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July 13, Correspondence
Texts between the Mormon and I
On July 13, at 11:44am, the Mormon wrote:
got there ok? How are you getting on?
3:57pm – Hi! Yeah, all good, thanks.
I had the chance to visit with one of my lockdown friends!
It was so good to see her again!
But she says there are no jobs around here.
Think I might head north tomorrow.
How are you?
Texts between Drew the Drug Dealer and I
On July 13, at 7:04pm, I wrote:
Hi Drew! We met maybe a month ago and the Mormon gave me your number.
I’m traveling up your way again, and I was wondering if you could hook me up?
If not, no worries – I know this is kinda out of nowhere.
7:06 – Give me a holla when you’re in town and I’ll see what I can do
7:06 – Sweet! thanks
Emails between Sister and I
On July 1, 2020, at 7:35am, Sister wrote:
Hi Sister? Did you feel the earthquake in NZ? Are you still there?
The European Union banned travelers coming from USA. Travelers from New Zealand are allowed.
Anyway I hope you are ok
On July 9, 2020, at 4:09pm, I wrote:
Hi Sister! I hope the kids have a wonderful vacation, even though things are still upside down. They look happy!
I still don’t have a good plan. I would love to visit – thank you so much for that joyous possibility! But I checked out the travel restrictions, and they say only EU citizens are allowed to travel to France right now. I saw that they would accept more people (just health workers and students though?) after July 10, including New Zealand citizens – would I count? I wrote an email to French Foreign Affairs, and we shall see what they say! I would probably need to do 2 weeks of quarantine anyway.
The Mormon is gone, finally. He was lazy and a nudnik, and I’m pretty sure that all the good guys are taken. There’s no good reason to be here. Sorry, I wish I had some news. I didn’t even feel the earthquake! Mama is pushing me to stay here. I’ve been able to delay my taxes and yearly eye exam, so I might as well stay for another few weeks. But I truly have no idea what I’m doing here. I’ll be headed out of the Otago area (where the Mormon lives) towards Christchurch again this weekend. The Mormon was right – this place will suck you in. I think some locations are like that – our hometown, too. It’s often seemed like a black hole to me. We both escaped!!
Anyway, this hotel is nice, and i’ve been able to heal a lot in the past week or so. My back and right hip and ankle are bothering me from driving or from the cold – I am so old! Mama was right – arthritis is no good! But they have a good bed and hot showers here. I’m enjoying healthy food and a good sleep schedule and I feel better than I’ve felt in weeks. Can I blame the Mormon? Probably not.
How does the summer feel? Are people relaxing finally? I guess if hotels are closed, there are still no tourists? I finally got a haircut last week and it feels so good! I got rid of 4 or 5 inches of dead stuff. And a few days later, one Mormon.
I miss him a little. But this short and ungraceful relationship is giving me a lot to write about, so I’m so grateful for all of my experiences here. So, my days are writing and yoga and cooking now, hopefully to be repeated in several choice locations around this sweet island for a little longer!
I’ll let you know when I get a response from the French Foreign Affairs office. I’ll be going to the American Embassy in Christchurch on Monday to try and figure out a plan of sorts. I hope all is well. Sometimes I imagine that, by the time I leave NZ, the whole world will have already gotten the coronavirus, and I’ll have to contract it anyway just to be a part of society once I’m off this island. Maybe it’s best just to catch it and survive it?
I love you and thank you and wish you and the family a happy Bastille Day!
On July 10, 2020, at 10:30am, Sister wrote:
X? you are alive! It so nice to hear from you! I did not realize my last email was so cold and rigid. Sorry about that!
What guy exists that is NOT lazy and a nudnik? All the ones I’ve ever met are! Did you have to develop arthritis in those freezing conditions in the van? That is too much!
We are getting old, eh? What was that you said?
Here are some news updates that accumulated while you were cloistered up as a hermit (but not too crabby… gosh, my sense of humor is getting progressively stale as the years go by).
They voted green in my city! Our mayor is an ecologist. She is going to develop the parks and maybe make tram free for all children under 18 and other people too. That will make it easier for me – i won’t have to do all that extra multiplication in my head every time the children ask to go to Orangerie! We actually just walked there the last 2 times. It was a disaster. The eldest stepped on a bee the last time… we had to walk all the way home. Luckily a handy banana peel soothed her foot temporarily… until it kept slipping out of her sandal. Poor girl.
On Monday, the synogogue gave the children gifts, as usual at the end of the year. Hebrew books mostly… but the eldest got a surprise gift, some kind of blue-tooth earphones. The children were so excited with it; it worked with my phone. But the fourth child did not go to Hebrew school, so she had no gift. She cried in the secretary’s office – but a cute, quiet crying, she had tears in her eyes, “why don’t I have a gift, too?” so the secretary found some sticker book and gave it to her. Then she was happy.
The eldest with her new headphones forced me to figure out what the heck is bluetooth. I felt like some primitive caveman with all my lack of knowledge. She’s already better than me with my own phone! (she’s giving me lessons on it) How embarrassing!
The eldest actually says she remembers Grandma (our mother) and trying to repeat some Russian words after her… and you! She remembers stuff I already forgot, like when Auntie slammed the door after she was playing with your bra?? There were other instances… it all seems funny now (at least to me…) when you were angry because of a pipi the second child did on the floor? The eldest actually dreamed about you a week or two ago. She said we were all in a haunted house (dirty, no light at all) and then you prayed in her dream (yes! Auntie X in the eldest’s dream was praying), and the whole house was filled with light. I hope things are OK over there! You’re so far away from everyone!
I better go! Sorry for babbling away as we Geminis sometimes tend to do! Love, Sister
Emails between Mother and I:
On July 8, 2020, at 2:35pm, Mother wrote:
Today, as never before, please, stay put where are you! Read the news from the Babel, the USA. I do not see any improvement, not in the COVID-19 numbers, not in the political shifts.
The head of the country – is stupid. His policies are harmful to the country, for our lives, health, business, promised happiness. Money for the people and unemployment lost in Kushner’s and Trump’s many companies’ deep pockets. The unemployment rate is growing, as is homelessness, the random crime and racism. I do not believe I am living in this kind of time, I thought they were finished and past away in my Grandparents’ lives.
Please, my Darling X! Do everything which is in your power and what is LEGAL to stay in New Zealand, appeal to the right instances, people, offices. I know how much you hate bureaucracy and meaningless running from one to another but no one could do it for you today, just you. Please, be kind to yourself and stay there now. Wait for the changes in this country. Hopefully for good. You know. You know the rest. Love my precious daughter with all of my heart, Mother.
On July 12, 2020, at 7:36am, Mother wrote:
Hello, X! Shabbat Shalom to you! I hope you are alright.
I saw your pictures on Instagram. Such beautiful places. Please, be safe, keep yourself healthy, write to me if you need help. Help me help you. But stay there as long as you may do so!
I saw another article today: they want to free 8,000 criminals in in California because of the corona. You are so much safer there, so much more! Ain li milim! I am speechless! I miss you. I wish I could hug you and hide you. But it is so much better for you to be in NEW ZEALAND today than in the USA. People are crazy, dying like flys and still do not wear the masks! Some Karma is boomeranging the USA for all the racism and hypocracy they did to me, to you, to blacks and to native Americans. I do not know other interpretation for all this. Love, Mother.
On July 13, 2020, at 6:19am, Mother wrote:
How right you were!
On July 13, 2020, at 6:31pm, I wrote:
Hi Mama,
Of course I’m right – I’m YOUR daughter!
Ha! I knew a nonviolent revolution could succeed! Tell me, how did they pull it off? Did the rebels band together and march on the White House? Was it an internet coup?
I hope you are doing well? I guess I will stay here for 3 more weeks, at least. I seem to say that every 3 weeks! I’m back in the north part of the south island for the warmer weather. I still don’t know what to do or where to go. I hoped there would be more clarity after Mercury went out of retrograde, but there isn’t, and I’ve had delays in my travels. I think I can put off my life in the US a little longer. I am not sure that I can afford a life here, but so far I am ok, I think. I need to figure out how to check my savings account, and then I can tell you whether or not I have a money problem.
Thanks so much for offering to help! But I do feel guilty – the money is yours and I am wasting time here. I need to find a solution where I don’t have to take from you.
I heard that some states are closing again. Are you ok? I hope that you are enjoying the summer a little? It must be so nice and warm there!
I know it’s been a while since I wrote, but there’s not much news. I’m still floating around the country… You’ve seen the pictures! I’m in a town called Geraldine, for another night anyway, and then maybe I will go find a warm beach further north. Not that warm, though! It really is winter here.
I bought a space heater at a thrift store, and I’ve been taking it into all my hostel rooms because they are stingy with heat here. This room doesn’t even have a heater! And it’s a nice place, too – you would like the chandelier in the bathroom. Thank you for your letters! I love to read them, even if I am lazy on responding. It is good to know what’s going on over there, and I’m glad you think I’m in the right place for now. The tourist visa that I got when I arrived is good for 2 years, actually. I’m just not supposed to earn money. Well, these poor Kiwis are trying to restart the tourism business here with no tourists, so I guess I am helping their economy as much as I can with my American dollars. At least I’m doing one productive thing here!
I love you very very very much!!
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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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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.
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May 8 – Day 44, Journal
Judah is playing the guitar masterfully and sweetly in Room 5. He is God when he plays. I’m quiet and at peace, and I hold back from disturbing him, even though I want to sing those familiar songs and be one with him. But the time for drawing together is over. The tide is going out, and we can all feel the gentle gravitational shift.
I’ll probably forget to write a little note of gratitude to him; the ‘mila tova’, or good word box, will be emptied one last time before we leave. One of these large-hearted kids put up an old ice-cream box in the main foyer, and we’re supposed to just write kind, random notes to people and put them in the box. Every Friday night after our communal dinner, the slips of paper in the box are read aloud in Hebrew by the youngest child, Noam, and then translated into English by his Dad.
It’s hard for me to put my special appreciation for each of these delightful souls into words that cannot be misconstrued as sexual harassment, so I don’t participate in ‘mila tova’ as often as I’d like. It was so nice to get one, though! I got a few for teaching yoga in the beginning, before I started seeing the Mormon almost every day.
He scratches my itch, and I’m trying not to fall into addictive patterns with him. I know I’m supposed to give him space to miss me so he’d want more sex. And little is more satisfying to me than the warm spread of his ejaculate.
I’m trying. I fill my free time with yoga and cooking and meditation and writing. I’m working on re-mastering a yoga pose that I’d only been able to stick one or two times before my shoulder injury in 2012. It’s a tricky Vasisthasana variation: a side plank with the bottom leg being extended overhead by the top arm. I’m getting close! My right collarbone keeps reminding me that it’s no longer attached at the arm end, jostling around the meat at the top of my shoulder like a Chinese tourist. If I can just work past that discomfort, I’ll be back to where I was before the word ‘divorce’ ever crossed my lips.
I’ve told the Mormon that I’m not into commitment now, and he seems to understand that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with one person. He’s told me that men need women, and I can’t argue with that. I’ve seen firsthand how a man can flourish, given kindness and devotion. I don’t think my ex-husband wouldn’t have been wealthy without me. It always seems to go one way with my relationships, though. I invest my heart easily and thoroughly each time. My goal is His happiness, and I forget my Self. Every time.
Of course a guy would want this sort of relationship. Forever, or at least until I grow difficult. I don’t see how I can flourish like this, though. I’m a better artist when I’m alone because I’m closer to the one-ness of God. I’m happy and at peace. I really enjoy who I am. Who God is. Men get in the way of that union, and that deprives my soul of its sustenance. And then the art shrivels up to nothing. I’m trying to change the dynamic so I can be in charge of where my heart spends its time. I need to be truly my Self while still getting laid on the regular.
Everyone’s talking about Level 2, making plans to travel hard-core as soon as they can bust out of the lodge. We won’t know the verdict for another few days. I’m the only one enjoying my current adventure, and I don’t want it to end. This steady influx of passion, kindness, and optimism (and, more likely, youthful testosterone) has given me new life. This may be the happiest I’ve ever been.
I guess the lockdown will have to end eventually. Kiwis are astonishingly healthy and obedient. My English Mormon is a little disobedient, and it’s sexy. He’s hooked on me, and I want to enjoy him more. I trust him to find a way to keep me around for a couple weeks before I have to go back to the intolerable reality of the United States.
It’s fascinating to watch the Mormon allowing me past one barrier at a time. He finally invited me up to his home today!
I’ve been to his town, but he’s always kept his home private. Now I know why. It’s not fancy.
The Mormon lives in a caravan on a small farm as a WWOOFer, so he works in exchange for rent. He told me to come on over today, as though he hadn’t been avoiding my intrusion. I didn’t get much instruction, so I parked next to a caravan that seemed to match his description: ‘a little green box.’ That box proved to be empty, but Rex found me wandering aimlessly and came to my rescue.
I greeted him gratefully, and he was overcome with doggy happiness. His tail whipping, Rex led me deeper towards the belly of the farm. There, a small, colorful circle of caravans huddled together staunchly against the wind that swept through the flat-bottomed valley.
I followed Rex around the outer edge of the circle. Pale, long grass gathered at the edges of each man-made thing that squatted there: caravans, shipping containers, farm equipment, and rickety crates full of something worth saving. The afternoon sun was already low, and the angled light gilded the mustard-yellow caravan ahead of us. I saw the Mormon standing there, loose as a scarecrow and dressed in black. His jacket blew around his hips, and he cradled a rollie in his left hand.
He was talking to someone just inside the caravan. As I softly made my presence known, his friendly gaze shifted from the caravan to Rex to me, and I was welcomed warmly.
“This is my mate, Colin,” the Mormon introduced us, “I call him Farmer Colin. He farms this place, and he’s good.”
Farmer Colin grinned at me from his seat in the doorway of his caravan. He looked weathered and grimy around his edges. He wore many layers of voluminous clothes, a green bandanna warmed his head, and the fat gray hood of his uppermost sweatshirt shaded his eyes. I could see his youth in his large, bright eyes, but the wrinkles around them were the badge of a life lived outdoors in the harsh New Zealand sun. His smile revealed that he thought I was attractive.
It’s in the corners of the mouth, you see, when they expand an extra 2 millimeters out and slightly down from the initial smile. Maybe that microexpression facilitates salivation? I tried it, and there does seem to be an energetic connection all the way down into the second chakra.
Colin wasn’t sure how to proceed under Level 3 lockdown regulations. He extended his hand and then retracted it. He wanted to touch me, but we were used to being in our Level 4 bubbles. It was hard to pop those safe havens.
“Hi.” Colin said, “I don’t know if it’s OK to shake your hand.”
“Yeah, it’s cool, whatever feels right. It’s nice to meet you.”
Colin reached out again, and we shook hands like Covid rebels. It felt naughty somehow, and my desire rose as our hands warmed together. Yeah, I liked Farmer Colin with his large eyes and his strong hands. I couldn’t see anything else of him but an achingly regal nose; a nose that was carved into monuments and coins, that could have graced an eagle, and that left no doubt as to his divinity.
“Farmer Colin is another kind of farmer, too,” the Mormon said, proudly. “He’s got a little weed farm somewhere out here. Sometimes he takes care of me wit his homegrown. They call it bush here, don’t they, mate?”
Colin laughed and ducked his head modestly.
“Yeah, mate,” A girl’s voice wound its way towards us through the labyrinth of caravans. Her French accent was overridden by an exaggerated Kiwi drawl. When she appeared, she was also swathed in grayish warm things from head to toe. Her youthfulness showed in her unlined face and light step, but she held herself against the unremitting cold in a brittle way.
“Colette!” the Mormon was delighted to have a little group together. This was, in fact, the largest group we’d been permitted to enjoy since lockdown started. Our bubbles were more mobile now, and more likely to collide. Colette was less hesitant to break through the physical barrier of her bubble, and I shook her lovely hand. She settled into the doorway of the caravan, snuggling into Colin as we talked.
I was delighted to meet the Mormon’s mates. I liked them, and I liked their way of life. Could I live this way?
They did notice when the Mormon talked about nothing in his goofy way. They kindly steered the conversation back to normal when the Mormon spoke at length about Rex’s stinky farts. I was glad to see that I wasn’t alone in my misunderstanding of the Mormon. He’s on a different wavelength.
He’s odd, but so am I. He reminds me of my father… he’s somewhere on the autism spectrum. He believes in his faith as strongly as my father believes in his. I’m not sure whether or not the Mormon’s faith aligns with the book of Mormon, but he seems to fall back on it when asked.
He has a particular view of the world, and if I know my Dad, it will be almost impossible to get the Mormon to budge from whatever preconceptions he might have. I’d have to learn his rigid framework, and work with it. If he’s open enough, and I can be free enough, we might be able to live together.
I’ve learned to work with my Dad. His inane conversations drive me to a special sort of painful frustration as well, but I’ve learned to place boundaries on our time together. I’ve learned to set myself up for success. I do want to spend time with my father, because I love him. And because he loves me, he allows me to choose when and where we meet. It breaks my heart that my father knows that I can’t handle his energy.
Maybe, upside down in the southern hemisphere, I can resolve this dissonance between heart and mind. Can I shut off my unsatisfied mind and just let my heart expand unhindered?
I can do this. For the first time in years, I want to hold on to something. Not the Mormon in particular, but I do want the sweetness of new love, safe arms to hold me, the peace of a home, and a regular hard fucking. I want a shelf where I can put my stuff.
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