” but it was “Eustoma” grabbing her. She did a quick Internet search.

Nothing. Emmy tried searching “Muses.” The only reference to a tenth muse was about Plato’s appreciation for Sappho.

Emmy knows the Internet doesn’t actually include all knowledge. But as she searched she felt the growing certainty that she’d made it up. Her smile widened. She’d written that journal entry three years before the Paris trip.

Eustoma. Right. Emmy did some classical Greek in college. She knows “eu” is “good” and “stoma” is “mouth.” Sure as she gets her own self, that diary entry was a creative-writing start-of-yet-another-diet.

Big surprise. One of Emmy’s significant parts is an eating disorder, and she’s been starting diets, most days, for 43 years. She isn’t obese, but no one would describe her as willowy either.

Without any attempt to fact-check, she’s sure Gertrude Stein was a fellow traveler. Stein seemed to have no problem with her body image as a mature individual, but the young woman was bulky, and Jewish, and verbal, and not an athlete – how not?

Emmy is no fool. She has been paying attention. She knows how to lose weight, keep it off, and even cure a disorder. She could write a book about it, except she’s pretty sure everyone has to discover the steps for herself and personalize them, so reading the book would only be good for the author and publisher and marketer.

She understands that it takes six weeks to form new neural pathways in the region of habit. You have to give a program that. And it takes at least a year to complete the grieving process when a loved one dies – giving up an addiction is like losing a dear friend, so you also have to give yourself that time.

She says your campaign, for that’s what it is, requires the same thing that a military or political campaign demands: strategy and tactics. Strategy is what the general comes up with in the war room – flags in the map and bullet points and all that. Tactics are what the sergeant uses on the battlefield, endeavoring to implement the strategy in an environment of changing and challenging conditions.

It’s not about will power!

But Emmy also understands there are forces working against success. Leaving aside the subject of epidemic metabolic disorder, there’s a nostalgia component in everyone’s longterm bad habits. There’s something about engaging in those old behaviors that makes a person remember youth, feel like herself…

And there’s also the “what next?” issue. Emmy always knew her mother and aunts wanted her to lose weight to “be her best,” and she was pretty sure if she resolved that imperfection, her mother/critics would come up with the next improvement on their invisible list. Holding onto the weight prevented that development.

But the biggest obstacle to the cure may be evolution. As far as Emmy can determine, people have evolved to be quick-adapters. Humans seem much better at fixing a small immediate problem than at stepping back to sense the big picture and overhaul the system. People respond to immediate gratification, which is what tasty extra food provides. No one is adept at waiting for the wise result of a long plan.

All true. Probably useless. Emmy is approaching 60 now, and not as large as she used to be. But if she’s honest, and she usually is that, her relative trimness is not owing to any of the above wisdoms. Emmy is single and pretty happy with her state. She likes living alone. Being single means she can opt to skip the large meals that make part of holiday culture, the large dinners expected in a “normal” family. And over the last decade Emmy has learned that she suffers from chronic periodontal disease. It isn’t her fault – it’s anatomical and without modern science she’d be losing her teeth. But she undergoes “procedures” often. Each one means a tender post-operative mouth that won’t tolerate hard, sharp or sweet food. And a prescription for painkillers that make television interesting and food less appealing.

The eating disorder wasn’t her fault. Neither is her cure.