Knocks Me Off My Feet
It happened between the sheets but not the way you might think. I; dressed in my tattered pajama pants, the ones with the dime size hole in the left leg (I can't bear to toss them), with messy hair, no makeup, not even lip gloss, experienced my greatest fantasy with a man, who is also a dead author.
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Years ago, I learned quickly to keep my unique predilection private, when a friend of mine said point blank, "What difference does it make?" After I had asked one too many impertinent questions. We were at our monthly book club, where anyway, in theory we put more effort into discussing the wine we were drinking and what was going on in our lives in comparison to the amount of time we spent talking about any given book. The book we had just read was Beloved by Toni Morrison, the year was 1990 and at the time Toni Morrison was very much alive. Although I loved the book, it was the first time it occured to me I felt just as interested in the writer, as the writing. Curiously, at the time I had no interest in writing, so why would I need to know if Toni Morrison pulled on her pants one leg at a time? Why would I feel the need to know everything there is to know about her? Even if I was interested in writing, "What gives?" Said the same friend. "Stop obsessing about whoToni Morrison is as a person and why she wrote what she wrote. We are here to talk about the book." My friend's words pinched me, a little, but when she took another swig of wine, so did I. No hard feelings. She was right. It was one of those moments where a person close to you can see something in you that you can't readily see in yourself.
As time went on, long after my book club was disbanded, and I had more time to dedicate to reading, this tendency of mine only intensified. I would get part way into a book, and be smitten, not just with the words, but more so with, "Who is this incredible mind that was able to craft this story?" I had to google them, read everything about them, look at pictures of them, always before I could finish the book.
Recently, I fell in love again with Sherwood Anderson. I remember reading a short story written by him when I was young. The name of the story was "The Discovery of a Father" and it knocked me off my feet. It was the moment I fell in love with fiction. In trying to depict my feelings at the time, I would have to say I felt an intense level of intimacy previously unknown to me. I fell in love with his words in a way that I had been unable to replicate in any intimate relationship. That may sound sad. And I suppose it should have been something discussed with a therapist. I presume my feelings rang true because there were few people I could trust enough to experience a deep level of intimacy with compared to the magic that was happening between the page and my mind. Currently, I can't say there is any fiction I love more than I love my family, my dog and my close friends (maybe), so who needs therapy? Still and all, besides dearly departed Sherwood, there are countless other dead authors I have developed a bond with. Truth be told, and please don't judge, I keep pictures of Sherwood Anderson on my phone that I look at from time to time. I once sent one of them to my sister and told her it was a picture of my dead boyfriend. She totally gets me. She laughed.
This feeling happened to me again the other night with James Baldwin. Insomnia has plagued me, but is pretty much a thing of the past for me, so it was unusual for me to be awake at 2 a.m.
James is dead, has been since 1987, and from what I have read about him, he preferred men over women, or he may have been neutral when it comes to his sexuality, but that does not mean an old heterosexual lady can't crush on him. I am old, I'm not dead, and anyway my crush does not have anything to do with physicality, it is mental. Undoubtedly the level of intimacy I felt with him at 2 a.m. in the morning was stronger than the smell of bleach. I had recently finished reading his novel, If Beale Street Could Talk, and of course, due to my standard operating procedure, part way into the book I had to read his bio. It is always slightly depressing for me when I finish reading a book that I love, although at the conclusion of this particular book, I was also ecstatic, applauding his masterpiece. In reading about his life, I knew what he was up against to get his due recognition. As well, I was sad, because I had reached the end. Untypically, I decided not to wait until such a time as I would forget some of the story, to reread it. It was too good, so I read it again, knowing it would not be the last time. And then I had to pick up something else he had written, non-fiction, The Fire Next Time.
Alone in the dark, between the sheets at 2 a.m. I continued reading his words on my kindle and my heart caught when I read "To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread."
This man was a teacher, a genius, I do believe born to bring us a message, and I, an old lady, was alone with him in my bed, flabbergasted, overwhelmed, in a good way through his words. My goosebumps told me I had to get up and savor the moment. Truth be told, it could have also been my bladder. That does happen to us old folks, but it is not specifically germane to the overall moment. I stopped at the back door and looked out at my yard, my sanctuary, my safe place. It felt right to do so. There was just enough light from the moon to see there was no wind. The trees were unperturbed, not a rustle of a leaf was observed, and suddenly, I heard what sounded like the roar of the wind. It seemed odd to me, as I kept looking at the dead air to hear this roar, but I was not afraid, and considered if it was only my furnace cranking on. It wasn't. My eyes searched outside for movement again. None. You tell me? I do not believe in ghosts, but as a lover of fiction, I would love to believe it was James sending a message, coming to thank me for giving life to him through his words at 2 a.m. in the morning. I got back into bed feeling so connected to him, instead of continuing on with his words, I was compelled to listen to his voice in an old interview on youtube. I lay still, listening to him, watching him, letting him know, if possible, it is I who must thank him.
The standard bucket list is in my rear view. I have spent my time at the beach, I have raised a beautiful family, I live in a beautiful home, I am retired with more than enough money to meet my basic needs. But I will continue to seek my next great fantasy with an author, dead or alive, that will speak to me through the wind or enlighten me in their own chosen way with their words between the sheets be it at 2, 3, 4 a.m., whenever. So be it.
And about that bucket list. Afterthought; I stand corrected. New list. Before I die, I would like to go to visit Clyde, Ohio, Sherwood Anderson's hometown where his literary legacy lives on at the local museum and library.
And after that? Let's see where the wind decides to take me.