Something happened yesterday that I felt I needed to document. To "tell" it to "someone." To write a Journal entry even if I don't keep a journal. So here goes:
Pat Grauer hosts a bi-weekly Zoom session of the folks from the School of the Spirit's 11th class. I attend from time to time, but its start time of 6:00 on Saturday evening is inconvenient -- and, especially because I'm not a regular attender, I'm not going to ask anyone to change the timing.
In setting up yesterday's Zoom, Pat suggested that we have pen and paper nearby and think of an introductory phrase -- not a sentence! -- from which everyone can write up what occurs to them that starts with that phrase. And, since it was the day before Valentine's Day, it should have something to do with love. She allotted 5 minutes for each entry.
She started the ball rolling with her phrase, which was "My first kiss was..." And we were all supposed to use that in our response. I thinking about what I would write, Ifelt that revisiting this time and place and event(s) were touching on something very tender. That's "tender" in its unpleasant sense. Your-skin-after-it-gets-burned kind of tender. And it wasn't at all clear why that happened.
There were six people in the Zoom session, and -- after the 5-minute writing allocation -- four of them read theirs out loud. And they tended to be sweet and silly as you might suppose. As they read their stories, my discomfort only went deeper. It felt like something was lurking in my "time and space and event(s)" that I couldn't share, among other reasons (i.e., it promised to be embarrassing), I really didn't understand what it was that troubled me so. I couldn't put it in words and I didn't know why not.
Okay, I can tell you about "My first kiss," and see if that opens anything:
I hadn't dated or even had any kind of friendship with a girl until I was a Senior in High School. Then I met Gail, who was -- I think -- a Junior at the time. I think we met because we both came out for the school's tennis team. Which means it was not only Senior year, but springtime as well. In other words, late in the school calendar.
My first kiss took place at a birthday party that summer -- I think for one of Gail's friends -- that took place someone's basement. Maybe14 or so teenage kids, most of whom were, as I recall, paired up. Gail and I found ourselves a corner at some distance from the rest of the partygoers and she had her back to the wall when I got close and kissed her. I think the energy that caused this to happen was basically hers, not mine. I felt the world open up. Walking home the several miles to my parents' home, I felt like Gene Kelly in that movie.
I guess I fell really hard for her. Among other things, my older brother, who seldom said anything guy-to-guy to me, told me to lighten up. Don't take it too seriously. There are a lot of girls in the world. But, as will happen in situations like this, I "knew" that Richard simply didn't understand. I knew deep in my heart that this was The Real Thing.
Through the summer, Gail and I were pretty much inseparable. And, when the opportunity allowed, did some intimate touching without having sex. She taught me how to do French kissing.
When I went off to Drexel in Philadelphia, Gail and I made all sorts of promises to each other about writing and occasionally phoning (this was decades before the cellphone!), and my visits back to Baltimore were, as I recall, basically dropping off some laundry for Mom to wash and borrowing the family car to take Gail out bowling or somesuch.
As I started getting the "feel" of college life and meeting so many other people, I began to realize how many really smart and aware people there were in the world. And that marrying Gail would likely mean a humdrum middle-class existence in suburban Baltimore. And that I was capable of living a much larger existence. Academic things that meant a lot to me seemed to be totally lost on Gail. And I knew that she couldn't change. And that I couldn't change.
And I met another girl who was mysterious and wonderful and smart and was someone who would tolerate me. Her name was Mary.
So there was a considerable laundry list of reasons why I had to terminate the relationship with Gail. She was young (of course!) and pretty and had a fun spirit. She shouldn't have much of a problem finding someone else. And the sooner we parted, the sooner she could move on.
And I "had" Mary. (Spoiler alert: I think she always liked me, and, if I could have managed it, we could have stayed friends to this very day. But that's not what I wanted. Not what I felt I needed. I think about her from time to time and hope that things worked out well for her. Back in the late 1960's, she wanted to get into Real Estate. I'd love to spend an hour or so with her -- to let her know I'm fine and I still think you're wonderful.)
So Gail and I split. Things were complicated by this time, because my sister was dating Gail's brother. But I'll just leave that fact on the table and walk away from it, except to say that neither Martha nor me married into that family...
So my other relationships at Drexel were, as the poet says, "a dog's breakfast." Careening from one passion to another, never really understanding what had happened, what was happening, and was bound to happen sometime soon.
Several years later, Gail got in touch with me. She was still living in Baltimore and I was living in a co-op in West Philadelphia. She said she just wanted to get together and talk. I really didn't want to have that happen, but it seemed to be really important to her, so I said "Okay, you can come up to visit." She took the train up and I met her at 30th Street Station.
We had a pretty good time, as I showed her around what my Philadelphia was like. I think we ate pizza at a small but really good Italian restaurant that I knew. And we went back to my co-op and slept together and had sex. And, if it hadn't occurred to me before this, it certainly occurred to me at the time: she's trying to "win me back." I'm sure she had "chalked up" the fact that she and I would be married and was in the process of trying to re-start that idea.
Looking back on it, it might have been a much better idea if I declined the sex. But I was in my early 20's and "free love" was all the rage.
After, I think, two days, I took Gail back to the train station and got her on the train back to Baltimore. She sat in a window seat so she and I could wave good-bye to each other. And I think it hit home for her that her "plan" of starting up our relationship was simply not going to work. She started to cry just as the train started to move.
My sister told me -- sometime back then -- that Gail was still having difficulties adjusting to this most unwelcome reality. She had always been full of positive energy and fun. And the idea that I may have crushed this -- even for a week or two -- is something for which I can't forgive myself. Still.
I may come back to this entry and...
Thanks for listening.
Wait a minute. This is starting to feel like "story." As in a narrative that you hold as an explanation of who you are and why you do what you do.
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