For some reason tonight I am swept with waves of soft feelings, not hard feelings, toward the people in my life -- the women, the children, the men, family, friends, colleagues, lovers. Sometimes I get so caught up in story telling that my life feels like a movie, i.e., imaginary. Made-up characters acting in an invented plot.
One of my favorite novels, Passage to India by E.M. Forster, is the perfect illustration of the relationship between fact and fiction and how the truth in many matters is ultimately unknowable. The key scene in that book concerns an English woman and an Indian man inside a cave, and what did or did not happen in there. It's a powerful story about forbidden attractions, the consequences of interracial relationships in racist societies, and how "truth” depends on who is doing the telling.
This is one reason for my melancholy this evening. I am feeling sorry for those about whom I write. It's always possible I could unwittingly do them damage, by invading their privacy, or conveying an inappropriate sense of entitlement to elements of their stories that they alone own.
In fact, I should say as clearly as possible that I know these musings of mine are mine alone. No one represented here should be construed to resemble any living person, unless they are related to me by blood. Even then, since so many of my kids are great writers, whatever imbalance in our story-telling urge now sits in my favor, the natural order of things dictates they should have many years after I fall silent to set the record straight -- as they see it.
Nothing would please me more than if my children, ex-wives, friends and lovers told their stories of me in whatever form they choose, without regard to what they think I might think of those versions of truth. If it feels like truth to them, that will be good enough to me. And, should I look "worse" in their eyes, so be it. I doubt anyone could be harder on me ultimately than I am on myself. The story telling I try to do here is my attempt to give back, in real time, what better people than I am have given me. What I have left now are words, and these words are for those I love, including people I've not yet met but will love, and especially for those who have struggled to love me in return.
These days, emotionally between my J's, as it were, I have no idea whether J-2 and I will forge anything more than a sweet friendship. This is the same place I found myself in two years ago with J-1!
Tonight I feel a wave of tenderness for J-1 and for J-2. Two special women, as different from each other in almost every way as could be imagined, but similar in one essential way. Their deep melancholies. Maybe my role is to find souls such as these, introduce what J-1 once said was the "magic" of my words. Because I do seem to see straight into their souls, right to where the sadness lies. It's okay to cry with me. I understand.
Beauty, art, romance, love -- all spring from an essential inner sadness, a yearning to connect.
Good night, pretty lady visiting Biloxi.
Good night, pretty lady visiting San Francisco.
Everything keeps growing according to nature's plan.
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