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July 10, Journal
6:30am
A virile young couple has moved in next door at the lodge. The waves of testosterone are making me dizzy.
I’ve got to get out of here. One more bowl of oatmeal, one more orgasmic shower under the lodge’s hot, clit-punishing showerhead, and I’m out. I don’t even try to keep my moans quiet anymore.
9:25am
Turban’s kiss was as pillowy as his thick brown lips promised. They cushioned mine against the shock of their proximity; seemingly appearing out of nowhere after a long, sexually charged good-bye hug in the lodge’s communal kitchen. We pressed our lips earnestly together a few times before Turban snaked a pointed tongue into the crevice between mine. I welcomed its slickness with soft licks, and our hungry bodies pressed together indecently. Resenting every woolly layer of clothing that kept my skin away from his, I caressed his bare neck and let my fingertips slide over the back of his exotic black turban. We kissed away the long minutes until the 10am check-out time, when I had to reluctantly pull away from our warm embrace in the bright morning sun.
If there wasn’t a horny Mormon waiting for me less than a mile away, I’d have found a way to get naked with Turban. Why did he wait to express his interest until the evening before my departure? We could have fucked a lot in this past week, but it never occurred to me to make a move because Turban was the manager here, and he had been commendably professional. As it was, we only got half an hour together with our desire exposed, and this belly-melting kiss is all that we’ll ever have time for. Time is a funny thing. The story of Turban and I lasted exactly as long as it was supposed to, I guess: we were allotted one kiss, and it was delightful.
I’ll have to practice noticing and taking more opportunities for sex. It’s a shame to miss this ride when I have no fear or reticence holding me back. Shy dicks need riding, too, but only the bold ones get wet.
10:11am
I’ve just pulled in to the Mormon’s farm and Rex is running in happy circles around me. Turban’s kiss turned me on so much that I am going to fuck that Mormon limp.
He’s just walking towards me now, smiling his lopsided Wolverine smile, and my heart has flipped and melted like a chocolate chip pancake. The Mormon is everything that I do and don’t want in a partner, and I need to be safe in his sexy arms before I leave him behind in the dust. I’ve completely forgotten what Turban’s lips felt like.
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July 9, Journal and Correspondence
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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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July 3, Journal
“I’m supposed to be doing something important,” I said, in frustration, to the Mormon. “Helping. Healing people or something.”
He took a drag on the joint that we were sharing to ‘sort me out’ for the ride that I’d given him to Wanaka. His sense of justice was strong. I stared out at the opulent mountains across the lake, itching to break up with him and not knowing how.
“You’ve helped me empty my sack,” the Mormon replied, his smoke rolling long into the persistent Otago wind.
Otago’s steep, barren mountainsides and wide, dry plains sharpened to crystal perfection in the winter. Clouds often loomed low, and their desolate grey chill insisted upon multiple layers of socks and sweaters. Cobalt shadows washed over snow and stone langorously throughout the short days, reluctlantly ceding the majestic landscape to the sun’s blond rays for only a few hours a week.
I found a refuge quite close to the Mormon’s trailer. It was a simple lodge with a reasonably priced double room, situated within 2km of the tiny farm that he called home. I thought that I might find a nice balance between a healthy lifestyle and regular sex if I could keep the Mormon exactly at arm’s length.
The Mormon had worked at the restaurant attached to this lodge about a year ago, and he introduced me to a few of his old co-workers: an unimpressed matron at the front desk, a short Indian fellow with a Turban, and a tall, pretty blonde woman behind the bar who didn’t have time for his grandiosity. I was still too close to the Mormon’s world, but I carefully carved time out for his sex on my own terms so that I could have the majority of the day to sink into my own world and write.
The lodge had a shared kitchen where I could cook vegetables without the Mormon’s disdainful side-eye. On the very first day, I burned my pumpkin curry, sending Turban sprinting into the kitchen to shut off the wailing smoke detector. He kindly waved aside my apologies.
There was a block of bathrooms that was only 30 or 40 steps away from the main building, so if I was quick and clever and didn’t mind two minutes of the frosty pre-dawn air on my naked skin, I could resume my daily ritual of full-body oil massage. I allowed the Mormon into my space only after I claimed it with a good rest, a comforting morning ritual of oil and meditation, and a mildly-burnt meal. After the Mormon and I fucked in the clean white sheets, I took a warm shower, revelling in the spaciousness of the cracked concrete cubicle. The water pressure was hard and enjoyably soothing to my neglected clitoris.
I returned to my bedroom, where the Mormon was idly tapping at the screen of his phone. Dropping my towel and revealing my nudity caught his attention, and he stopped me before I pulled my underwear up over my knees. I’d shaved my pubic hair a few days ago. The Mormon caressed this new genital topography, and his fingers stumbled over an ingrown hair at the top center of my pubic mound.
He picked and picked painfully at the ingrown hair with his long, wolf-like nails until it bled. I watched dispassionately. Holding a thick forefinger over the tiny wound, he looked up at me.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” the Mormon said, his English mouth holding the roundness of his vowels fully, like they were eggs in a basket. “I guess I’ve scarred you forever.”
“You certainly have, sweetie.”
That little scratch was nothing compared to the long scratch that ran down my right butt cheek, about two inches away from and perfectly parallel to my crack. An outdoor tryst with him in the warm days of early autumn had been responsible for that scar (probably some stick or rock cut a groove into me while I’d see-sawed back and forth in Missionary). Subsequent outdoor fucking had peppered my ass and legs with dozens of sandfly bites that left constellations of discolored dots to remind me of our fulfilled desire. The wounds in my heart and mind are already scabbed over, so I’ll let that intangible substance heal in its own way, without disruption.
I destroyed the Mormon’s assumption that he’d be spending the night here in the lodge with me. If he wanted a warm, comfortable bed and a hot, healthy meal, he’d have to pay for it himself. This wide bed was all mine. The Mormon earned his bed by planting garlic, and I’d earned this one with an 11-year marriage.
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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/
Categories
June 10, Journal
Categories
May 14 – Day 50, Journal
People are pressing outwards from the lodge, like cheese through a grater.
We’re saying our goodbyes, each one tender and dear. Tears shone in our eyes when Miriam and I hugged one last time. She’s been my colleague and confidante, and I wish I’d been a better friend. Same with Davina. My dalliances with the Mormon prevented me from putting energy into being a true friend. I’ve been unavailable, detached, and secretly happy to keep some distance between us.
The Christians are trying hard to conceal the joy of their deliverance. They’ve been airing the place out preemptively, keeping their angelic smiles fixed in place as they sweep and hurry us to the door.
Ariel, Judah, and the family conspired to lighten the mood yesterday by playing a little prank on the Christians. They hid Noam, the littlest, in a laundry basket and covered him with a large pile of sheets. When Peter came to pick up the basket, Noam shot out at him like a vicious blond Velociraptor. Sheets flew, Peter shouted, and Noam roared triumphantly over his prey. That did such a good job job of scaring Peter that he hid the the garden for the rest of the day, taking his aggression out by over-pruning some under-prepared Rhododendrons.
This morning, Moshe and I hugged goodbye in the gravel driveway along with everyone else, so our hug wasn’t as delicious as I would have liked. Naturally, I try to inject sex into every hug that I share with every guy who isn’t related to me. Oh, how I love making a public hug secretly sensual! It’s just a little risk-free mind-fuck, just enough to titillate both of us.
It’s a delightful exercise in transferring energy without moving a muscle. The second chakra will spin slowly in a controlled weave: in and out of center in a flower pattern, but the thread is not pulled tight. The weave is very loose and also precisely placed, to keep the energy flowing cleanly within the confines of propriety. Let the feeling of sex rise in your spine, and then release it like a warm flood into the areas of your body where you’re physically connected to your partner. A heave of the breasts on a deep inhale cements the message, but it’s not really necessary. The rush of blood to the lips makes your voice thick and low, so sigh or say a sweet little something.
To draw him into you, the hug’s squeeze comes from the center of the body (i.e.: the energy highway of the sushumna*, which carries the sex-energy generated by the second chakra), not the periphery. So, rather than squeezing in with hands and arms to get closer, press the heart up. The arms linger just a quarter of a second too long… let a voluptuous heaviness add languor to your upper body; peeling away almost reluctantly while the fingers drag across skin.
It does take some finesse to make that action look innocent from an outside perspective: it’s a slow drag and a quick release, like tape unsticking; like you don’t want to get caught. And then the reward: a quick look up through the lashes, and he’s dropping into your gravitational pull; thirsty pupils open wide.
Given a little privacy… well. A hug can be orgasmic for me.
I gave Moshe that public treatment, same as all the other men, but I let my gaze hold his for an extra moment. I thanked him for our time together, and he gave me the same look that he’d been throwing my way since that naked afternoon: fiery and probably significant, but hidden and incomprehensible behind his round glasses. Silly boy. Was there something that he wanted to say to me? Did he ever realize how much sex he could’ve had if he’d just asked? Was once too much?
They all eventually left, shedding into the deepening autumn.
The countdown calendar has been removed from the large notice board in the foyer, along with all of the other adorable reminders of who we were as a group: the ‘mila tova’ box, the list of movies that one really should see, the chore chart, the Shishi night potluck sign-up sheet… All that pattern of black on white; lines of connection, gone. Gone, leaving the neutral brown corkboard behind like freshly-dug earth.
I’ve made my farewells to that secret spot of mine along the impossibly blue river. It is such an idyllic spot to smoke and meditate and masturbate. That small patch of coarse green grass between the rocky riverbed and the wayward willows was my refuge when I just need to be alone. I did a fair amount of disappearing in order to get those refreshing hours that I spent in nobody’s company but my own.
I saw a heavily bearded young man come down to the river for a bath from the campsite yesterday. He wore yellow swimming trunks, and went into the chilly water with no hesitation. When he got about waist deep, he paused and relaxed his hips to face down-stream. I couldn’t see his face where I was, in plain view on the opposite bank of the river, but I could feel his deep pleasure at pouring warm piss into the bubbling current.
The lockdown has flowed past us and through us, rinsing us clean of our old selves. I never thought I’d find such happiness in sharing a home with 21 people. The Coronavirus is so much bigger than those it infects physically. It’s purged us of our certainty, which was always a falsehood. Without that false structure, we’ve been exposed to our quiet insides, and those that care to listen to that vast silence are learning a wild, loving way of interacting with the world.
I knew this time would come: when I stride through the empty and silent hall to the family’s room (Room 4 – I have arrived!), where I’ll smoke by the open window with the heater blasting and sleep like a king on that decadent down pillow. One last night to savor perfect solitude.
Categories
May 11 – Day 47, Journal
4 plus 7 is 11. It’s 10:11am. Not long until cleaning time at the lodge. Of course that’s 11am. Every day.
But I disappear on Saturdays, and I keep getting away with it.
Today, on May 11, Saturn goes into retrograde and we’ll find out what Jacinda has to tell us about the Coronavirus lockdown.
When will we be free?
Eleven keeps following me. Why does it care? Why do I notice it? The Israeli kids climbed to 1100 meters yesterday at Lake Hawea. Lake Wanaka is 311 meters deep. The iPhone 11 just came out. The numbers on my license plate add up to 11.
There’s a massive eleven painted on the side of every KFC in every major South Island town. Of course the colonel has 11 secret spices. Dammit, Sanders, what’s the secret?
There are always 11 new Instagram posts. In case of emergency, dial 111. We watched ‘Inside Out’ a few days ago – the main character is 11 years old. The dog that I met on my walk today was also 11. In the news yesterday, only 11,000 Coronavirus tests were issued in Cambodia. The WHO classified Covid-19 as a pandemic on March 11. There are 11 biscuits in my dark chocolate Tim Tam package.
The family has a ticket home for June 11. Miriam keeps saying that her daughter, Adele, is almost 11, not 10. Eleven insists on itself, doubling itself as if I’m supposed to get more meaninglessness out of it. Miriam and David have been married for 22 years. We are 22. On February 22, 2011, an earthquake devastated Christchurch. The characters on my room’s heater have always read P4:22.
Actually, I have cracked that particular secret code. That means it’s cold and the lodge owners are ‘thrifty.’ Thanks, universe. Another profound mystery revealed.
I need to stop looking at my phone… that thing is all ones and zeros anyway. How can I avoid double ones when I’m glued to a handful of them? No electronics (too many pitfalls there: date, time, temperature… endless quantifiable data…), no more neighborhood walks (addresses, license plates, road signs, prices, and weights), and no more labels of any kind (there’s even a round white sticker, leftover from some Ikea assembly project, on the wooden slats under my mattress that simply says: 11). It’s ridiculous. And embarrassing.
I’ve escaped to the dining room, to wait for our cleaning groups to gather. Shira just cracked an egg into a bowl, and two parallel strings of egg white linger in the air: an eleven in a numberless place.
The family’s arguments have been spilling and stomping through the hallway all morning. The mood here is changing.
People are looking outwards now, past the lockdown. We all desperately expect to be set free, so it must happen, through the strength of communal belief. Joseph told me that he feels imprisoned; they all do.
I like my patterns here. I’ll stay at least one extra day if the lodge owners will have me. My room smells of rich and nurturing sesame oil now that Jessica’s gone, as I’ve been able to do my abhyanga (head-to toe oil massage) every morning. I want to prepare for the Mormon’s cold caravan. It’s such a voluptuous pleasure to show my skin how much I love it. The sesame oil is thick, and it smells like a stir-fry, but it stains my skin a lovely golden color, and I can imagine how my ojas* is also growing plumper and more golden.
* https://svasthaayurveda.com/11-ways-to-increase-healthy-ojas/
… late afternoon
Everyone’s abuzz. Jacinda says we’re free in three days!
It’s like trying to start a lawnmower for the first time in the spring. Nothing’s working, and everybody’s shuffling their possessions back and forth. At least 3 of the camper vans are experiencing mechanical difficulties. Ariel just walked by to remind me to mention that in this blog, and I appreciate his support of my number fetish.
We’ve all grown comfortable with each other. They seem satisfied with my vague responses about my next destination after we’re released. What would they think if they knew that I’d only be travelling a few kilometers away to my secret lockdown lover’s caravan? They all have exotic plans: climbing Mt. Cook, taking a helicopter tour of Franz Josef glacier, and tramping in the forests of Abel Tasman. They’re so good – adventuring off into the light!
I’m going the other way. I’m tunneling down into the clutches of a simple, broken Mormon. I’m going to see how much semen I can wring out of him before his caravan lifestyle becomes unbearable. With as much kindness and love as possible, I want to see who cries ‘uncle’ first.
The Mormon has assured me that he can match whatever pace I set sexually. He reminded me that he was born in the Year of the Rabbit. He told me that, if his alone time was any indication of his appetite with a partner, I’d be a very busy woman. I do love him: he’s funny and arousing, but men like to talk shit, so I’ll wait and see.
Men live in a world of words, don’t they? Making deals, setting prices, writing laws… it’s our world, so we love it, but the words don’t always match reality. We’ve all had that moment – when you pay $30 for a nice dinner, and it’s tasteless and horrible and not at all what you thought was being described on the menu. Men make promises, exchanging words for goods, and they don’t always deliver. It makes a person crave truth.
We value adherence to reality; judges, teachers, religious leaders, cops, and politicians are all chosen because they align with what we think is the truth. Their words have weight. Why?
I think their words are viewed as law because they are rooted in each other, in one common belief, and that creates its own gravity. It’s simply too many old men that want the world to look as it does, so they willed it into being with words, spreading their story by conquest and propaganda. Really, it’s just their idea of what reality should look like. It’s not actually true. A guy living on one side of a border is just as valid and valuable as a guy living on the other side, but they’d have you think that an arbitrary line makes all the difference.
What’s true is what our senses tell us. It’s just easier not to make the effort to explore with our senses and let someone else tell us the truth. You can’t experience everything, right? Unfortunately, if it’s not inside of you as your experience, then it’s not true, it’s just words. You can’t cheat the system. But because people are lazy; they allow others to think for them, and then, well… the mind replaces the heart as the primary receptor of information, and that’s a lot of sweetness left untasted.
The mind is just a tool, just a framework to understand reality. We’re not meant to get stuck there, behind ideas and stories of the past and future, where reality is relegated to those rare times when the present moment is impossible to ignore and our hearts can expand unfettered. We’re meant to be, to live. To make a promise is to cheapen the perfection of the present moment.
Men. Do they even know reality? Do they even see the infinite layers that cocoon the heart? Have they ever lain in the sand and felt each grain as evidence of the love affair between land and sea; felt the millennia of heat and geologic shifting that it took to compress mountains into brutal hardness so that they’d be a worthy consort for the ocean Herself?
Words are ancillary. An addendum to the vibrant truth of the present moment.