“Tom,” she said using that tone that was precursor to talk about his job. To discussing just the things he couldn’t. That she was working hard at not understanding. It annoyed him. The same way he got irritated when pushy vegetarians wore leather shoes. He’d been clear at the outset. Brought it up again when he proposed.
He should have known when, looking at the diamond he’d offered and not him, she’d said no problem. And now she was in with the dilettante politically correct who lived luxuriously on the backs of others.
But, she was out of her league.

“Yes, dear,” he said smoothly which broke her stride before she even started. And he set her even further astray when he put his book down giving her his full attention. This was not going as she had planned at all. She looked away.
“Jen, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she said rolling over.
He patted her rump. Sat on the edge of the bed. “Want anything?”
“Where are you going?” she asked grabbing at him.
He took her hand. Kissed it. Gave it a little squeeze. “Sure?”
She shivered, cold all of a sudden.
He got up. Taking his book.

Oh for crying out loud. Or not.
So the transition from sun shining through her to melodies are ancient she says doesn’t work for her by which she means to point out there is none except in my mind. And of course this is the pivotal point. This is where whatever happened to me happened. Nice try.
This is from a geographical point of view where the sensation as melody resides. Where the everything distills into tolerable bits and there is contact in the hugest sense.
And at that moment of contact I knew our separation. And it made music.

She was asleep by the time he was ready to get back to bed. He wasn’t one to bear grudges, yet this, whatever it was, wasn’t quite over. And that, he realized, was irritating in itself. Had become part of the problem. In fact that was the lion’s share of the problem, to coin a phrase. He laughed.
“Tom, honey?”
He got into bed without answering her.
“What time is it?”
He wondered at his own part in it. Wondered how long he’d traded on her beauty. When he’d stopped taking her seriously enough to notice how unbecoming she was.

Jen answered the phone without meaning to. And now she was sorry. She knew, even before she checked caller ID it would be Sha-Ryn–who actually spelled her name that way.
“Sha-Rynn, how are you?”
“Excited! We on for tomorrow?”
“I haven’t spoken to Tom...”
“...you promised. We’re counting on you.”
“I need to speak to him first.”
“He’ll never agree to it, why bother? Jen-honey,” she plied, “we need to know before tonight.”
“I can’t call him at work.”
“We can’t wait. You are going to have to decide...anyway.”
That, thought Jen, was just the wrong thing to say.

I walk toward her unsuspecting. And so unprepared. By which I suppose I mean, ungirded. Unprotected. Though afterward I describe being uncovered, so to say I was undefended is incorrect. Or I was incorrectly prepared. It was the same thing that happened the day I went for my brain excavation. Ok, perfectly ok until I wasn’t. And the geography was the same. The all-color white all-sensation tears place. That is self. And singular. Discrete. Alone. Separate.
That is in love. The geography of loving.

I walk toward her unsuspecting.
I never got to her.
I still haven’t is the thing.

The phone rang again immediately. Private Number. She shrugged, answered anyway.
“Who is this?”
Tom laughed. “Hell of a way to answer the phone.”
“Tom!?” she sat down.
“I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight, Jen.”
“...God, Tom!”
In spite of himself he waited. He’d promised himself he’d give her a few minutes. It was unfair he knew to expect she could accept immediately. Even so, he looked at his watch. “Jen?”
“...I’d like that.” she stood up. “Tom...”
“Good! Sorry, got to go now. 6:30?”
“Ok.”
She hung up. Not sure she liked center stage after all.

They went nowhere fancy. He didn’t want the distraction. Or the falderal. And it wasn’t amends. It was soup and pasta with red sauce, bread and uncomplicated house wine. And booths. Mediocre but wholesome just the same.
He was amazed at her nonchalance, wondered if she was ready for what came next. But as these things went it was too late. They were there.
She was not to blame he was sure he played his part but he’d never met a woman who knew her way around the brink and Jen was no exception. He would blame her for that.

He was as I’d expected. And in his enthusiasm a bit disorganized but we will find our stride. He embodies and has at his fingertips every damn–or blessed–thing as he would prefer I could want or need when it comes to what I aspire to with my banjo. Wow. It is too California for words. As soon as I’d actually committed myself to a course, damn if there he wasn’t. He was as I’d expected. I happily will partake of his banjo ministry, we’ll just have to agree to leave my soul out of it.
Or I’ll demand equal time.

The freeway was too hideous for words so I came back along SR 12 making my way from the foothills of yonder sierras back to the vineyards and grazing lands. I’d planned to go that way but thought I’d do the adventure on the way back and save the going to enjoy the anticipation of meeting Peter. Irony of course is I got lost going home because it is just in that direction that the this turn and that turn don’t actually coincide with the turns to be made. So Paul reeled me in. It was the best game ever.

“I’m not sure why we’re here,” Jen said.
Tom sighed. And in spite of himself laughed.
“What?”
“A predictable if exasperating open line.”
“Well, at least it’s a start.”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure what you mean...”
“About what?”
He laughed. “So Jen, where do you want to go from here?”
“Tom, what are we talking about?”
“Fair enough,” he leaned back. “I don’t know either why we’re here. But I’m not liking it...or you much either these days.”
“Yeah, well that makes two of us.”
He nodded. “Got it. So, whereto now?”

We’re back to why he’s in the story.
I guess I left out details that would end up giving broader shape to him. Because I encourage him to act on his behalf. And here I am not yet having done so. Because in relief as I make time and space for him in my get together I come to realize that as a matter of course and without a second thought, as if it were my due, I depend on the kindness of strangers and don’t offer it. Because he is the first step out of the straight and narrow.

“I don’t know.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Tom said.
“Too bad!”
“That is a dangerous move.”
She didn’t answer.
“You have been maneuvering for months, and you have my attention now, so god help you if too bad and I don’t know are your only moves, cause baby, I sure as hell do know where I’d go from here. So let me ask you again. Whereto from here?”
“Where do you get off...”
“Sweetheart, this has been your gig from the start...it took a while to get my attention, my fault. But now you’ve got it. So piss...or piss off.”

“That’s not fair.”
“Sweetheart, fair is we sit down face to face and you tell me straight up you’re not happy. So you’re damn right it’s not fair.”
“What do you want from me, Tom?”
He leaned forward. Took a breath. Leaned back. “I want to know what is your pleasure. I want to know what you need to climb down off my back. And there is a deadline.”
“I need time to think.”
“Jesus Jen!”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“I hate it when you get like that.”
“Jen, help me here. Time to think about...?”

She looked away.
“Let’s go home,” Tom said. “And, whatever you’re planning with your damned friends...”
Jen sat up.
“...that you’ve put off telling me because I won’t like it, knock yourself out. But this is over.”
“What’re you talking about? Wait. What’s over?”
He paid at the counter. “Coming?”
She gathered her things.

“What’s over?” she asked again down the road.
“...right or left?”
“Keep going...”
“ We’re at a dead end here, Jen.”
“No we’re not...”
“Which way?”
She didn’t answer.
He stopped the car. “Jen...?”
“...either way...”
He got out. “Call me, when you get there...”
“Where–!? ”
“Anywhere.”

Keep me posted, he said on your daily banjo regimen: A lot of assimilating is going on, even in my repose... I’m beginning to more fundamentally understand the fret board. Today I started with the Sarabande au natural as it were, no tab, and it works, I hate to say it. One is less distant from the music and closer to the inherent sense of it all. It’s not as painstaking as I thought it would be just because one begins to get the shape of it. One learns the lay of the land. It feels like a big step

Much like he outfitted me for surfing, creating possibility or even likelihood, he is now doing that very same thing for himself with music...it is the we of the thing don’t you know.

I had a good lesson yesterday, looked forward to it in fact. Now that is a big step..not to mention two teachers...it was fun, it is fun is the thing, and there it is...if it ain’t fun it ain’t shit.

I don’t remember having had fun with my violin. Neither passion nor joy. Nor merriment. Don’t know that I ever played anyone happy birthday.

I suppose I have to say that’s not altogether true of course. I mean as much as I hated orchestra...what a waste. I mean if he had been as exceptional as my sophomore english teacher or the art teacher who knows what he might have wrought; it inherently was fun...he did have now that I think of it, an imagination...but it was the scattershot that was fun. My heart was not in it. Though, I must say as much as we invariably argued about my practicing, I never once put my foot down. Never said, I quit.

We all have our reservations, as if it worked that way. As if we are smarter or more careful than he is. As if we know better than he who would be just perfect. As if liking someone on the way to loving them addles your brain. And of course each of our reservations says more about us, more about our needs and discomforts than about the blossoming relationship. Which is not to say our observations are necessarily incorrect. It’s just that it doesn’t work that way and he is very happy. And there ain’t no such thing as safe.

I’m off to visit old friends and family and after much deliberation I’ve decided to leave all my toys at home. No computer, no banjo. Instead I go with new clothes a warm jacket and three pairs of shoes. A vacation of sorts. A vacation in fact leaving my dear husband and sweet cats. My natal planets are being transited by the likes of Venus and Mars and change is afoot. Not change exactly, but forward momentum with a wide swath of possibility, like the change of season. Perfectly, I fly on the maiden flight from Santa Rosa to Seattle.

I’m off to visit old friends and family and after much deliberation I’ve decided to leave all my toys at home. No computer, no banjo. Instead I go with new clothes a warm jacket and three pairs of shoes. A vacation of sorts. A vacation in fact leaving my dear husband and sweet cats. My natal planets are being transited by the likes of Venus and Mars and change is afoot. Not change exactly, but forward momentum with a wide swath of possibility, like the change of season. Perfectly, I fly on the maiden flight from Santa Rosa to Seattle.

The oh so oh too California thing happened again. The in my head wondering if I wanted somehow to look different, then saying out loud it is time for a make over, by which I meant possibilities beyond jeans and a t-shirt and then all the pieces fell into place, without ado. I couldn’t have done it alone. Hampered by my visioning. So the legions came. The seers. And violá, even topped with a new pair of just right for any occasion shoes. Dagnabit! It’s the old enough to wear pearls thing that got me going. The can be elegant.

No one likes the idea that all of a sudden happily married people can all of a sudden not be, that one is or can be until one is not and the very nature of change propels one down that road or can. To be asked–in the course of writing or editing ones novel if one has the courage to entertain the conversation–what it’s about gives one the opportunity to try out–shall I say–the possibilities or the reaches.

The changes wrought when Sol, happily married and childless by choice, discovers he has a son and is to be a grandfather

She too sat for the sitting and talking. At home in her home chock full of visual and tactile objects suspended and strewn and otherwise artfully placed meant to delight to provoke to soothe to remind to comfort to fill to instruct to create an ambience a home a gallery with room left to relax to sleep to think. She listened carefully. Chose her stories carefully. Only one step in any direction away from her roots to which she clings with pride yet and which in but an unwary instant would suffocate her and make it all for naught. Veritas.

He is in spite of himself familiar. All the cues backward to start with. Gruff and intellectual chessman, his father’s son. Caught in a long distance drawn out relationship with an international student. And now he’s running out of time. He liked how easily we made it past the front lines.

We found the verities.

He never, in return, asked why I hadn’t married not once but twice, one of my kind. Easy to say I was mostly surrounded by others. Harder to say, as if it means something in particular, never met one I fell in love with. Veritas.

It is the way with change the way of change that no one quite likes, the way it unsettles the settle of it all. A lost job, falling in love, a mother dying, putting in new carpet, a new hairdo, winning the lottery, losing weight, bell’s palsy, turning 60, turning a corner–

And nothing is the same. It’s all up for grabs. Nothing fits exactly right. A big thing the all of nothing fitting exactly the loosening of the happily married pins. It’s not the turning of ones back on all the history. It’s the looking out over the horizon–

She sat unobtrusively watching the woman she’d heard so much about. Finding Maggie not so exuberant as shrill, not so elegant as self-centered and not as smart as she’d been cracked up to be, but then she was not in love with her. And to be fair, privy to information she had not earned; she knew where the cracks were. And to be fair they were very different; their understanding of loyal, was dissimilar. Yet, to be fair it was she herself, not the other, who’d under her young husband’s nose cuckolded him. Just the same, Sophie didn’t like her.

And Maggie knew it. Had known from the start, in an instant, that Sophie didn’t like her. That had been her experience with other women all along. The chilly sidelong. She was never quite sure which particular attribute it was that tripped the wire. Later when they actually became friends they all said the same thing about how aloof and cold she seemed when they met her. Self centered. And she knew all those things were true. She was not effusive. Not available. Not warm. Not anyone’s mother. Not even anyone’s friend. Didn’t hug and do lunch. Or talk shit.

“You were a first too,” she said.
“Such a perfect gambit,” he replied. “So intimate and perfectly non sequitorial. Keeps one close and guessing. Prey tell, si tu veux–he blithely quipped–what you are talking about though clearly you’d rather not. It’s an amazing thing you do, as artful as any fisherman...”
“I don’t usually go out of my way...”
He laughed, “...she said going perfectly out of her way...”
“I did not.”
“Say it.”
“You are not what you seem.”
“Dim witted and otherwise not ept?”
“Something like that.”
“You thought I needed you, and were doing me a favor?”

“I suppose I did.”
He watched her.
“I’m not even sure why. It was round about, as these things are. You’re so artless and without trying or meaning to be they were so...you are used to that aren’t you. Amazing how we become accustomed to the way people respond to our,” she looked at him, her lips upturned, “our practiced,” her eyes narrowed, lips pursed, “...style....”
“Say it.”
“You mean, that I thought I was better than you just like...?”
“No. Did you?”
“Not exactly. Did you think I was flirting with you?”
“Of course, but not toying with me.”

“I wouldn’t have normally paid attention to you.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Saying it, no. Acknowledging it, yes.”
“You think you’re better than that.”
“I don’t like to think of myself as so shallow.”
“Like shallow, but from the wrong angle, my dear. You have your own built-in but not burned-in who’s who circuits. You are quite a snob. A princess. Good at it, but a princess brat nonetheless. You have others who would have paid me the proper attention. Get you, in your crowd, off the hook. Coming and going. Plausible deniability.” “I do not.” "Perfectly touché!”