I left you Wednesday in a good place. I’d had one last night with Nicky and felt like I’d come to a state of acceptance and letting go. She flew off to Ireland
Funny how these tiny little insignificant turns can sometimes lead one into a whole new world…
Harry had said the bar was in the Victoria Quarter. I felt that unlikely – the Victoria Quarter is a posh daytime indoor shopping precinct – but he was insistent and so I decided to trust him. But, naturally, when I got there I realised there was no bar in sight. I got on the blower – no text for a change – and ascertained its actual whereabouts, about a mile away. I walked and pushed my bike and chatted. I told him I’d slept with Nicky and he immediately made a joke about how funny it would be, all things considered, if she got pregnant.
“Don’t say that man,” I said despairingly, “we did it unprotected. And I came inside her.”
He just laughed. “She was probably trying to get pregnant subconsciously so she didn’t have to move to Ireland
Fuck. What if she was? We’d been so careless and flippant. We’d both reasoned the unlikeliness of it, the dozens of times we’d done that when together and nothing had happened. Twice before she’d taken a morning-after pill – once when we first slept together in 2010 and then again at the end of last year when we were broken up (both times her choice) – but this time she said she wasn’t going to do anything about it. She said she didn’t feel like it could happen and I wanted to trust that she was in tune with her body. I guess also I sometimes get this feeling that that’s the kind of thing it will take to actually get me to knuckle down and commit to something and someone and somewhere in this life. Left to my own devices, I’ll avoid this thing forever. But maybe something accidental/subconscious would be better for me. I surrendered, I suppose. Or was massively irresponsible and naïve. And maybe just a little bit stupid.
I checked out the bar for the open mic and that took about fifteen seconds to realise it was a bag of shite – or rather, not the thing for me – and went further a-wandering. It was after ten by now and unusual for me to be out and about so late without destination in mind, though tired, but I guess I was in that sort of mood. I biked on down to The Grove – an actually very good open mic not too far away – but still only lasted two songs before I got bored and had to leave. Watching live music just has so little appeal, and even if I’m playing, which I do usually enjoy, I’d rather just get it over and done with and then get out of there. I’m not much of a spectator, I guess. I mean, I love to play and referee football but I get hardly anything out of watching it.
And so I left there, and then got hungry and thirsty, and ended up in a Tesco Express I’ve never been in before. Naturally, that means a good perusal of the shelves to see what’s on reduced. And in the middle of my perusal I happened upon the magazine rack and picked up a copy of New Scientist and read a couple of articles therein. Again, something I’d never normally do in a place I’d never normally be.
The article I read was about how intelligent people don’t necessarily make good decisions. In a sense, the difference between IQ and rational reasoning. This resonated especially because of recent thoughts about how I keep on making terrible, irrational decisions, and also my mum’s husband’s words about how he’s “never met anyone so intelligent who had so little common sense.” There’s a lot of truth in that and I don’t know how to get out of it. It terrifies me: here I am, in a bad place because of a series of bad decisions I’ve made – and yet, once more, the only way out of it is to make another decision about something. But what are the chances of making a good one? Pretty slim, I’d say. And so I get paralysed and stay in my limbo – which is probably just another bad decision anyway. Ho hum…
And, actually, that’s not what I was thinking about here: what I was thinking about was some of the symptoms of those suffering from low-level “RQ” (can’t remember what that stands for; but basically “reasoning” or “rationality” or “common sense”) and in particular how the article said they were far more likely to have “unplanned pregnancies.” Shit, I thought, that’s twice that’s come up now. It put the fear in me. I started to think it was maybe messages. And that I’d better get on home and throw an I Ching to figure out what to do. I wrote:
“My darling I Ching – I’m worrying once more that Nicky could be pregnant. I mean, super slim chance – but after what Harry said and then that magazine article – plus all these thoughts of Laura – I just…well, is there something I should do? Some wisdom you have for me? Especially given her mission to Ireland
And the reading I got was about the most specific and frightening I’ve ever had. I got number 44: Coming to Meet – which I initially, from the title alone, figured would be a positive one about two people coming together. I couldn’t have been more wrong:
“This hexagram indicates a situation in which the principle of darkness, after having been eliminated, furtively and unexpectedly obtrudes again from within and below. Of its own accord the female principle comes to meet the male. It is an unfavourable and dangerous situation and we must understand and promptly prevent the consequences.”
Well, shit, though there’s a part of me that wants to go into detail about how that would relate to my current situation I feel it’s so frickin’ obvious that to do so would only patronise. The only thing I will say is that the word ‘obtrudes’, which I didn’t know the meaning of, translates in my thesaurus as, “sticks out, juts, projects, overhangs.” Great: more pregnancy symbolisms. Furthermore, the original Chinese translates as, “The maiden is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden” – holy fuck – which Wilhelm interprets as follows:
“The rise of the inferior element is pictured here in the image of a bold girl who lightly surrenders herself and thus seizes power. This would not be possible if the strong and light-giving element had not in turn come halfway. The inferior thing seems so harmless and inviting that a man delights in it; it looks so small and weak that he imagines he may dally with it and come to no harm.”
I mean, it’s all right there. I mean, ultimately I’ve got what I needed in that, oh fuck, this could be bad if nothing is done about it and I’d better bloody do something about it and fast. But even beyond that – my immediate requirement for a yes or no answer – there’s so much insight there, and perhaps confirmation of things that I’ve been thinking about myself. That all the power is with Nicky. That I’ve perhaps been toyed with and messed around. The seemingly harmless and insignificant thing – Christ, all I wanted was one last good session with her and a couple of simultaneous orgasms, not a baby and twenty years’ worth of responsibility and commitment with the wrong person! – but how foolish I’ve been. Going right back to when we first got together and what really attracted to me was how long and slender her legs were, even in her jeans, and the strong and, as it turned out, well-founded suspicion that she had an amazing body under her many layers of winter hippy clothing. Was that all it was? Plain and simple lust? The sexual imperative? Three years squandered on that, and now at her beck and call. I’ve been such a fool. I’ve lost my head and my heart to her. And maybe I’ve been used too – all that sex we’ve had, but it was always how she wanted it, always her that came away happiest. And I’ve been stupid beyond belief: fer fuck’s sake, the condom was right there at the side of us, and it was always my intention to use it, but she got on top and said, do you want to put that on? and I said give us another thirty seconds and then a couple of minutes later she started really going for it and got to her second orgasm and I could feel myself coming and in that moment made the decision that it would be a shame for her and a shame for us if I pulled myself out of her and so I didn’t. But, fuck! Once sanity returns how could I have been so idiotic? To risk creating a whole new life and the whole massive thing that goes with it just because I wanted her to have a good orgasm and because I wanted one last time with her that was good, that didn’t end lamely. Except it did anyway, because immediately I started worrying and talking seriously and the worrying just spoiled everything.
The condom was right there. I should have put it on. I should have known better. I have no common sense, and am massively irresponsible, and probably she is too. We’re two peas in a pod, and in so many ways. But it’s a pod I no longer want to be in. Life can no longer be lived this way. She gads about and doesn’t commit and always has one foot out the door and does impractical things – at least, that’s how I view her wanting to live in a bender in the Irish winter – and that’s exactly how I’ve been – all those things are me embodied in another – but want to put an end to. But as you can see, I struggle so bad, and fail.
I texted her and said I’d been thinking about what we did and wondered if she still felt okay with it or if maybe she’d had some signs or dreams. The last time that had happened she’d talked in her sleep and said, “now would be a good time to take out the wiggly worms” – and she’d never talked in her sleep before – and so we took action. But this time I wasn’t around, we weren’t together, I was all on my own. It was midnight when I texted her, figuring no point ruining her night’s sleep when there was nothing that could be done anyway. But my night’s sleep was rendered well and truly fucked and I lay awake stressed and carried that stress on with me into the morning. Everything positive of the previous afternoon was destroyed and felt like years ago. All I knew then was desperation.
I texted her in the morning and told her of my concerns and relayed some of what the I Ching had said. She believes in the I Ching and I figured that would be better than just laying out my own fears. Thing is, just to remind you, she was in Ireland – a Catholic country – and I wasn’t even sure she’d be able to get a morning-after pill there. The whole thing tripled my stress. I was full of thoughts about how to sort the situation: get a pill myself, courier it out to her or even take it to her myself; visions of me hitchhiking or taking a train and ferry or even splashing a fortune on a last-minute plane ticket; visions of persuading her to go over the border into Northern Ireland; and visions of none of it being possible or her not wanting to and what that might mean (never go against the I Ching!). I tried a pharmacy and a free clinic but neither of them would entertain giving one to a man. I was off biking around feeling desperate and still waiting for her to get back to me. She did and said, “fuck” – no doubt stirred and convinced by the I Ching’s unambiguous words – and said she’d see what she could do. I carried on freaking. The whole thing was so wrong. What if she was pregnant and couldn’t do anything about it? What if she came back to me and said, come on Rory, you’re awesome and I’m awesome and we’re still awesome together – and will be even more so in the future, despite everything that’s going on now – why don’t we just do it and have a beautiful baby and be happy? But how to tell your child that they were conceived in such chaos? That it was all because I didn’t want to interrupt his mother’s orgasm or didn’t have the brains to put on a condom? And that, worst of all, it was on the morning that his mother flew to another country to check out being with another guy, and probably sleeping with him too? Not to mention that dreadful Sunday realisation that Laura was probably always the one but that I’ve spent the last twelve years running from her. Plus a hundred other things besides. Fucked beyond belief.
I felt sick. I texted Nicky several times and told her how bad I felt about this. For her and for what she was going to have to put into her body. How could I be so stupid? And how could I be so stupid over and over and over again? It was just getting too much. I can’t shrug it off any longer. I want to change so bad and every little slip feels like a horrible reminder that I’m failing. Amazingly, in the middle of all that, I had to go to an appointment I’d made to see about getting some psychotherapy. Stress upon stress. I talked to the woman for an hour – it was just a first assessment – and told her everything and cried in the chair and brought back all the feelings I thought I’d perhaps moved on from during the optimism of Tuesday and Wednesday. And I guess by the end of it I felt a little bit better. And also by the end of it a message had arrived from Nicky saying, “don’t worry, I’ve taken the pill, you don’t need to stress anymore.” Thank fuck.
I called her. I felt so desperately bad. I apologised a thousand times and thanked her for sorting it. I said, “never again” and hoped beyond hope that I meant it. And all throughout she was lovely and understanding and chatted happily about a few other things and didn’t make me feel bad at all. What a great girl. But…
I have to be over her. I have to move on. I don’t know if she’s played with me and done it all as some kind of evil female revenge for my being so cold to her when we were together. I don’t know if it was all just for the attention and the company and the sex I gave her, the adoration and the love. Life is more complex than that, I guess. Though there may have been some of that and, fact is, that’s how I feel. There was a point last week when she said to me, “I hope you don’t think I’m toying with you” – I guess referring to still seeing me and kissing me and all the love we shared and calling me up except always making plans with this other guy and resisting my desires to give it another try – and I had to admit that I didn’t know whether she was or not. I said, “I believe in your goodness – but if I’m honest, I don’t know if I believe you’re not toying with me.” In any case, toyed with is how I feel, whether from her or whether I’ve brought it on myself. And a fool too: it’s all very easy and tempting to say, “you’ve made a fool out of me” – but probably more realistic that I’ve made a fool out of myself. And, anyways, neither of them can be proved – but that I feel like a fool…well, that’s undeniable. I have to stop. I have to get my head together. I have to leave her well alone and break these chains. How the fuck has it come to this that I’ve lost myself over a woman when that woman is off somewhere else – breaking her own no-flying vows; spending umpteen money; taking time off work – so she can see another man. Another man she was probably having text conversations with while sitting in my own flat. It’s all very fucked.
Still, probably nothing I haven’t done myself. Karma’s karma – and while karma herself is thoroughly impartial, it sure do feel like a bitch at times. Ho hum. And then there’s Laura…
I saw her again on Thursday night. She was in Leeds and was at the station just the same time that I was. We decided that I’d go back to hers and I ended up staying there both that night and the next. Nothing fruity though, despite sharing a bed. We’re getting better at being platonic. We hang out and chat and eat and play table tennis and even watch rubbish TV. Being at hers is the vacation I so desperately need. I get tired and fall asleep on the couch and sleep at night. I feel comfortable with her. And that gets me thinking that maybe she’s a wise choice. But my conditioning is all about wanting and thinking that wanting is love. Nobody in movies trumpets comfort and the simple pleasures of some rubbish TV with fish and chips on your lap. That’s how it’s always been with her – and probably part of the reason I’ve never given it a proper go. Too easy. And like I’ve said, that petrifying knowledge that if we ever get it started we’d probably never stop. I’ve been a bit distant with her since last Sunday and since she uttered those words that kind of brought Momma’s prophecy to fulfilment. That feeling on the train station was too dreadful. The feeling of being trapped. The feeling that the next twenty years of my life would be decided and locked into place. Even though it’s a feeling I cherish when it comes in the short-term, such as a year long Master’s degree and how joyful it is not to have to have this constant thinking about where to go, what to do, who to be, how to be it. Yes, I do like that feeling…but to give it all up for a woman and a child? A fate, I guess I believed when perched staring at the tracks on Outwood station last Sunday night, worse than death. Except it’s exactly what I want. Just that I want it – I suppose, knowing how foolish this sounds – somehow differently. With bells and whistles and fireworks. With someone who looks like a movie star. With someone I feel that incessant, crazy love for. That was another part of that train station thing: to know how I feel about Laura and to compare it with the overwhelming way I’ve felt recently about Nicky. I adore that feeling, those hours of our noses but inches apart, of our eyes locked on one another’s. That may not be love – may not even be particularly healthy or wise – but that’s kind of what I understand love to be. I feel it’d be hard to go back to something different and to let go of that. And yet, with the other I may be happier – “if you want to be happy for the rest of your life/never make a pretty woman your wife” – and…and so I can never choose or decide, and will probably go for the lame option, which is once again someone new or running away or someone who only exists in fantasy…
Thursday night as I lay beside Laura I dreamed of Grace. I’d flown to New York and as I came out the train station into Manhattan
Though the next night I dreamt of Perlilly and of playing music in the street with her once more. It was a nice dream but it meant nothing to me. I like Perlilly, and probably even love her, as a friend, but what we had romantically is long over and my feelings have been purely platonic for a good few years now. I have no regrets, not a single inkling that there should ever have been anything more. And when I think of her and her current partner I feel nothing but a gladness in my heart and really hope that it works out for them and that one day there’ll be a wedding and I’ll get invited. And that’s absolute truth.
The point being that maybe Mother Meera is right and we shouldn’t take so much notice of our dreams. I’ve done that a lot – it was dreams that sent me to Sophie when I was first with Laura – and though I could never not believe in them – I’ve had too many ridiculously useful ones to ignore them completely – the fact of dreaming of other women seems to do nothing but screw me up and probably isn’t any indication of anything – a call to action, for example – other than the latent desires of my own mind. So I dream of Perlilly and think, that’s nice, and move on – but I dream of Grace or Sophie and think, oh God, I should see them, maybe they’re the one. And off I go again, gallivanting either in reality or in my mind and ruining the life I currently live. Or maybe not; I just don’t know…
That’s one thing they’ll never tell you: that your dreams will screw you up. One of the last times Nicky and I slept together before she went to Ireland
I remember reading Elizabeth Gilbert saying she still dreamt about her decade-gone ex-husband – and that was someone she hated. These things don’t leave us. Maybe another argument for good old Christian waiting-till-you’re-married. All these women have polluted my head. All for a bit of slap and tickle. And for some temporary fun and relief. If I could turn back my life and live it again all pure and virginal and waiting-for-the-one would I? Certainly, I’ve had that feeling before. Certainly, not doing things is good for a clear conscience. But then, if you learn from your mistakes – wow, I must have learned a lot.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I see Laura and I think, why not just give it a go? Why not, almost, give in? She’s right there and twelve years on and we’re still attracted to one another and still comfortable and have our fun and, now thirty-eight, she’s probably not too long for baby-making years. And yet…the thought of it makes me want to run a thousand miles in the other direction. Even though what I really want is to follow life where life seems to want to guide me and that’s where it appears to be. Why wouldn’t life let me leave Leeds ? Was it for Nicky or for Laura or for something else? I guess nothing can be decided until Nicky comes back from Ireland
I fantasise one day about getting rid of my phone and my email address. I’ve probably written that several times before. But I’m sure I wouldn’t be in this mess if it was 1994 and I didn’t have all these avenues of communication available to me. People stay in our brains for far longer than they should. Texts and emails are too easy to dash off unthinkingly to those from our past we would never, ever visit or call. Some of the things I’ve written in texts. Bootie calls and fleeting emotions. Just tossing off a thought I would probably never share face-to-face. And a whole new world is entered into. And maybe the same in this writing here. And yet once upon a time The Universe told me to do it and now I can’t stop. Although the I Ching did last year seem to encourage its deletion – though I think that was more about anonymising it for the sake of myself and others, which is probably a good thing. Anyways, I’m thinking out loud now and probably I should stop. Probably not the most interesting of things to read. Though that then begs the question, who am I writing this for anyway?
But let’s get back to the real world.
I lost Thursday to stress. I lost it to such an extent that I thought the peace and hope of Wednesday would never return, but it did. Friday I dawdled at Laura’s and napped and that was nice enough. I picked up her copy of Paul McKenna’s ‘Change Your Life in 7 Days’ and figured I might give that a go, and maybe document it here. And then Saturday I reffed in the morning and played tennis in the afternoon (with former neighbour Nick; won 6-3 6-1 6-3) and spent the night in the bath with the Hitler movie ‘Downfall’. Now it’s Sunday afternoon and – holy smoke! – two hours since I started typing – it feels like five minutes! – and I guess since the sun is shining I ought to try and do something productive. So annoying that every day I have to wake up and create my life from scratch. All you lucky people who go out to your nine-to-fives and then cram in your weekend hobbies and chores don’t know how good you got it. What I’d give to find something that could fill my time in a satisfying way. But what that thing is, I know not. I guess I’m on a mission to find out.
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