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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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June 25, Journal
As silent, cold, and deadly as the Sword of Justice, I left the Mormon behind in Geraldine. I’d finally had enough of his laziness and selfishness. My bags were packed tightly into Robert (my rented SUV) and I skittered over the gravel driveway, roaring south on Rt. 79 at exactly 10am this morning: alone, my shoulders throbbing hot with tension.
The responsibility of maintaining a household as well as the financial burden of a week’s vacation in a lonely side street of the town of Geraldine had landed fully on me. A week of sleeping on a fancy memory foam mattress that crippled my back with pain had aggravated me enough to imagine that the Mormon himself was plastered on my spine like a tick, sucking away my resources, much in the same way as my vagina was perpetually receiving his legacy. The lower right side of my spine glitched often and held me prisoner until I could painfully unfurl from its grasp.
It was time to leave Geraldine. She’d set the stage for the darkest night of the year; she was heroic. She lay right on the edge of a moody microclimate and was subject to a damp heaviness that dragged at her hems and sucked at her boots. Perhaps the Mormon was sensitive to that feeling, and perhaps that’s why he habitually luxuriated in bed until 10 or 11am.
Well, today, the vacation’s over! Our check-out time was 10am, and I intended to leave this unhappy spot punctually, with or without the Mormon.
Of course he was late and slow. But I’d told him, the night before, while we were taking our last bath together; I’d laid out my schedule and intentions while the Mormon watched me with bright eyes over the edge of the bathwater that separated us. His pupils were pulled in tight, and the hazel color of his irises shifted from blue to grey, as fast as the liquid below them. I believe that I was clear and polite. The warm bath had softened my back, and I was more relaxed than I’d been for quite a few days.
Three days ago, I got a haircut for the first time since I’d left the United States back in October. The intervening 9 months had been stressful, delightful, mercurial, and most of all, dirty. My damaged hair resorted to tangling itself into an unpleasant nest at the nape of my neck, spraying split ends backwards like a surprised skunk. Since Otago’s relentless cold forced me to wear a wool hat continually, it seemed like a waste of effort to do anything more with my hair than braid it and shove it under my hat.
I even left the hat on when the Mormon and I fucked. It was often so cold in his caravan that I wore all my warmest clothes to bed except one leg each of my 2 pairs of pants, to accommodate our frequent coupling. Being in Geraldine afforded me a heater and thick, soft blankets, which I piled lavishly on my side of the bed. It had been so pleasurable to flop my naked body over in the night, affixing it to the warmest, most solid bit of flesh available, and rubbing it sleepily to unroll luscious sexuality.
Haircut Day marked a shift in our interactions, just like the world swerves to a new paradigm every time the moon goes dark. I let the Mormon drive us to Christchurch, where I’d scheduled my haircut. He was feeling pleased with himself as a result of sex, weed, and good food, and gabbled away at me about the tiny house he wanted to build out of a shipping container. Pulling into a gas station, he miscalculated his entry, and thunked into a low concrete post, which was painted a happy yellow to celebrate the occasion.
I groaned in despair (and also to release some of the pain that had reappeared in my lower back) and escaped the vehicle to assess the damage. The Mormon followed, his eyes a remorseful nut-brown, and the earflaps on his hat hanging low.
“It’s ok,” he insisted, “Look, It’s just a scratch. I’ll get it right. Don’t even worry about it; the Mormon will fix it right up. You’ll see. You’ll never know it happened. Just a scratch, doll.”
“Dude.” I let the pain of financial loss surface for the first time, and shook my head, my desolate eyes glued to his. “I don’t have insurance. They’ll charge me for this. It’s not just paint. There’s a crack in the bumper.”
“It’s ok,” the Mormon repeated. “I’ll sort it out. You just go to your appointment, and it’ll be fine by the time you’re done. There’s this special cleaner that you can get that fixes scratches just like this. Look, it’s just a scratch. Don’t worry, doll, I’ll sort you out.”
Ignoring my aching back and holding on to my struggling faith, I leaned into the Mormon’s comforting arms. He’d sort it out. He’d take care of me.
It was hard to maintain an acceptable level of small talk with the hairdresser, but since she’d arranged a beautiful, Covid-free salon solely for me, I gave it a good try… until she began to massage shampoo into my neglected scalp, and I fell into a silence of well-deserved receptivity.
Ahh. This is why I was willing to pay triple the cheapest rate. This warm, well-decorated salon with all of its delightful organic products was completely mine! The hairdresser was generous with her nimble fingers, weaving lavender-scented cleanliness in and out of the nerve endings clustered on my head. My crown chakra loves to be stroked, and the joyous sensations in my scalp flooded down my body in soothing waves, sparking at nipples and crotch, and oozing around my rigid shoulders. Behind closed lids, I rolled my eyes back in their sockets and my breasts seemed to grow in the warmth of my softened heart. How could I lament the end of the head massage when it meant that the hairdresser would be laving my hair with long licks of warm water from her hose? I released a little sigh, and collapsed back against the sink in surrender, letting the erotic sensations soothe me.
She dried me off with a soft towel, and did a passable job at cutting my hair, removing 6 murky inches of its length.
The freedom and sensuousness of the haircut didn’t last long. I bounced out of the salon to the beat of my swinging hair, and found the Mormon seated in front of the scratched front bumper of the SUV. The yellow concrete was completely gone from Robert’s red withers, and he’d done a good job of removing the scratch as well. Only a few deep whiskers of damage remained around what was indoubtably a crack.
The Mormon looked up at me with pride, and I couldn’t help but hug him and thank him for a job well done. A bumper like that couldn’t cost more than $700, right? And maybe the rental company wouldn’t notice it. That right bumper was the only clean corner of the SUV, but I would rent it for a little longer to build up another layer of dust as camouflage.
Showing off my shiny new hair to the Mormon, I felt as though I’d shed my old hang-ups about him along with those 6 inches.
“That’s nice, doll,” he complimented me, “It’s too bad we’re not going out on the town to show you off. Look, your hair is just about as long as mine now.”
The Mormon pulled the long portion of his hair out of the tightly twisted knot above his right ear. It made a rope thin enough to tie onto itself, but he still always secured it with a black hair tie. His long hair dropped free from the top of his head, covering the short hair on the back and sides. Was it a reverse mullet? And indeed, the roasted cashew-colored locks did reach below his wide shoulders; almost as long as my expensive new cut. He smirked up at me with those Brad-Pitt lips: a ’90s teenage heartthrob, if you ignored the deep wrinkles in his forehead and the untended forest of facial hair around his mutton chop beard.
“Look, look,” he said, and I looked into his eyes as though I was looking into a mirror.
“You’re so cute,” I told him, with a long kiss. “Does it worry you at all that we’re starting to look more like each other?”
“Nah. It’s a good look.”
I was my normal, cheerful self1 again, but I still installed myself (permanently) behind the steering wheel. I decided to take charge of the music as well; at least while we were still close enough to Christchurch to get a good radio signal. If the Mormon wasn’t too annoying, I’d let him play his fantasy theme music in the remote mountain passes of Otago on our journey home. For now, I’d found a station that seemed to suit my needs: fun music from the ’90s that I could sing along with.
‘What’s Up‘, by 4 Non-Blondes2 came on, drawing me into a rare moment of song, believing that this moment was mine. I got real high while I waited at a traffic light, and rolled slowly out of Christchurch traffic with the Mormon glued to his bong next to me. And I screamed, not really at the top of my lungs, but with passion, “What’s going on?” as I went three-quarters of the way around a wide roundabout towards home, towards Geraldine. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Linda Perry was praying for in the middle of the song. My God, did she pray…
“Restitution? Absolution?” I mused aloud to the Mormon, who clung with tight bones to the inside of Robert’s frame as the centrifugal force pulled him out of his comfort zone. “What does a person pray for? Revolution! Of course! That’s exactly what we need, my friend. We’re so close to a new world. I can feel the earth changing to accomodate the newness; the infinite possibilities of a new plane of existence.”
“It’s 50kph here.”
“Thank you.”
Pink Floyd and Milky Chance3 filled the time in Robert’s interior. We sped home to Geraldine at exactly the speed that I chose.
For the following two days, I watched myself lose faith in the bond between the Mormon and I. He was a fine fellow, but I clearly did not have a peaceful spirit in his presence. The Mormon was quite sensitive. Unusual sounds or the persistent low hum of electronics would occupy his mind until he could locate their source and silence them. Surely, he could sense that I was less kind and generous to him now. If he did notice my increased coldness, the Mormon never mentioned it; possibly because we continued to enjoy a vigorous sex life.
I wanted my desertion of the Mormon this morning to be his fault. Of course he’d been lazy and slow. Again. I’d woken him at 8am, 9am, and 9:30, with ample, loving warnings about our imminent departure (at least the first two times). Of course he didn’t respect me or the landlady. Of course I was fooled into monogamous love by my nether regions. Again. But it was still me that ditched a friend. The Mormon didn’t think that he should hustle to stick to my schedule, because I wouldn’t do him wrong, would I?
I stopped Robert in a tiny graveyard that stretched along a cold, dark blue stream. My half-ounce was tucked under the passenger seat, nice and safe in an old blue plastic ice cream tub. I packed my little glass pipe with weed. Filling the Ford with smoke, I sat. I sat until my impatient mind found good reasons for the Mormon’s adversity to work. I sat until I remembered his cute tea rituals and his roguish smile, and my desire for him.
Half an hour later, I returned. The Mormon had packed up; right quick, too. I caught him outside, talking quickly and forcefully to one of his mates on the phone. As soon as he saw me, he hung up and went back inside to busy himself washing the dishes like a responsible adult. I helped him dry, and we left Geraldine together: him, sullen and slumped in the passenger seat, and I, silent and authoritative behind the wheel.
“I thought you said that I was special,” the Mormon blurted, as prudishly sectioned Canterbury flew by.
“You are special,” I insisted. I’m never wrong. “You hear things that other people don’t hear, you catch details that most men wouldn’t notice, and you have interesting beliefs about the nature of God.”
I knew he wanted me to say that he was special to me, but I’d grown bored of telling him that I loved him. It was always going to be true, but it was old news if it wasn’t going to be reflected back at me. I wanted to talk about something new.
“I believe that my Dad has a form of autism called Asperger’s Syndrome4. Have you heard of that before?” I asked.
“Yeah,” the Mormon replied, his anger rising up over the center console. “I have. Some wankers think that I have it, and I don’t. I know I don’t, and those wankers that say I do can sod off.” He fell back into his seat, still fuming, and I turned on the radio as an offer of peace.
When the radio shushed into static, the Mormon asked if I wanted to listen to some of his music.
“No, thank you.” I was exhausted enough to be brutally honest. “I prefer silence.”
“How about the radio?”
“No, thanks. We’re out of range for the radio. I prefer silence.”
The silence was tainted by his wet breath and fearful indifference. It was going to be a long 6 hour journey to the Mormon’s caravan. I took pity on him and asked about the only one of his hobbies that did interest me: Mormonism.
“Do Mormons believe in heaven and hell?”
“Yeah, well, you die and go to heaven or what you call hell. Until the Final Judgement. Then you rise up, and we’re all judged, and then there’s the Celestial Kingdom, and the Terrestrial Kingdom, and the Telestial Kingdom.” His eyes reanimated, and he settled into the role of Hierophant with relief. I began to lose track of which kingdoms did what, and prodded him to explain. “Yeah, there’s the kingdoms, and before that is the spirit world, the spirit prison, and before you’re born, you go through the Veil of Forgetting.”
“What!?” I spun around to face him as fully as I could, spine protesting mightily. “What do you know about the Veil of Forgetting?”
That was Eastern philosophy, wasn’t it? Where did the Mormons get this yogic idea? Vedanta philosophy calls the veil ‘maya’.5 I’d encountered the idea when reading the works of American trancendentalists in Mr. Zimmerman’s 10th grade English class, and then I read as much as I could find about philosophy in our local library. There wasn’t much substance in those manila card catalogues to chase after.
It wasn’t until the fresh green May of 2005, when I encountered a plethora of exciting books at a Quaker Meeting House yard sale in my home town, that my spirit re-awoke, like a freshly-hatched baby snake at the mouth of his momma’s tunnel, looking out into the sunlit vistas that spread before her in infinite directions. My arms were full of jewels: the I Ching, the Kama Sutra, a feng shui manual, Fromm’s The Art of Loving, de Beauvoir’s Le Deuxième Sexe, and as a crowning gem: The Book, by Alan Watts. This modest selection shaped my synapses (and my life) irrevocably so that the convoluted ideas of Samhkya philosophy that I later learned in yoga classes made perfect sense to me.
The veil of forgetting appeared in The Book as a fable for children. Watts likened it to a game of hide and seek with ourselves; where we hide the truth of One-ness so that we can enjoy two-ness. How did that figure into The Book of Mormon? Did they remember what was behind the veil, or did they only know that there was something worth remembering? Does my Mormon hold the key to enlightenment? Is he worth my time?
The Mormon didn’t know. He just repeated himself, unable to verify that he actually understood the Veil of Forgetfulness and what it hid. Unsatisfied, I kept on speeding home.
There must be a good one out there. Men wrote the books on enlightenment, after all. It must be possible to have a Y chromosome and a direct knowledge of Truth in the same organism. Granted, men’s egos are larger, and probably more difficult to remove. That, and their lack of experience in being empty containers makes it naturally harder for the Source to penetrate and dominate them, so it’s reasonable to assume that when one man did become enlightened, he thought it was a big deal and had to write a book about it. Such a stiff, hard man-ego must leave its mark, even in dissolution.
I know there’s more than one man like that: enlightened to the simple Truth of it all (that we are all God). Statistically, extraordinarily conservatively, there must be at least 200 of them that aren’t already partnered or dead. And I can’t be the only woman, either. If women are more naturally suited to enlightenment, surely, there must be at least 500 in this world, at this time. Where are they? Is there no one with whom I can share the Truth (and my life)? Would I forever follow these red herrings that men laid down in lieu of roses, faithfully finding dead end after dead end?
Four silent hours later. we rolled into a town near Wanaka, just 10 minutes away from the Mormon’s town, looking for dinner in the shopping center just across the street from the lodge where I’d weathered the lockdown. As it happened, the only sit-down restaurant in the area was having a Quiz Night, and we were forced to eat amongst jolliness and good cheer.
If the 21st of June was the winter solstice here in the Southern hemisphere, then the 25th must be Christmas! The Mormon and I gave in and joined the rowdy game. Literally half the questions were about cricket, so we lost badly; but, in the process of losing, we grinned and spoke to each other easily again, as though a curse had been broken.
Back at the Mormon’s cold caravan, I unpacked only my essentials so that I could drive away again the next day. I didn’t know where I’d be going, but the rules were: one night per week for free in the caravan. Perched on his bed as lightly as a Carolina Wren on a twig, I sat nervously next to the Mormon. Did our lack of connection mean no more sex? Had I been too annoying to love?
“Here. Don’t be silly,” he grumbled gently, pulling me without resistance into a warm, dark embrace.
1 By normal self, I mean my current ego; my current, favorite adornment for my naked soul (or atman). It’s how I define myself positively in the world: it’s the loveliest and most transparent dress that my third chakra wears; my favorite perspective and expression, my favorite veil, and that which I hope is least clouded by fear or ignorance. Here, my heart is open, and that allows my atman (or soul, or that which perceives) to expand in comfort and make room for the Source. When my heart is closed, I do not feel like my ‘normal’ self, despite having spent much of my life that way. Weed helps my heart open, but it isn’t necessary.
2 https://youtu.be/o4P3sa9c9KI
3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkF3oxziUI4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymgYEQgSqLI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVjiKRfKpPI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX-QaNzd-0Y
4 https://www.autismspeaks.org/types-autism-what-asperger-syndrome
5 https://www.yogaenred.com/en/2015/01/15/maya-el-velo-de-lo-invisible/
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June 17, Journal
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June 5, Journal
Drew the Drug Dealer was a kind, affable guy. The Mormon met him years ago on a jobsite, and this was the first time he’d been to Motueka to visit his old friend.
Last night, I returned to Drew’s house to pick up an ounce of good weed and the Mormon with whom I’d be splitting it. Somehow, the Mormon found enough cash for his half. He explained how difficult it was to get funds from his bank in England, and that he could only access $200 at a time. I, on the other hand, had an American credit card that was easily exercised daily, so it was hard for me to understand the intricacies of British finances.
Drew lived among the golden kiwi orchards just north of the town of Motueka. He’d really lucked out with his place – it was a two-bedroom flat with free water and electricity for only $220 per week. The interior explained it all.
Dirty dishes climbed the kitchen walls, which were grimy with grease and festooned with cobwebs. Every surface was a study in accumulation. Dust had graduated to dirt in the places that weren’t rubbed shiny by Drew’s passage. The toilet was an atrocity. Not just the commode, but the entire room. I thanked the yoga gods for the strength that allowed me to hover effortlessly over Drew’s bespattered throne in Chair Pose.1
I did enjoy Drew’s company, though. He understood the Mormon; at least enough to hold a respectable conversation with him, and to ignore his more bizarre comments. Drew had spent over a decade of his life living in the neighborhood of King’s Cross in Sydney, so he was no stranger to odd characters. We listened with delight to his sordid tales of gang violence and cross-dressing.
He presented us with a fat baggie of weed, and after the Mormon and I had sniffed it appreciatively, the Mormon carefully pulled out a thumb-sized bud and presented it to Drew.
“Thanks, mate,” the Mormon said. “A bit for you there.”
He turned to me to explain, “You gotta sort out your mates, you know, doll.”
I did know, even though I’d never shared anything with my weed guy back home. In fact, I usually enjoyed a few puffs from his own expertly rolled blunts after an hour of conversation.
I loved my local weed guy, Jake. He was a vegetarian body-builder who did social work in the poorest communities in our town. The nail on his right pinky finger was always left long and sharp to slit open the tobacco leaves around purchased blunts that needed a lavish boost of marijuana. He was outspoken about his socialist tendencies, and he always listened to my uneducated political ideas patiently; his intelligent, celery-green eyes open to the eastern philosophies that I endorsed.
Jake truly listened. His bookshelves were thick with Karl Marx, the Bhagavad Gita, and Anime classics. As a teenager in Philly, he’d been the lead singer in a death metal band, and Jake still made brilliant music alone in his apartment in the heavy, smoky hours after midnight. Kindness and friendship were of utmost importance to him, and if he wasn’t asexual2, I’d gladly have dated him.
Drew reminded me of Jake, and I wondered if it was common for hardcore and kindness to coexist in the same person.
It was obvious that Drew had once been incredibly good-looking, but round jowls hid what should have been a chiseled jaw, and his dark hairline was making an early escape from his pockmarked face. An old back injury kinked his spine, but his blue eyes still held some fire.
Drew slouched across the entirety of an ancient black leather loveseat, continually placing things into his mouth for consumption. First, he’d roll a cigarette, and smoke that with a can of beer. Then, he’d snack on a pile of greasy food from the local fish’n’chips shop. Next, it was time for a huge hit of weed, and, minutes later, the cycle would start again.
The Mormon and I both thought that Drew’s method of smoking weed was both ingenious and ridiculous. We were still using the plastic, skull-shaped bong that I’d acquired in Takaka in February, and the Mormon would always slide weed into his ‘rollies’. Drew, however, was a Kiwi. He was innovative, and he was a craftsman.
Dozens of empty beer cans decorated his filthy coffee table. One of them lay on its side, with a valley creasing its uppermost surface. Drew punched a small ring of holes into the deepest part of the valley, and carefully placed a little globe of marijuana onto that shiny silver landscape. He held the mouth of the beer can to his own mouth, and lit up, dragging smoke through the beery vessel in one, long, manly pull.
“Mate, you’ve got a killer system there,” the Mormon laughed.
“Yeah, mate,” Drew’s retained breath made his response sound throttled. A massive puff of spent smoke swirled above us as he exhaled. “It’s my religion.”
“The world is anxiously awaiting your Bible, man,” I said. My exhalation was nowhere near as impressive as Drew’s, so I tried again.
“He’s the only one of us that has a legit religion,” I added, swinging my gaze over to the Mormon and smiling at him broadly.
“Fuck, yeah, I’m legit,” the Mormon responded. “I’m a priest.”
“No shit.” Drew straightened his spine out of complacency for the first time.
“I’m not shitting you.” The Mormon’s wide open smile did make him hard to believe. “I’m an ordained priest, mate. I can perform marriages and everything.”
The Mormon had my complete attention. The wrinkles of his life were surprisingly deep.
“How long did that take? Why did you do it? What did you have to do to become a priest?”
“It’s not that hard, really. You get the priesthood conferred upon you if you just remain faithful for a little while. They just lay their hands on you, and God passes through them to you.”
“That’s amazing! So you know about the laying of hands.” I’d seen that in my childhood at the churches that I was obligated to attend. “How did it feel when God passed into you?”
“Awesome.” The Mormon’s eyes were large and serious, and he seemed well aware of his temporary celebrity status. “The power of God is electric. It’s like drugs, like a high that takes over you completely. I felt it on both sides: when I was being ordained, and when I laid my hands on others. The connection made me want to be part of the church. I’ve never felt such power before.”
“Mate.” Drew’s red eyes watered, but he backed up into a space of comfortable disbelief. “That’s brilliant. I wish I could experience that, but that’s not my scene.”
The Mormon shrugged.
“It’s pretty fucking cool, mate. I should go to church. It’s been years.”
“And now you’re consorting with a Jewish girl who believes that she’s God,” I said, ruefully.
Drew laughed, and the Mormon seemed confused.
“I’ve felt that power, too,” I continued. “A lot. When I meditate, when I’m in a spiritual place, or around spiritual people. I think it’s always there, but you just have to set yourself aside and become a vessel for it. It’s way easier to do that when the people around you can do the same thing: it becomes a conducive environment for God. I love that Mormonism recognizes how easy it is to hold God in you, and that you don’t need to have a special education to be close to the Divine.”
The men mumbled agreeably, and I left the room to visit Drew’s questionable restroom facilities. As I left, I couldn’t resist peeking back over my shoulder because I felt eyes velcroed to my swaying hourglass figure. Sure enough, there was Drew; sitting upright and mostly sober, naked lust darkening the hot blue of his eyes. The power that poured through me from that connection was Amazing Grace. Didn’t the Mormon notice?
Men. I love them, and I wish I could fuck them all. Drew’s performance would be abysmal, though, given the strength of his addictions.
Drew generously offered us the use of his second bedroom for the three nights that the Mormon and I would be staying in Motueka. I declined graciously, but the Mormon was grateful that he’d had a free bed for the night that I insisted upon being alone with Pup’s memory. For the next two nights, however, I arranged a room for both of us in the same local hostel that had accommodated me on my night alone.
It took the owner of the hostel several minutes to recognize me from the previous day.
“Oh. You’re back.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got a friend.”
“Yes. I found an Englishman.”
“That easy, huh?”
“Yeah, man. They’re everywhere. Just picked this one up off the street like a ripe fruit.”
The hostel owner grunted, and the Mormon followed me passively, without a word, to our cozy little room. I was still wet from Drew’s lust, and I didn’t waste any time riding that Latter-Day Saint home to the Celestial Kingdom.
1https://www.yogaoutlet.com/blogs/guides/how-to-do-chair-pose-in-yoga
Categories
June 4, Journal
Categories
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
Categories
May 28, Correspondence
Texts between the Mormon and I
On May 26, at 9:18am, I wrote:
Hi! I’ll be back! It’s better here. If you don’t mind?
Tomorrow afternoon, probably around around sunset.
9:33am – hello, just wondering if the trip up the Christchurch was all ok? miss you already. x
9:35 – I think its a good idea for a month at least
9:36 – that’s great, see you tomorrow afternoon 😀
9:39am – Yeah, another month is about right, i think!
Miss you too! Hope you’re enjoying a lovely morning. <3
On May 27, at 1:45pm, I wrote:
Hi! I’m so sorry, I can’t make it home tonight.
The couple staying next to me at the lodge
invited me over for drinks last night,
and i had too much and i feel horrible today.
Ugh. I can’t drive like this. I can’t even sit up straight.
I’m sorry – i really wanted to see you tonight.
2:51pm – Dammit. I just threw up in front of a convenience store.
Ugh. Booze is no good.
4:17pm – hello, ive just been doing some gardening today.
shame you are ill, devils poison alright. look forward to you coming tomorrow. get better soon hey! 😀
On May 28, at 1:00pm, I wrote:
Hi! I should be back in 2.5 or 3 hours – can’t wait to see you!
Categories
May 27, Journal
Categories
May 26, Correspondence
On May 14, at 2:20am, Sister wrote:
Hi X! Thank you, I got the package from New Zealand today! what a surprise!! Manuka honey is so special and healthy! The chai looks delicious… I loved the note written on the receipt – a relic from New Zealand. I totally understand because we had the same paper crisis.
The stores are starting to open up.. yesterday I finally bought a pack of paper for school and drawing. We also had to be creative before. The kids were writing their schoolwork on the back of some coloring book paper (to take photos and send to the teacher). They might not go to school until next September.
I took the tram today. Masks are mandatory, plus they glued a sign on every other seat so people will not sit in them. I like the arrangement – who wants to sit close to smelly strangers anyway?
I am just guessing you were tired of Mam’s and my own foolishness. I got wind of that sensation the other day.. sometimes mam goes on in circles about armegeddon.. it was too much and I am not sure how to respond. Then I realized I did the same to you.
well, coronavirus restrictions are lifting here, but the crisis is still bad in the US. I am starting to feel hope and relief, but mama is probably feeling how I did 2 months ago. But they found coronavirus has been circulating in France since late december, before China declared its emergency.
How have you been? is everything ok? is the flight home fixed? I hope you are well. I have to calm the children down.. my deal was some chips if they will choose a movie they can agree on (and let their father get some sleep!!)
Love, sister
On May 23, at 10:16am, I wrote:
Yay!! The package made it!! I’m happy and only a little surprised! I sent it 2 days before lockdown because i wanted to make sure you guys got the honey. It really is healing inside and out.
I put some on a pimple; it disappeared, i put some on a frightening itchy red spot between my toes; it disappeared, and i even tried it on a monstrous cyst that was appearing on my chin way under the surface; it disappeared after one application of about an hour!
Sorry i haven’t been responsive. You never bother me! I always enjoy your emails! With Mama, it is always a matter of life and death, and i must agree with her, or else i’m stupid and evil. You abstain ever so kindly from that craziness – thanks!
Actually, i met an english bloke, and we’ve been hanging out for the past few weeks, so i’ve been too distracted to be a responsible human being. My ticket is still set for the end of May, but i don’t want to go. But the obligations at home are starting to pile up! Once again, i am lost in indecision.
The rational part of me knows it will be very difficult to make a living here. I see how people struggle to find jobs, and there’s not enough money in the economy to support an artist – especially a foreign one. I’d probably end up working at a restaurant or hotel, which is fine for a year, but i’m too old for stupid jobs. what about retirement?
But it’s the same thing almost in the US right now. No jobs, more fear. People are cool here. But my mailbox and my appointments at home! But what if i can never return to NZ? This is such an amazing place. See, i even said it “N-Zed” in my head!
I don’t know what the right answer is. I’ve been praying on occasion, and “July” was the most direct answer, but it’s getting cold here, and the Englishman lives in an uncomfortable caravan. Level 2 lockdown ended about 2 weeks ago, and i left the lodge almost immediately to stay with him.
I think you would like me to stay here! I would, too. But what am i supposed to do? I will be out of money soon, so i can’t be a tourist for much longer.
The Englishman is sweet, but he talks too much. His place is a little… rustic, shall we say. There is a toilet and shower building about 100m away from his caravan, and there is hot water there. For his place, we get water from the tap outside and boil it in the electric kettle for innumerable cups of tea. It is so so cold though, and it’ll only get colder.
I mean, it’s a wooden box he’s living in, not a house with insulation. I think it’s time for me to go home and try to fix my problems. I will probably be covert about it and not tell Mama exactly when i’m back. It’s been a relief not to have to visit the parents regularly. Maybe i can just do my chores and head west again without telling anyone.
My ex-husband’s mother keeps emailing me, wondering when i’ll be back. I’ve been polite, but i know she just wants me to look after her father so she can take a break. Maybe that would be a good gig? I’m sure they’d pay. Life is so unclear.
You are lucky to have a solid plan: take care of the kids. That gives you some sort of frame to put your life in. I’m lost and floppy. Well, i have to go. Sorry for the strange letter So much love to you! And the kiddos! X
Ps: i wonder which movie the kids agreed on? Do they like cartoons?
On May 24, at 12:55pm, Sister wrote:
Hi ! Yes- the manuka honey is very appropriate at this time. I think you should know I secretly hoarded it in the closet so no butthead would climb shelves and dig in while I am sleeping, or else dump spoonfuls in hot tea, thus destroying raw honey properties.
I always considered the manuka honey as medicine. I broke it out today since my partner was starting again with lungs hurting / coughing fit. He had recently met people that had “healed” from coronavirus ( they had it maybe a month or two ago). You never know with this disease. they say it returns. maybe this is proof? Anyway, the honey helps.
I am surprised, I thought you had cut off all ties with your ex-husband and his family after the divorce. Ok, I don’t know, i guess if they’d pay it is a good incentive? what a weird relationship. First they raised a crocodile who destroyed the best years of your life, and now they are hinting to you take care of their grand dad. Sorry, I’m just trying to put 2 and 2 together to make sense of it all. Pay is good, though.
if i was you i would pray for direction. this is a special time in your life you actually can find a foothold in this country, your excuse is ; “I don’t want to go to the US now, its infested with coronavirus, plus a stupid president” Maybe the NZ embassy would help.
It is ALWAYS difficult to start in a new country. But your language is the same, at least. If you file with the government and get all your social rights , you can pull through better than in the states. Their social system has got to be better, right? i am not a citizen, and I am not working. i am still getting retirement and health care, which is more than i can say for america. it is a bad country to be alive in, the states, especially now. I hope you got the US government check at least???? Why do they send checks anyway? so people like you can’t get them? in france checks are so old fashioned, the government simply wires money.
Papa said he wanted to send my photos on a CD to me. I had JUST TOLD HIM that I do not have a computer for the millionth time. I would rather he stop send me Super book and other nonsense, save his postage. It is frustrating to do schoolwork without Computer – the eldest kid is just not doing her computer technology lessons, because we can’t . I told him several times. It is about 7 years already i am cobbling things together without computer or printer. So I told him:
This reminds me of the time I told Mama I wanted to send a music CD to our ancient Russian auntie, Totya Lina. She gave me a funny look and said: “where will Totya Lina put your CD? in her butt?”. That is because Totya Lina apparently does not have something so new fangled as a CD player. It is the same in my situation. Where would I put a CD with all the photos? in my butt? I don’t have a device to read a CD at all.
Don’t worry about writing back right away, you have a lot to do, well i completely understand if you want to keep your homecoming a secret. I’ll cooperate!!! i will keep a secret as long as you want. i learned long ago some things are just not worth discussing with them. I better go now! Good night, Love, Sister
On May 25, at 3:16pm, I wrote:
Hi Papa! Thanks so much for sending the $500 – it is greatly appreciated!!
So, i finally decided (just last night) to stay here for another month. I wanted to be home to see the spring flowers, but everyone is telling me that there’s no good reason to go to the states right now. Thanks so much for your advice and kind words – it’s so wonderful to have your understanding with making these decisions.
Besides the chillier weather, i think it will be easier and safer to be here. NZ has only had 12 deaths! Well, they only have 5 million people, too, and isolating a couple of cute islands is a lot easier than isolating an entire continent. I hope you and Sue are still safe and happy at home! Are you able to go to services yet?
How are the spring flowers doing? I wish i could see and smell some big white peonies – i hope you can enjoy that for me! I’ve made a few friends in the Wanaka area, during lock-down and in the 2 weeks since we moved to level 2 lock-down. I think I’ll be able to stay with two or three of them, a week here and a week there… You know how it goes!
And now that we can travel again, i’m going back to some of my favorite spots, like the Nelson area up north. It’ll be warmer there! I’m so glad that the shops are open again! There’s no shortage of wool here, so I’ll get some more socks and the warmest pants i can find. I miss the lodge! It was such a great spot! But really, NZ is full of great spots and i can’t get enough of these epic mountain views.
Although i feel anxious and a little guilty, like i should get back to “real life”, i guess that doesn’t exist right now in the states, so I’m grateful to be in this lovely corner of the globe.
Love, X
On May 26, at 10:51am, Father wrote:
Hi X,
I’m relieved that you made the decision yourself, and that you didn’t feel compelled to return to the States too soon. I’m glad that you chose to stay in NZ.
The news is calling this “the new normal”. It’s not normal at all. Many are jobless and it may be difficult for you to get a job back. Some have received deposits to their bank account from the gov’t while out of work, but that won’t last long. There have been long lines for food distribution for those in hardship.
Another concern is that the news is reporting that, during the Memorial Day weekend, many went on leave from the social distancing, especially at the beach and picnic areas. The president ordered all states to comply, for the opening of churches adhering to social distancing. Our church in had outside services yesterday.
Both my partner and I are doing fine.
Love,
Papa
On May 26, at 12:32 PM, Mother wrote:
X Sheli! How do you do? How is life in NZ?! It is too cold for you there now, huh?! It is summer here [skipped somewhat the spring time]. If the swimming pool will be open – I will believe it, though!
Where are you now? do you have new friends? how is your diet? Are you still a vegetarian? Oh! How is your stomach? Are you controlling your constipation? I hope the food choices there are more healthy than it is here, huh?
Oh! X, did you managed to change the ticket? If you did – I am so, so, so glad for you!
I remember now, my Grandmother was unassuming deaf to both ears person, so she didn’t talk a lot in the public, in their own little society. But people hated her guts, some of them, of course.
My Grandfather was a very tall and very handsome man-oh-man! So, a lot of them thought it is so unfair that she is having him, so there one more reason, too. but all this aside. She has this ability to predict the things which will become. No one wanted to hear it.
The same is looks to be happening here, I have this inner feeling about the things to come and everyone is laughing [as my partner does] or starting to be angry at me as if I do it on purpose to spoil the fun or something. I have this urge to tell, to prevent if it possible of what is coming.
I think that what happened with me, the urgency, the inner push to prevent you to come here in March, April, … I remember, almost physically pushed you, preventing you from coming this way… and now – you can see what has have happened to this man in Minneapolis! Those people are evil and are no-goodnicks! I am crying each time I think about him [George Floyd].
You are was so angry with me, I willing to take it, it is a small price to pay for me – what is important – I prevented you to come here in all those months including May! I know, by now you missed home-sweet -home who wouldn’t?!
But it is good that you have to listen to me, to the reason, maybe, to other people and slowed down. maybe, these people’s and the monster’s unrest will calm down… Now, they say, that when it is hot weather, the virus is not so eagerly spreading itself. I hope your week ahead of you will be pleasant, blessed, safe, and in general, happy!
Love my precious baby! Mother