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July 4, Journal
10am
I’m relishing the marvelous variety of emotions that my heart is feeling. What a gift it is to be human! My mind is trying hard to sort out the story, but I’ve relieved it of the burden of attachment.
It’s the Sabbath, and a lunar eclipse is nigh. This morning, I opened and consulted my plastic baggie full of the weed that the Mormon and I had bought in Motueka. We’d split an ounce, and half of my half consisted of one massive, sticky bud that celebrated my future joy with an explosion of plush brown hairs. The rest of my half was respectable, of course: average-sized buds and a little shake, but that one superstar bouquet was thicker than the Mormon’s cock, if not quite as long.
This morning, that large, fine specimen of marijuana was gone.
That thieving Mormon!
It must have been him. He’s the only one who could’ve gotten to the baggie. My bedroom door locks automatically when I leave, and Turban, the manager with the only master key, is way too hard-working to be an avaricious stoner. It was equally ludicrous to think that I accidently dropped the monster bud somewhere – you don’t lose something that large that easily, especially when it’s such a lovely, treasured specimen.1
I insisted upon sleeping alone last night because I’m finally getting some good rest at this lodge. Does the Mormon feel as though he deserves to stay in my warm, comfortable space because he’s fucking me? Did he steal the bud as compensation? He must know that I don’t enjoy his company, and that I’m trying to break up with him. Is this his preemptive revenge; his odd sense of justice righting the wrong of my frustration with him?
But it’s such an obvious theft. Surely the Mormon could have been more sly.
Did he lose respect for me after our vacation to Castle Hill? Or does the Mormon have some sort of compulsion? I’ve seen how naturally he takes whatever he can from the hotel rooms that I book for us: soaps and shampoos, sugar and tea packets, and even a stray towel or two. That joke about how easy it would be to ‘lift’ the TV from our room in Fox Glacier must have required a little pre-meditative investigation. There were many such jokes, and I couldn’t forget his slippery ease at breaking into our locked AirBNB in Canterbury.
The heart swells sweetly with attachment so that the keen sense of betrayal can nestle deeper, like slicing fresh bread.
My mind is spinning with this creative new twist on the story that New Zealand is telling of my life.
I think I finally have a valid excuse to visit Farmer Colin at his new campsite! He has a digital scale. I’ll tell him that I want to weigh my baggie to prove to myself that the monster bud hadn’t just magically broken up into smaller bits overnight. Farmer Colin might even share a hug of commiseration with me or some valuable advice about the Mormon’s character. Maybe these past two weeks without his girlfriend, Colette, had been a bit lonely for him.
I’d planted the seed of desire in him last week. It’s been long enough. Time to see if the seed has germinated.
2:18pm
Farmer Colin’s campsite is number 108.
I waited until noon to visit him, but I still woke him with my tap-tapping on his mustard-yellow caravan’s door. His caravan looked well in the park-like campground on the southwestern edge of Lake Hawea; its mellow yellow blended lovingly with the dry winter grass and brittle green pines. Apologizing for my intrusion, I told him I’d return when he was more awake, but Farmer Colin insisted that I stay. The shadow of Lockdown’s isolation still hung over us all.
The story of The Heinous Weed Theft spilled out after he’d dressed for the cold outside of his fluffy covers and made himself a cup of coffee.
“How well do you know the Mormon?” I asked Farmer Colin, cradling the cup of tea he’d brewed for me in my still-gloved hands. “Am I over-reacting? Is he trustworthy?”
Colin shrugged, three heavy sweaters obscuring the motion of his lithe shoulders. The heat from the fire that he’d started in his little iron stove remained stubbornly sequestered at the far end of his narrow home. His large eyes were bright with interest as he rummaged through the dusty boxes and piles squatting in the corners of his graffitied caravan.
“The Mormon’s always been straight with me,” he said, slightly furrowing his kingly brow. “I know he was in some trouble back in England, but I don’t know what that was about.”
Colin straightened to standing, his beautiful eyes touching mine.
“Sorry, I can’t even find my scales in this mess.”
“No worries.” I paused to take a swallow of the hot tea, warming my nose in its steam. “It doesn’t really matter: it is what it is. The weed is gone. Even if the Mormon did take it, he’d never admit it or give it back. I guess it’s karma2 somehow. I wish I knew what I did to deserve this.”
“Did anything happen between you two?”
“No more than usual. I’ve been less loving to him lately, for sure, because I’m fed up with his laziness. I don’t think he’s noticed. The Mormon keeps promising that he’ll get a job, but he seems quite happy to mooch off me whenever he can. He’s addicted to this sweet lifestyle that I’m giving him. As long as we’re having sex, it’s all good between us. So, we have a lot of sex.”
Groaning and laughing, Farmer Colin rolled his eyes and stretched his plaid-clad arms heavenward.
“Ah. I miss sex.”
Of course he did. A regal, virile young man like him… but it was too soon. The seedling had taken root, but the leaves had yet to unfurl.
“Yes,” I laughed with him. “Sex is kinda great. It gives me energy and makes me vibrant. That kind of connection is so vital to me. I feel like I need it to thrive. Maybe I have a problem with addiction myself.”
“Yeah, nah… You’re fine. It’s natural. I grew up on a farm, and I saw it all the time. It’s not like you’re hooked on ice.” Farmer Colin looked ruefully down at his hot, thick coffee. “We all have needs.”
“How’s it feel to be so far away from Colette after the intensity of Lockdown together?” I asked.
“It’s rough, mate.” Colin averted his gaze. “I miss her, but she has a good job up in Blenheim, and some French friends to talk to. I might go up and meet her in a month or two. It’s a long time to go without her.”
We spoke for two hours about love and life, as he downed three cups of coffee and an equal number of hand-rolled cigarettes. That sweet boy did have needs. Could I fulfill them? Not today. I’d let him simmer overnight; let the seedling reach out for sustenance of its own volition.
I’d been so hungry for this type of conversation; this kind of quick, fun repartee that lit up my neurons and opened my heart. I felt brighter, and when I left Farmer Colin’s caravan, the low sun sparkled his welcome. There would be a lunar eclipse3 tomorrow afternoon, and the naughty Earth would come between the King and Queen of our solar system. As above, so below.
1 https://wanderlust.com/journal/aparigraha-learning-to-let-go/
2 https://path.homestead.com/karma1.html
3 https://www.space.com/buck-moon-penumbral-lunar-eclipse-july-4-2020.html
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June 26, Journal
The Mormon’s landlord put him to work planting garlic almost immediately after breakfast. Breakfast had rolled lazily out around 9am, surrounded on all sides by weed and sex: the wake-and-bake kind of day that we enjoyed. The cold, damp box of his caravan seemed like home after our exhausting journey east, and we cuddled into each other’s warmth like nesting rabbits.
Rex the dog was delighted to have us home. He wriggled his fat black body from his pillowy bench to the Mormon’s bed and was rewarded by being pulled into the soft, sleepy embrace. It was family. It was home. It was love.
Despite his general aversion to work, the Mormon was motivated to try his hand at planting garlic because he’d found a way to be a carpenter, not just a field hand. He was quick to figure out spatial problems. His brilliant solutions were often left on paper, but this time, the Mormon actually created a tool. It had a long wooden handle affixed to a wide, short plank that held 6 fat pegs, spaced an inch or two apart. When these pegs were thus thrust simultaneously into the ground by a clever garlic-planter, 6 holes appeared, ready to receive 6 fat cloves.
The sun was still high when I returned from my errands that afternoon. I watched the Mormon working diligently from the comforting doorframe of Farmer Colin’s mustard yellow caravan.
Farmer Colin greeted me with as much enthusiasm as a laconic cowboy-artist who’d recently bid adieu to his lady-love could muster. His large, thickly-lashed eyes had deepened in their sockets as well as darkened soulfully to an emerald brown. He’d been alone for over a week, and his young need was sexy.
It was a sunny, windless day, and Colin’s checked scarf was slung low into his jacket so that tendrils of tattoos could slither up for air. His smile cracked in the dry cold, but his eyes danced with the novelty of conversation.
“So, how was your trip?” he asked me, as we watched the Mormon slowly impregnate the long, roughly-plowed field with husky cloves of garlic.
“I’m glad it’s over. Turns out that the bed was a memory foam mattress, which my back hates. I could actually feel my skin crawling out of the bed as though it’s trying to get out of a heavy metal mosh pit, and the pain in my back is kind of unbearable. But we slept in the caravan last night, and the Mormon’s sad little mattress was a million times better. So, I’m doing well now. I’m much less angry.”
I diverted my pain with a flood of words. No harm, ahimsa1: that was the number one rule. I must always strive to operate out of love towards everyone, whether or not I am in their company. I didn’t want to tell Colin that I thought his friend was unbearable and infuriating (that would be harmful), but I wanted him to see it in my eyes so that we could share the intimacy of frustration. He must know that the Mormon had no hold on my heart or my loins.
“I’m leaving for a week,” I continued. “I need time alone to find peace again. The Mormon’s a nice guy, but there’s something about him that I just can’t comprehend. I need a better connection.”
Now was the time to look up at him, hand on his arm and the plug pulled out from bottom of the chocolate bathtub of my eyes. His gaze dropped into the whirlpool, and we reflected each other’s need for intimacy.
I enjoyed Farmer Colin. His company was satisfying and familiar. There’s no harm in laying the foundations of desire on top of rock-solid kindness marbled with martyrdom.
“Yeah, he’s different,” Farmer Colin said, stumbling over his dry lips. “He’s got a special way of looking at the world. How do you feel about him?”
“I’ve got a problem, Colin. I look at the world in a special way, too, so maybe the Mormon and I do fit together in some way. Just after lockdown started, I began to feel love, but a new love; a different love than usual. I’ve been in love several times, and it feels feels like my heart is a spotlight directed at one person. But this love is three-dimensional, and it shines in all directions indiscriminately, like a disco ball. I imagine this is what they call agape2 love. I love everybody and even every living thing I encounter whole-heartedly: like an idiot, like a teenager. It is impossible for me not to see the shining spirit in everything. I see the inner child, the virile seed, the eternal Godhead. I don’t want this joy to end.”
“Ok. So you love him?”
“Yes, without a doubt. But I also love your cat, and Rex, and that tree on the ridge, and the guy I had for one afternoon during lockdown at the lodge, and the weed seedlings on your window ledge…” …and you, I didn’t say. “I love everything. Literally with all of my heart. What is this insanity?”
“It’s wonderful,” he shrugged. “We need more love.”
“Yes,” I replied, my smile flowing in and out. “I’ll feel more love when I’m away from the task of being with the Mormon. I don’t want to lose my open heart. Everything has the potential for love.”
“Don’t talk to me about potential,” Farmer Colin grimaced, his handsome face pulling tight into the wrinkles of a much older man. He pulled out his pouch of home-grown tobacco and began rolling a spliff with some of his home-grown weed. “I hate potential. Everyone’s preached to me about my potential, ever since I was old enough to draw a straight line. It’s bullshit.”
“I know!” I commiserated. “I’ve heard that from my family and teachers for decades. Potential. It’s a dirty word. It means nothing!”
“Fuck yeah! Potential means you’re not successful, but you could be successful. Potential means that if only you worked a little harder, you could be somebody. Potential is someone else’s dream that you’re supposed to live out and complete for them.”
Earth shifted in the bones of Colin’s face: his bright eyes became more hollow as his cheekbones grew denser and his brow assumed a regal weight. His wrinkles filled themselves. My body rose in response to this oak-like strength.
I nodded vigorously. “Man, I know. Potential… it’s a life sentence of disappointment. I think people just like to make stories out of other people’s lives, and they try to manipulate you into taking the hero’s journey for their own entertainment.”
I touched his hard, dirty fingers as I accepted the lit spliff.
Admiring my smoke and opting for a second puff, I slid my gaze to the swiftly approaching Mormon. He has an extraordinary sense of smell. The furry earflaps of his hat stirred with his long stride, and I returned the spliff to its owner and my hands to their pockets.
“Hey doll!” the Mormon greeted me cheerfully, hoisting his garlic-planter with pride. “Did you see how much I did? My tool works!”
Farmer Colin passed the spliff to the Mormon as he joined us, grinning loosely. I embraced the Mormon, opened to Colin’s gaze and shrugged.
“That, sir, is a fine field of garlic.”
As I was packing up this evening, separating my belongings from his, I fingered the fine film of the Mormon’s only gift to me that wasn’t food or weed or tea. It was a recloseable plastic baggie that one would get for free at a fancy grocery store to contain their bulk candy or nuts. It contained my half of our weed purchase in Motueka. Once is never enough, it said, in bold text on an acid yellow popsicle.
“Just like you,” he’d said, when he presented it to me in the privacy of a chilly hostel room in Nelson. “I thought of you when I saw it. Once is never enough for you.”
The Mormon had winked and grinned and moved close enough to finger my crotch. I’d encompassed his hand as well as I could in 3 pairs of pants, reflecting his need so that he felt loved. This was extraordinarily thoughtful of him. This was his way to love. Why wasn’t it enough?
1 https://www.artofliving.org/us-en/non-violence-and-the-art-of-ahimsa
2 https://www.nonviolenceinstitute.org/post/unconditional-love-part-2
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May 31, Journal
A single candle illuminated the wooden bench upon which dinner was being prepared. A few handfuls of greens rested there, freshly pulled from Colin’s garden, just steps outside the front door. Colette was preparing a stir-fry at the wood-burning stove in the back corner of their caravan. They were both here short-term as woofers, but it was Farmer Colin’s turf.
He had a dangerous sort of handsomeness: tattooed, lean and dark; like a gypsy. Two Pounamu jade swirls hung from his earlobes, and two more jade pendants gleamed on his chest. Carving Pounamu was a hobby of his. Rough stones puddled outside the caravan, and beautifully finished pendants decorated the windows inside. Colin was an artist with a precise hand and discerning eye, and you could see that in the lovely nude drawing that he’d made of Colette, hanging just above the bench.
Colin settled a can of chickpeas for the stir-fry on the bench between a shriveled mushroom and a lush pile of garlic. He’d grown tobacco that summer, and a short curtain of their delicate amber leaves hung low around his dark head. His short, sharp shaman’s knife had an antler handle that gleamed in the candlelight. He sliced through the top of the can with a practiced ease, hands firm and pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth.
The Mormon and I were there to commiserate with them over the news that Colette and I were being kicked out for the winter. The farm owner told us that he didn’t have enough work for us to do, but we all thought it was because he was cheap and antisocial. And misogynistic for just kicking out the girls. Otis, the German kid, was planning on leaving next week anyway, so we didn’t count him.
I was happy for any excuse to visit Colin and Colette. Conversation with the Mormon was excruciating, and I never felt satisfied. Colin was lively behind his eyes, and Colette was wonderfully French with her dismissive passion. We three had spoken of philosophy, art, and gardening a few times, but we’d never managed to fulfill our fantasy of weekly potluck dinners together.
Whenever we tired of misunderstanding the farm owner’s motives, the Mormon would bring up Rex and his stinky farts. Finally, Rex did grace us with one, and he was summarily removed from the caravan. Farmer Colin’s little tabby cat, Mirabelle, was quite pleased to recover sovereignty over her domain.
I took a sideswipe at the conversation by saying that the farm owner was just jealous that we were getting laid on the regular.
“It’s like he sees that we’re enjoying life, and he just can’t be around that.”
“He is …what you call it? …a hater,” Colette replied.
“That’s what I’m saying, Colette; you’ve gotta live in love.”
“That’s a different level of living,” Colin said. “Most people don’t think about how they live, they just get on with it.”
“It’s too bad. You’re right.” I paused for a moment to look at the Mormon. He was licking a rolling paper to make a spliff, and he glanced up with wide eyes and a wrinkled brow. “But like attracts like, and love begets love. It’s a positive cycle. People are missing out.”
Colin made a dismissive sound that sounded like a growl.
“People are always missing out,” he said. “Do you know how often they get close to amazing things, and then they back down because of fear or incompetence? People don’t like to deviate from the plan. Especially when it comes to sex. There are so many obstacles to having sex, and we’ve created most of them as a society. Even if you have the chance, your mind is constantly coming up with reasons not to do it. It’s twisted. Love is the exception, not the rule.”
“I totally agree,” I nodded. “It’s actually remarkably difficult to have two people together in the same room that both want to have sex with each other. You really have to take advantage of the opportunity when it presents itself, or you’re cheating yourself. Life is a buffet, man! How you gonna go home with an empty belly?”
We all toasted that idea with a smoke. Colette admonished Colin for adding the greens to the stir-fry prematurely, and soon after, the Mormon and I left them to their dinner. I held his hand as we walked back to his caravan in the dark. The night sky exploded above us; her stars thick and lustrous.
Rex bounced around us, and, when we finally reached the chilly caravan, I thought I could hear a sigh of contentment from him as he settled into his spot. Poor, sweet Rex needed comfort and security. The Mormon reckoned that his neediness came from being just outside of the restroom when his original owner died on the pot. It is traumatizing to watch your best friend die. Rex needs to be a dog; he needs to be owned, to have a pack to protect. He has dog dharma that is unfulfilled.
I didn’t want to be another disappointment to him, so I tried not to be too loving towards Rex. Sometimes, I couldn’t resist hugging him close, but I didn’t dare attach my heart to his. According to the farm owner’s new rules, I’d be allowed to visit one night per week. I wasn’t allowed to root and settle here. I wasn’t allowed peace.
“You’re tight,” the Mormon said, as he pressed his lovely, hard cock into me just before bedtime.
“I’m worried.”
“What ya worried for? That old man can’t take this away from us.”
“He’s trying his best. Does this mean that I don’t belong here? I was having so much fun playing house with you.”
I didn’t tell him that my period was late. When I’d been sick from overindulging in alcohol a few days ago, I fantasized that it was morning sickness, and that thought made me smile. If only such an accident could happen! Statistically, it should have happened a dozen times already.
Maybe my barren belly would grow round with the Mormon’s seed. I hoped it would, even though I knew how impossible that dream was. Neither the Mormon nor I have any kind of financial stability. I’d undoubtedly get angry at him for being irritating, ignorant, and unhelpful like my father; and the poor child would have my painful, hateful childhood. The Mormon would work too hard, I’d feel trapped, and we’d resent each other before long. But, how sweet it would be to hold my own child close while her father held us both in his strong arms! That moment must be a special joy.
Ten years ago, I’d consulted the I Ching1 about the possibility of having a child. It said that if I didn’t get pregnant at that time, then it would be ten years until I had another chance. My ex-husband didn’t want children, so I gave up on the whole idea at the time.
But here I am: divorced, stuck in a foreign country by a global pandemic with a cum-spouting, condom-hating Mormon. I finally have a chance.
1https://www.chinafile.com/library/nyrb-china-archive/what-i-ching
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May 8 – Day 44, Journal
Judah is playing the guitar masterfully and sweetly in Room 5. He is God when he plays. I’m quiet and at peace, and I hold back from disturbing him, even though I want to sing those familiar songs and be one with him. But the time for drawing together is over. The tide is going out, and we can all feel the gentle gravitational shift.
I’ll probably forget to write a little note of gratitude to him; the ‘mila tova’, or good word box, will be emptied one last time before we leave. One of these large-hearted kids put up an old ice-cream box in the main foyer, and we’re supposed to just write kind, random notes to people and put them in the box. Every Friday night after our communal dinner, the slips of paper in the box are read aloud in Hebrew by the youngest child, Noam, and then translated into English by his Dad.
It’s hard for me to put my special appreciation for each of these delightful souls into words that cannot be misconstrued as sexual harassment, so I don’t participate in ‘mila tova’ as often as I’d like. It was so nice to get one, though! I got a few for teaching yoga in the beginning, before I started seeing the Mormon almost every day.
He scratches my itch, and I’m trying not to fall into addictive patterns with him. I know I’m supposed to give him space to miss me so he’d want more sex. And little is more satisfying to me than the warm spread of his ejaculate.
I’m trying. I fill my free time with yoga and cooking and meditation and writing. I’m working on re-mastering a yoga pose that I’d only been able to stick one or two times before my shoulder injury in 2012. It’s a tricky Vasisthasana variation: a side plank with the bottom leg being extended overhead by the top arm. I’m getting close! My right collarbone keeps reminding me that it’s no longer attached at the arm end, jostling around the meat at the top of my shoulder like a Chinese tourist. If I can just work past that discomfort, I’ll be back to where I was before the word ‘divorce’ ever crossed my lips.
I’ve told the Mormon that I’m not into commitment now, and he seems to understand that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with one person. He’s told me that men need women, and I can’t argue with that. I’ve seen firsthand how a man can flourish, given kindness and devotion. I don’t think my ex-husband wouldn’t have been wealthy without me. It always seems to go one way with my relationships, though. I invest my heart easily and thoroughly each time. My goal is His happiness, and I forget my Self. Every time.
Of course a guy would want this sort of relationship. Forever, or at least until I grow difficult. I don’t see how I can flourish like this, though. I’m a better artist when I’m alone because I’m closer to the one-ness of God. I’m happy and at peace. I really enjoy who I am. Who God is. Men get in the way of that union, and that deprives my soul of its sustenance. And then the art shrivels up to nothing. I’m trying to change the dynamic so I can be in charge of where my heart spends its time. I need to be truly my Self while still getting laid on the regular.
Everyone’s talking about Level 2, making plans to travel hard-core as soon as they can bust out of the lodge. We won’t know the verdict for another few days. I’m the only one enjoying my current adventure, and I don’t want it to end. This steady influx of passion, kindness, and optimism (and, more likely, youthful testosterone) has given me new life. This may be the happiest I’ve ever been.
I guess the lockdown will have to end eventually. Kiwis are astonishingly healthy and obedient. My English Mormon is a little disobedient, and it’s sexy. He’s hooked on me, and I want to enjoy him more. I trust him to find a way to keep me around for a couple weeks before I have to go back to the intolerable reality of the United States.
It’s fascinating to watch the Mormon allowing me past one barrier at a time. He finally invited me up to his home today!
I’ve been to his town, but he’s always kept his home private. Now I know why. It’s not fancy.
The Mormon lives in a caravan on a small farm as a WWOOFer, so he works in exchange for rent. He told me to come on over today, as though he hadn’t been avoiding my intrusion. I didn’t get much instruction, so I parked next to a caravan that seemed to match his description: ‘a little green box.’ That box proved to be empty, but Rex found me wandering aimlessly and came to my rescue.
I greeted him gratefully, and he was overcome with doggy happiness. His tail whipping, Rex led me deeper towards the belly of the farm. There, a small, colorful circle of caravans huddled together staunchly against the wind that swept through the flat-bottomed valley.
I followed Rex around the outer edge of the circle. Pale, long grass gathered at the edges of each man-made thing that squatted there: caravans, shipping containers, farm equipment, and rickety crates full of something worth saving. The afternoon sun was already low, and the angled light gilded the mustard-yellow caravan ahead of us. I saw the Mormon standing there, loose as a scarecrow and dressed in black. His jacket blew around his hips, and he cradled a rollie in his left hand.
He was talking to someone just inside the caravan. As I softly made my presence known, his friendly gaze shifted from the caravan to Rex to me, and I was welcomed warmly.
“This is my mate, Colin,” the Mormon introduced us, “I call him Farmer Colin. He farms this place, and he’s good.”
Farmer Colin grinned at me from his seat in the doorway of his caravan. He looked weathered and grimy around his edges. He wore many layers of voluminous clothes, a green bandanna warmed his head, and the fat gray hood of his uppermost sweatshirt shaded his eyes. I could see his youth in his large, bright eyes, but the wrinkles around them were the badge of a life lived outdoors in the harsh New Zealand sun. His smile revealed that he thought I was attractive.
It’s in the corners of the mouth, you see, when they expand an extra 2 millimeters out and slightly down from the initial smile. Maybe that microexpression facilitates salivation? I tried it, and there does seem to be an energetic connection all the way down into the second chakra.
Colin wasn’t sure how to proceed under Level 3 lockdown regulations. He extended his hand and then retracted it. He wanted to touch me, but we were used to being in our Level 4 bubbles. It was hard to pop those safe havens.
“Hi.” Colin said, “I don’t know if it’s OK to shake your hand.”
“Yeah, it’s cool, whatever feels right. It’s nice to meet you.”
Colin reached out again, and we shook hands like Covid rebels. It felt naughty somehow, and my desire rose as our hands warmed together. Yeah, I liked Farmer Colin with his large eyes and his strong hands. I couldn’t see anything else of him but an achingly regal nose; a nose that was carved into monuments and coins, that could have graced an eagle, and that left no doubt as to his divinity.
“Farmer Colin is another kind of farmer, too,” the Mormon said, proudly. “He’s got a little weed farm somewhere out here. Sometimes he takes care of me wit his homegrown. They call it bush here, don’t they, mate?”
Colin laughed and ducked his head modestly.
“Yeah, mate,” A girl’s voice wound its way towards us through the labyrinth of caravans. Her French accent was overridden by an exaggerated Kiwi drawl. When she appeared, she was also swathed in grayish warm things from head to toe. Her youthfulness showed in her unlined face and light step, but she held herself against the unremitting cold in a brittle way.
“Colette!” the Mormon was delighted to have a little group together. This was, in fact, the largest group we’d been permitted to enjoy since lockdown started. Our bubbles were more mobile now, and more likely to collide. Colette was less hesitant to break through the physical barrier of her bubble, and I shook her lovely hand. She settled into the doorway of the caravan, snuggling into Colin as we talked.
I was delighted to meet the Mormon’s mates. I liked them, and I liked their way of life. Could I live this way?
They did notice when the Mormon talked about nothing in his goofy way. They kindly steered the conversation back to normal when the Mormon spoke at length about Rex’s stinky farts. I was glad to see that I wasn’t alone in my misunderstanding of the Mormon. He’s on a different wavelength.
He’s odd, but so am I. He reminds me of my father… he’s somewhere on the autism spectrum. He believes in his faith as strongly as my father believes in his. I’m not sure whether or not the Mormon’s faith aligns with the book of Mormon, but he seems to fall back on it when asked.
He has a particular view of the world, and if I know my Dad, it will be almost impossible to get the Mormon to budge from whatever preconceptions he might have. I’d have to learn his rigid framework, and work with it. If he’s open enough, and I can be free enough, we might be able to live together.
I’ve learned to work with my Dad. His inane conversations drive me to a special sort of painful frustration as well, but I’ve learned to place boundaries on our time together. I’ve learned to set myself up for success. I do want to spend time with my father, because I love him. And because he loves me, he allows me to choose when and where we meet. It breaks my heart that my father knows that I can’t handle his energy.
Maybe, upside down in the southern hemisphere, I can resolve this dissonance between heart and mind. Can I shut off my unsatisfied mind and just let my heart expand unhindered?
I can do this. For the first time in years, I want to hold on to something. Not the Mormon in particular, but I do want the sweetness of new love, safe arms to hold me, the peace of a home, and a regular hard fucking. I want a shelf where I can put my stuff.