Through the Looking Glass

Good Morning all…..For today, Sunday, I want to share a short story with you. Please feel free to comment, as well as letting me know what you like or dislike about “Through the Looking Glass.” Also, 21 years later…Jaco is NOT forgotten.

All of us are in the gutter, some of us are looking up at the stars.

Oscar Wilde, Lady Windemere’s Fan

August 20, 1961: Nothing of consequential note took place on this date. No great insurgencies against any great nations; no great disaster, natural, manmade or other; no great discoveries made; no great plans born on the wind of any great mind; no sporting event of note; no weather that could not be deemed as ordinary. However, at Michael Reese Memorial Hospital, in the enclave known as Chicago, at approximately 10:15 a.m., there was a birth, a seven pound baby boy, me.

This is of no huge importance other than the fact that I am the crux of the following story. And, if I am not here, than there is no story, and there is no point, but I’ve led you along this far…Why not hang on for a few more pages.

I have found, in the course of my time on the terra, that Athena and I have never been destined to be in harmony. I.e. the goddess of love may smile knowingly upon my visage, but she does not go out of her way to grace my presence. In other words, if I’m gonna find love, it’ll be as much from my efforts as from any holistic meeting of the gods and goddesses. Nathaniel Hawthorne once said, “Love is like a butterfly. If you try to catch it, it is difficult. But…every once in a while, the butterfly will land on you”. Point being, when you’re NOT looking, that is when the arrow strikes.

Several years past, the exact time frame eludes me, as do most “time frames” in my recent past; I was attending a wine tasting at my friend Bill’s house. Being single, successful, and content, I decided I should correct that matter and engage in the age old tradition of “Hi, my name is….”, you know.

At almost six feet in height, a thirty-six inch inseam, a bust copied from Greek marbles of earlier times, and the bluest of blue eyes, It would have been impossible to not notice Susan when she entered the room. I was smitten, and in pursuit.

The problem with first impressions is that they are devoid of senescence; In other words, We’ve no idea if the “thing” our first impression is locking on to has even the remotest ability to, say, conjugate a verb or emit sensitivity of some sort. To rephrase; She was fucking gorgeous, as sexy as they come, but ooohh the misery that was to follow…

I was in love, I still am. But, love IS a four-letter word.

II

I can believe two impossible things before breakfast.

Lewis Carrol, Thru the Looking Glass

If I had to choose which recreation, joy, or destination, I most assuredly relate to Susan and I as an entity, it would have to be Paraiso Hot Springs. Allow me to explain…

Paraiso Hot Springs is a piece of Eden on earth; neatly tucked into 1100 acres hidden in the Santa Lucia Mountains outside of Soledad, California. Having existed since the late 1700’s; to this day Paraiso is still the “Lost Horizon” amongst the clutter of Central California. San Jose is ninety miles to the North; San Francisco another forty beyond that.

Lying at an elevation of 1200 feet in altitude and at the end of a seven-mile long road which terminates in gravel and dirt, are a hundred palm trees reputed to be the tallest in all of California. Nestled within this oasis of palms lie several pools ranging in from hot tub size to larger than Olympic size. Surrounded on three sides by towering, vertical sheets of granite and sagebrush, Paraiso is truly the embodiment of the term “Heaven on Earth”.

And the flowers…Everywhere…Yellow Chinese Lanterns, Blue and black Shooting Stars, Iris, Rosemary, Pepper trees, hundreds of ‘em and green, verdant hills and gullies overflowing with ferns, Calla lilies and other denizens of the antediluvian era.  On the fauna side, we have a flock of wild turkeys, quail, every type of bird and butterfly imaginable; deer, pigs, boar, and mountain lions. Oh, I almost forgot…but MOST important of all, fields and fields of Lupine in the springtime.

I should also inform the reader that Paraiso is also my home, although this was not known to be the case at the time of this romance.

The pure and utter exhilaration that hits me when I come to the end of that dirt road, is, and always has been, as thrilling, eye opening, and spiritual as the first time I entered this haven with Susan in tow.

III

The inevitable decline of many relationships can be attributed to this one small statement: Men want woman to stay the same as the day they met them; Women want men to change.

Mitchism

Over the course of a year, Susan and I went through what I can only describe as an aberration of romance. Good times and bad times; mostly bad times, beyond bad. In fact, if asked to sum up almost two years of our dance, a dance at arms length most times mind you, I’d have to say that the only reason one or both of us are not dead is because of some arcane, outmoded and outdated precept that California (and a slew of other states) have as concerns premeditation and the termination of certain higher life forms. Although, for the life of me, I don’t know who lays down the baseline as far as the term higher life forms goes. Sentencing guidelines are represented by a legal concept known as Mens Rea. or “evil intent”. But, I digress.

The one place that Susan and I could not stay angry was Paraiso. No matter the argument, no matter the incident, in a matter of hours upon arriving at Paraiso the matter at hand was forgotten or dispelled. This was and is the magic of Paraiso Springs. There are two routes home; home at the time being in Santa Cruz, an hour’s drive from here. The direct route, which is highway 101, visible in the distance, about ten miles from here as a ribbon of Tonka trucks, hot wheels and matchbox cars, is the quickest way back to civilization. The scenic route, which entails a two-hour journey in a sort of perpendicular direction to the highway, is called Carmel Valley Road. Carmel Valley Road is a winding, climbing, falling sort of country road where you can never exceed, say, twenty-five miles an hour top end. The joys of this circuitous journey are the hillsides teeming with Lupine in the springtime. Walls and mountains of brilliant blue and purple hues. Acres and acres, from roadside to towering over your head of blue, blue and more blue; the Lupines.

Imagine Monet’s Waterlilies reproduced on the side of a mountain as commanding as Mount Rushmore. Then envision twenty of these purple hillsides laid out end to end. This was one of Susan’s most favored natural occurrences. Susan really did love nature and the beauty wrought by the carpet of the sun.

Susan was not the world’s most emotional girl. It seemed that it either took a death in the family or an incredible amount of alcohol to leech a tear or a sigh out of her inner recesses. Now don’t get me wrong, in bed or in any romantic situation, Susan was, to me, THE most sensitive, sweet, caring and kind lover I’ve ever known. But, to garner reaction at the primal level, when sex was not the core issue, was for Susan, difficult. In deference, I must state that painting, Susan was an amazing watercolor artist, and the open sea could, as well, invoke a spirit and an aura from which she could taste joy. One occurrence in nature that I know for certain woke the primal goddess in her soul was the appearance in springtime of the Lupine.

IV

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Confucius

Fast-forward two years. Susan has left for grand destinations. A wonderful bequest upon her mothers’ deathbed had left her a sum with which she was promised to use for traveling. January 21st, 2002; that is the date on which she departed, borne on the wings of a silver bird; delivered to the South Seas. One year and three months have passed since she embarked on what was scheduled as a one year sabbatical. Nigh a word, nary a gesture, have come back in my direction concerning the present location of Susan. Where once we had built a relationship upon my scribe talents with email, now not a word has been sent my way. Where in the past I would look forward to Mr. Gates trademarked “You’ve Got Mail” revelation, now the copper wires that carry all news to all parts of the universe remain silent. Other than the more than occasional, “Is she happy with the size of your penis…?” missive, there is nothing in my inbox, so to speak.

So, upon the arrival of the Spring Equinox, Latin for “equal night”, my heart took flight once again. I am now safely ensconced in my palatial 15’ by 20’ cabin, perched on the edge of the Indian Valley, for eons the home of my beloved Paraiso Springs. I look outward from my window, down a small rift laden with brilliant yellow Chinese Lanterns living harmoniously interspersed within my oak grove, across to the field, which is MY 51” big screen TV. (Mr. Gates spell checker says “TV” should be capitalized, that’s kinda scary, don’t you think?) In this field are blooming the first Lupine of the season.

On first site of this, I had a major “Oracle at Delphi” thing go off in my head. I should put my irrigation out in the field, water ever so diligently, and then, after turning my hillside into a canvas, notify Susan that I have a present for her. This vision, as ephemeral as the Lupine themselves, passed within days. I’m still watering the hillside, I’m still radiating in the glory and wonder of my beautiful purple hillside. However, I have, after forty-two years of wandering on this planet, “figured it out”. Sometimes, the memory of what was is a far better thing than the reality of what is.

Why does man dream of immortality, when he does not know what to do on a rainy afternoon?

Mitchism

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