It was not an escape. A geographic reset. A rush to the holy mountain. I was perfectly content in my house on the culdesac with two cats and a variety of musical instruments. I liked the weather. I loved my community of friends around tennis, writing, music. If I did it, it wasn’t because of any particular thing. And it would require some planning, some effort, and a good bit of spiritual resolve to leave everything behind for some romantic vision.
Hemingway in Spain. Miller in Paris. Kerouac in San Francisco.
The world was my oyster. Alone, I could escape to nearly any point on the globe.
Like in Go Dog Go talking about the “dog party.” What would they do up there? Out there. Alone. Exploring. Recreating some mythical pilgrimage of my own design. Spiritual? Amorous? Heroic? Literary? Solitaire?
First, I needed to pick my mountain, metaphorically speaking. Today is December 22, 2024. Snow is good for skiing. Pine trees. Whiteouts. Piñon fires. The beaches of Spain hold some promise. I speak the native tongue fairly well. Perhaps my cover story, if I needed one, is I am translating Octavio Paz into English. Paris of course. Barcelona. Santorini. Amsterdam. Milan.
This is not a spin of the globe get out of town move. This is a journey of growth, longing, adventure, story. Stories to tell.
There is the problem of the cats. Sid and Hunter. Even my first two forays away from their kitten love proved painful. Two nights. Obviously, they are coming with… Okay, so that limits a few things, distance, mainly, at least for this initial voyage. My Oddessy. No wife waiting at home on my handmade bed. No court full of suitors devouring my wealth. This could be the beginning of something big, bigger. Bigger than myself. Enriching my soul and hunger for “next.”
But, am I so uncomfortable? Bored?
Writing is strong. Creative ideas are arriving at a constant rate. Is there some part of it, something that’s missing?
Her.
That girl. The one in the photograph is about ten years younger. Yes, the sweet spot.
And… I know… A woman is not the answer I am seeking. I know this. I still want her to arrive, enflamed and passionate. Piercing my own fog of self-importance. Okay, I see the problem now.
I want a transformational relationship. I want a mountain climber to knows where the holds and pitons are along the ascent. A goddess of her own choosing. A reflection of my own energy and devotion to words. She’s into something else. Something vigorous. Something unhinged. Magical. Thrilling. Dangerous.
Yet, I understand anxiety. I have suffered an insecure attachment with a woman I was madly in love with. She was distracted. Obsessed with her mini-me and other oppressive circumstances. She couldn’t release herself. Let go.
In order to fly, one has to let go. Drop off the airplane. Release your children to their own agency and missed calls. I am in pain. It is my own rhuminations. A slight. A joke, probably. A miss between myself and my most important remaining human, my daugther.
I am in the process of rising above my own ego. She is 22 and at the start of her launch sequence. She does not need to tend to my emotional fragility. She does not need my complaint, and I don’t think her apology would fix what’s broken.
The wounded part is me. Dad. Parent. The strong part, the adult me part, knows I am loved. Feels the closeness between us. Understands that she was raised by two stoics, losing me when she was seven. She got the best and worst of mom. Perhaps the best and worst of me as well. She is on her way. It’s okay that consumption, brands, and gimme gimme is her mode. She’s emerging into adulting. Parents often provide resources and access to ski vacations.
I’ve been asking about a ski trip. She asked for money for a different ski trip. “I’ll cry for a month if I don’t get to go on this trip, Dad.” I get it. Dad is one thing. Friends, boys, and ski/drinking is something a ton more thrilling. She too is alone. She is seeking her first deep love. Her first boy/man that doesn’t think blackout drinking is how great stories are made. She’s on her own climb. She’s releasing me as well.
Okay, so the cats. The 80-year-old best friend battling with ailments and decline. The community of faith in the fuzzy yellow ball. My garden of spiders and frogs.
It’s more of a romantic fantasy I seek. I want to be at the table with Hemingway drinking Absynthe between the two world wars. I want to chat with Henry Miller and Anais at a sidewalk cafe over coffee and licorice.
Maybe this is not the moment.
As my ancient friend says, “You have no ships in the harbor.”
I have a number of them on the horizon. A fancy job with big money again. A screenplay that’s passed into the quarterfinals of a national competition. And a daughter who has just arrived back from college, successful and employed in five weeks. Do I have time to waste on being upset with her for not mentioning me in her “thank you” slide at graduation? No. Am I pained by it. Yes. Will I work through it without damaging myself or my connection with my daughter? Absolutely.
So, Corpus Christi for a long weekend, then?
Check!
