It's Monday evening. I'm in my study listening to the Mozart piano concerto used in the film "Elvira Madigan". Hauntingly beautiful and evocative music - perfect to think by.
Pam spent the afternoon with us yesterday. None of us enjoyed ourselves as much as we did the first time she visited. We still had fun kayaking on the estuary and the lunch was good. We even completed the tennis match commenced a few weeks back. This time, however, there was less laughter and spontaneity in the air. You can never really go back, never capture again the magic of a particular day or moment, but at least we tried.
For my part, I have been searching for a way to convince Pam that we can only be friends and that she should look elsewhere for a partner. Pam - still optimistic about having a relationship - perhaps tried a little too hard to please and be pleased. Miss Eleven, who gave Pam a tour of the kids' domain upstairs, later told me that she felt Pam had tried to "act all mother and daughter" with her. This is a no-go area where Miss Eleven is concerned. Mr Fifteen - usually oblivious to anything unrelated to sleep, food or sport - afterwards declared: "She's got her eye on you Dad". This might have been flattering had he not added that he considers people over forty should "act their age".
An unsatisfactory situation all round.
This morning, after a very good night's sleep, I awoke determined to sort out a few things. Lately, I have been so caught up in fluffy, romantic things that I have been sadly neglectful of the basics. For example, until I picked the kids up from school on Friday, I had no idea that this last Monday in September was a public holiday in Western Australia. (Why do we celebrate the Queen's Birthday in September when she was born in April? It's crazy.) Even worse, I'd somehow convinced myself that the school holidays started next week. They don't. They start from today! So I have every reason to sort myself out if the three of us are to enjoy the next two weeks as much as we usually do.
Firstly - and this seems a little sneaky, even to me - I rang Tony, my fellow psychologist and friend, to whom I recommended Pam some weeks ago. I told him that his advice to Pam - that she start dating and make friends - was excellent advice but that I'd appreciate it if he could encourage her to broaden her horizons. Unprofessional I know, but we did not talk very specifically and he had no difficulty in understanding my verbal shorthand - he took the hint gracefully.
Secondly - and this is really difficult to explain unless you've had considerable experience of Catholic guilt - I decided that I really need to let Steve know that it is driving me nuts to be enjoying afternoons in bed with a guy. I also feel as though I'm using him. Either that or I fear we might fall in love. If you're Catholic then this will make perfect sense. Enjoy yourself at your peril - guilt will soon follow. Now I'm not Catholic but I'm sure a nun presided over my conception! I can do guilt with the best of them.
There is no in-between with guilt. It either causes me to overeat madly or it leads me to starve myself as some sort of penance. This morning it made me hungry so I roused the kids and we all pigged out on bacon and eggs and fried bread. At least a million calories and heaven only knows how much cholesterol, but guilt must be appeased! Breakfast over, I printed off the original word documents of almost every blog I've ever posted at the LPSG site and grabbed a couple of old journals. I rang Steve to ask if he could cope with a visitor. He was having a bad morning - I guess you might call it artist's block - and assured me he'd welcome the distraction. I told him we'd need copious amounts of coffee - more verbal shorthand - which signalled that I was intent on meaningful conversation.
Having extracted a promise that they would not destroy each other or the house while I was out, I made up some sandwiches for the kids' lunch and set out for Steve's place. I stopped en route and bought some fruit and a bunch of flowers. I was not in a hearts and flowers mood - I was too far into my focused and determined mode to be feeling sentimental - but the flowers sort of called out to me and I figured Steve could always use them as a still life subject. The fruit was for our lunch.
I sometimes dream of making a sweeping and dramatic entrance and being "the cynosure of all eyes". A bit difficult when you turn up at an isolated beach shack in shorts and a T-shirt, carrying a bag of fruit and an unwieldy bunch of flowers. So I settled for purposeful. Steve and I hugged briefly; I thrust the flowers and the fruit at him and barrelled on into the kitchen. Even Helen Keller would have noticed that I was a man on a mission. Some men can allegedly multi-task - maybe even concentrate on two things at once - unless of course they have an erection. I tend to be distressingly single-minded - whether erect or not - and Steve was well aware that I wanted to get something off my chest.
He nodded in the direction of the coffee percolator and raised one eyebrow. Plonking myself down in a chair, much like a truculent child, I nodded assent.
"What's that in your pocket?" asked Steve. "Or are you just pleased to see me?"
I pulled the wads of paper and two soft-backed journals from the long side-pocket of my board shorts.
"Some stuff I'd like you to read ... if you've got the time."
"A lot of stuff" Steve said. "What's the plan? Are you going to sit there glaring at me the whole time I'm reading? I don't think I could concentrate. I'm assuming you do want me to concentrate?"
"Fine" I responded, putting my coffee mug on the table and rising to my feet. "I couldn't bear to watch anyway. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
I let myself out and drove to the nearest beach. It was a lovely warm morning but the waves were poor for body-surfing, so I decided to run along the water's edge where the sand is firmest. I hate jogging at the best of times and this was not the best of times. After about five kilometres of dreary plodding, I entered the water to around waist-height and waded vigorously back to my starting point. After all, I had skipped the gym this morning and this was an opportunity to work out a little while fretting over the fact that someone was browsing through many of my most intimate thoughts. So I jogged again and then repeated the process of wading back as fast as I could.
Almost three hours after I'd left, I returned to Steve's place. The front door was open. I went inside without knocking. The kitchen was deserted. My papers and the journals were neatly stacked on the table beside an ashtray containing several cigarette butts. I found Steve on the back porch. He was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the veranda railing with his eyes closed.
"I didn't know you smoked" I said.
"I took it up again about thirty minutes after you left" he replied, and when he opened his eyes and looked at me I could see that he had been crying. "I started with the piece you wrote about a boy named Tom" he continued. That's when I went to the shop and bought some cigarettes."
"I'm sorry" I said. "I'm so clumsy. I just wanted you to know more about me. I wanted you to understand my feelings and it seems I write far better than I talk."
"You have no need to apologise" he said. "You've listened to me moan and bleat about how my life has been a shower of shit and all the while you've had all that horror and sadness inside you."
He held up his hand when I opened my mouth to protest and he swept on passionately. "I pursued you. I wanted you so badly. I lusted after you. And I thought you seemed lonely. But it's not just loneliness,is it? You're lost and you're confused and you're vulnerable. You were coping just fine and I've made things worse for you."
"No" I protested. "It's not like that at all. I'm fine. I have a good life. Too good. I've been feeling guilty because we had such a wonderful day last Friday - feeing like I'm using you. Things are rarely just black or white. I wanted you to know that I do have deep feelings for you but that it's ..."
"Complicated?" he suggested, and we both managed to raise a smile.
"if you can put those cigarettes away for a while" I said "maybe we can have something to eat, drink some stewed coffee and talk about things less emotionally."
And that's what we did. Steve inhaled deeply one more time, forcing two streams of smoke out through his nostrils, and then two damaged guys sat down and talked with open hearts and open minds.
Pam spent the afternoon with us yesterday. None of us enjoyed ourselves as much as we did the first time she visited. We still had fun kayaking on the estuary and the lunch was good. We even completed the tennis match commenced a few weeks back. This time, however, there was less laughter and spontaneity in the air. You can never really go back, never capture again the magic of a particular day or moment, but at least we tried.
For my part, I have been searching for a way to convince Pam that we can only be friends and that she should look elsewhere for a partner. Pam - still optimistic about having a relationship - perhaps tried a little too hard to please and be pleased. Miss Eleven, who gave Pam a tour of the kids' domain upstairs, later told me that she felt Pam had tried to "act all mother and daughter" with her. This is a no-go area where Miss Eleven is concerned. Mr Fifteen - usually oblivious to anything unrelated to sleep, food or sport - afterwards declared: "She's got her eye on you Dad". This might have been flattering had he not added that he considers people over forty should "act their age".
An unsatisfactory situation all round.
This morning, after a very good night's sleep, I awoke determined to sort out a few things. Lately, I have been so caught up in fluffy, romantic things that I have been sadly neglectful of the basics. For example, until I picked the kids up from school on Friday, I had no idea that this last Monday in September was a public holiday in Western Australia. (Why do we celebrate the Queen's Birthday in September when she was born in April? It's crazy.) Even worse, I'd somehow convinced myself that the school holidays started next week. They don't. They start from today! So I have every reason to sort myself out if the three of us are to enjoy the next two weeks as much as we usually do.
Firstly - and this seems a little sneaky, even to me - I rang Tony, my fellow psychologist and friend, to whom I recommended Pam some weeks ago. I told him that his advice to Pam - that she start dating and make friends - was excellent advice but that I'd appreciate it if he could encourage her to broaden her horizons. Unprofessional I know, but we did not talk very specifically and he had no difficulty in understanding my verbal shorthand - he took the hint gracefully.
Secondly - and this is really difficult to explain unless you've had considerable experience of Catholic guilt - I decided that I really need to let Steve know that it is driving me nuts to be enjoying afternoons in bed with a guy. I also feel as though I'm using him. Either that or I fear we might fall in love. If you're Catholic then this will make perfect sense. Enjoy yourself at your peril - guilt will soon follow. Now I'm not Catholic but I'm sure a nun presided over my conception! I can do guilt with the best of them.
There is no in-between with guilt. It either causes me to overeat madly or it leads me to starve myself as some sort of penance. This morning it made me hungry so I roused the kids and we all pigged out on bacon and eggs and fried bread. At least a million calories and heaven only knows how much cholesterol, but guilt must be appeased! Breakfast over, I printed off the original word documents of almost every blog I've ever posted at the LPSG site and grabbed a couple of old journals. I rang Steve to ask if he could cope with a visitor. He was having a bad morning - I guess you might call it artist's block - and assured me he'd welcome the distraction. I told him we'd need copious amounts of coffee - more verbal shorthand - which signalled that I was intent on meaningful conversation.
Having extracted a promise that they would not destroy each other or the house while I was out, I made up some sandwiches for the kids' lunch and set out for Steve's place. I stopped en route and bought some fruit and a bunch of flowers. I was not in a hearts and flowers mood - I was too far into my focused and determined mode to be feeling sentimental - but the flowers sort of called out to me and I figured Steve could always use them as a still life subject. The fruit was for our lunch.
I sometimes dream of making a sweeping and dramatic entrance and being "the cynosure of all eyes". A bit difficult when you turn up at an isolated beach shack in shorts and a T-shirt, carrying a bag of fruit and an unwieldy bunch of flowers. So I settled for purposeful. Steve and I hugged briefly; I thrust the flowers and the fruit at him and barrelled on into the kitchen. Even Helen Keller would have noticed that I was a man on a mission. Some men can allegedly multi-task - maybe even concentrate on two things at once - unless of course they have an erection. I tend to be distressingly single-minded - whether erect or not - and Steve was well aware that I wanted to get something off my chest.
He nodded in the direction of the coffee percolator and raised one eyebrow. Plonking myself down in a chair, much like a truculent child, I nodded assent.
"What's that in your pocket?" asked Steve. "Or are you just pleased to see me?"
I pulled the wads of paper and two soft-backed journals from the long side-pocket of my board shorts.
"Some stuff I'd like you to read ... if you've got the time."
"A lot of stuff" Steve said. "What's the plan? Are you going to sit there glaring at me the whole time I'm reading? I don't think I could concentrate. I'm assuming you do want me to concentrate?"
"Fine" I responded, putting my coffee mug on the table and rising to my feet. "I couldn't bear to watch anyway. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
I let myself out and drove to the nearest beach. It was a lovely warm morning but the waves were poor for body-surfing, so I decided to run along the water's edge where the sand is firmest. I hate jogging at the best of times and this was not the best of times. After about five kilometres of dreary plodding, I entered the water to around waist-height and waded vigorously back to my starting point. After all, I had skipped the gym this morning and this was an opportunity to work out a little while fretting over the fact that someone was browsing through many of my most intimate thoughts. So I jogged again and then repeated the process of wading back as fast as I could.
Almost three hours after I'd left, I returned to Steve's place. The front door was open. I went inside without knocking. The kitchen was deserted. My papers and the journals were neatly stacked on the table beside an ashtray containing several cigarette butts. I found Steve on the back porch. He was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the veranda railing with his eyes closed.
"I didn't know you smoked" I said.
"I took it up again about thirty minutes after you left" he replied, and when he opened his eyes and looked at me I could see that he had been crying. "I started with the piece you wrote about a boy named Tom" he continued. That's when I went to the shop and bought some cigarettes."
"I'm sorry" I said. "I'm so clumsy. I just wanted you to know more about me. I wanted you to understand my feelings and it seems I write far better than I talk."
"You have no need to apologise" he said. "You've listened to me moan and bleat about how my life has been a shower of shit and all the while you've had all that horror and sadness inside you."
He held up his hand when I opened my mouth to protest and he swept on passionately. "I pursued you. I wanted you so badly. I lusted after you. And I thought you seemed lonely. But it's not just loneliness,is it? You're lost and you're confused and you're vulnerable. You were coping just fine and I've made things worse for you."
"No" I protested. "It's not like that at all. I'm fine. I have a good life. Too good. I've been feeling guilty because we had such a wonderful day last Friday - feeing like I'm using you. Things are rarely just black or white. I wanted you to know that I do have deep feelings for you but that it's ..."
"Complicated?" he suggested, and we both managed to raise a smile.
"if you can put those cigarettes away for a while" I said "maybe we can have something to eat, drink some stewed coffee and talk about things less emotionally."
And that's what we did. Steve inhaled deeply one more time, forcing two streams of smoke out through his nostrils, and then two damaged guys sat down and talked with open hearts and open minds.