5

I was thinking I might try and get back to my tale of travels in America, which has been on hold a long time; sometimes I think it’s not really meant to be – after all, wasn’t I told, and didn’t I feel, that February would be the start of something? And wasn’t February when the whole short story thing kicked off? – but at the same time I still think it’s a wonderful project, and I still feel an ineffable anger when I read people like Danny Wallace – goddamn his stupid bloody newspaper columns! – and hear how well they’ve done, so I guess that’s a sign of something there. Publishing-wise, short stories may well be where it’s at for now; dream-wise, it’s still about the travel/spiritual journey book. Not having that as my professional focus, though, takes the pressure off, and rather than having to sit there and construct polished chapters I thought I might just blab it out and see what comes (which may well be good, and which is probably the best way anyway) in order to get things moving, and in order to satisfy those who have wanted to know ‘what happened next?’ At least, that’s the idea…

So…

I moved to Charlottesville in May ’97, sort of inspired by the multi-pronged fork of Laurel and Hardy (“In The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia”), the name of the town (I just liked the way it looked), and the number of cute university girls I’d met there on my way across country the winter before – and by how enamoured they were with the English accent. Plus, I wanted a slice of real America, a spell away from other travellers, from doing travelling things, to be normal, and settled down, and not constantly moving – and with that in mind I took an apartment for the summer sharing with two straight-down-the-middle, good American student-types (you know, baseball caps, white socks, nothing of interest to say whatsoever) and set about finding myself a job and filling my life with normal things such as stereos, bicycles, clothes, cushions; all the sort of thing you do when you have a base and a place to put things.

This is shit.

Oh, Perlilly! Where have my feelings gone? Lost in a computer, lost in Risk – as perhaps with Sara – or something more than that? Oh, why did you demand of me so much, when you could so easily have just shown me your wonderful self, and have me fall in love and willingly give myself to you? Is that the way of woman? Or is it just because you were too young, too inexperienced and overwhelmed by your feelings, and too pride/stupid/ignorant to lesson to some better judgement? I mean, of course I thought I knew more than you – have I learned nothing in my ten extra years on Earth?! But, well wasn’t I the same at 22, thinking I knew it all? Of course I should have known that our ages would make a difference – but not in the way I might have thought they would; well I guess I learned something there.

When did it start to crumble, to go wrong? Wasn’t I a little wary down in Oxford, even at Christmas time? New Years Eve, and your drunken, so young friends there – which I tried to make the best of. Too much time together – punctuated, thankfully, by our glorious recording project. You were so, so happy at that – that we could spend so much time together and still get on – but by the time we got back to Leeds I was ready – if, perhaps, unable, unwilling – to take a break. Did I like your mother’s company better? Hard to say. Was it the package? Of holiday, of comfortable home, of family and being liked and loved and cared for? Yes, I liked that a lot – but, yes, I liked you too. But by the time we were back in Leeds, I was finding it hard to think of things to say…

That was when I got my laptop too – and God only knows how much time we’ve been spending together!

Twelve days later I went to India; I was glad to get away; I thought the break might do us good. In fact, in all my unwillingness to go, taking a break from you was the one thing that saw me through. I didn’t want to stay in Leeds; I didn’t want to see  you more. It was enough. And in those feelings there should be something very, very telling indeed.

India was wild; not wild then, but wild now, when I look back, thinking about how I was gonna get all spiritual again, and pray, and meditate, and do good things – all mind goo fed to me by foolish thoughts. I thought I wanted a wife – a spiritual woman – and I thought that person couldn’t be you. I came back and I didn’t feel the same way – I needed time to readjust and integrate – and you knew that my feelings had changed – you knew before that, because of my emails – and that was pretty much the end: since then you’ve been nothing but demanding, wanting, acting odd, insecure, unsure, and giving me nothing that was worthy of my love, save in brief glimpses. You wanted to pressure me into wanting you – but what faster way to turn off a man than that? When all you had to do was show me the you that I fell in love with in the first place; it could have happened so easily, and so much how you wanted. But then you would have had to have been a different person to manage that, and you’re not – how could you be? You’re you – so I guess either way it was doomed. How I wish you’d learn from that – but the truth is, I didn’t want you – didn’t want to be rushed – wasn’t ready – and you couldn’t live with that, and didn’t have it within you to do to the clever thing to win me; fair enough. I hate to be demanded of – I just got out of a four year relationship with a lovely woman because she demanded too much; what chance this seed of a sapling of a bud? – and I guess I just won’t stand for it. That could be something in me; I just don’t care. I’m not going to commit to something I don’t feel a hundred percent – and I didn’t feel this. Sorry, but I don’t.

We had two good months; that’s probably about right. We made some beautiful music together – in bed, and in your compositions too. I truly believe that was an important part of it, and even in early January I felt that, if that was what we were really about – getting your recording done, and getting you on that road – then that was a worthwhile thing. More so, though, I feel that you helped heal some of my woman issues, my mother issues, and I feel sort of stronger and more clear with that – more able to withstand criticism – though I hope your recent accusations and angers haven’t undone that work. Two good months, and since then, nothing really. I know I said I love you – and I guess I did, and do, in my own stupid way – but since then…well, it scared me. I felt responsibility. I felt like it meant something. Maybe it did. I thought that I could just say it because I thought that it was true – it was right there in my head, those three words, over and over – but then it became too much. “I love you so much,” you would say, and I’d wondered what that meant, why you said it. It freaked me out; I didn’t feel it so much after I’d let it go; it was replaced by fear of responsibility, of commitment, of having to be something other than a ‘friend that fucks’, a lover. But will you be so attached to names and forms when you’re a little older? Will you be hounding for ‘boyfriend’ ten years down the line? I doubt it. And let’s get to the crunch: we just weren’t compatible. How could I spend my life with someone who beliefs were so opposite to mine? Who cared more about shampoo than God and humanity? Who chewed their face off, and scoffed at the idea of taking the kids to India, and chucked their last lover because he wasn’t making 40K a year? No, it just wasn’t right – not beyond those two months anyway. Perhaps you wanted it but…it just wasn’t there. And even if I do have commitment issues, and things scare me with that – well, won’t the woman I love, and the one who loves me, see beyond that, love me all the same, bide her time with patience and understanding, and one day win me simply by her irresistible presence? Yes, probably she will. But certainly not by hounding, by becoming a shadow of her former self, by refusing to share with me anything unless I give her this thing, this status, this “boyfriend”. Yes, I want it my way – but my way excludes not love, and happiness, and fun – which is far more important than name and shape and form – and…it just wasn’t right. Pure and simple. Done.

I want a woman who loves me, as I am – and not how she wants me to be.

I want a woman who understands what love is, and who understands that love is a giving thing, not a getting.

I want a woman who doesn’t give me grief, or cause me hassles, but who believes in love and fun and cuddles.

I want a woman who wants me, and who shares my beliefs, my outlook on life, and with whom I can create a harmonious home life.

I want all these things, and I deserve them, because I am capable of giving them, and because I will. I’m a good guy; a nice guy; a loving guy, and a giving guy. You said yourself I was “amazing” – well maybe it’s probably true.

But you, my love, you were too young, and just not quite right, despite our compatibility in bed, and your beautiful big boobs, and your zest for life and talents and goodness. An older you: maybe. But how to get around nights out and drinks and materialism and non-spirituality and demanding nature and youth? No, I don’t think we can.

Friends? Sure.

Friends who fuck? Sure, too – but a bad idea.

And more than that? No. Why? Because I’m at an age now where I’m not looking for what isn’t right; I don’t need to learn that lesson any more. I’m at the end of that road, I think. At least, as far as relationships go. Sure, I can sleep with other women, no problem – but as for committing, to life, and kids, and future, and marriage? Well is there any point? Because some day soon my prince will come, and you will have to go, and you won’t like that one bit. So why commit? Why run the risk of really hurting someone, with betrayal and anger and broken promises/lies? When all we have right now is defeated expectations, the tears of one who didn’t get what she demanded? Better this way – even if it hurts a little now.

And me? A slight sadness – but nothing like true relationship ending pain. Shows how little I cared, I suppose; shows how inured I am to these injuries. Suffered them enough, perhaps; every time gets a little easier. But don’t be mad at me for that; it’s another thing that comes with age.

Cheers!

Rory