Mary Francis, Gertrude, Romaine, & Simone August 9, 2010

It is sometimes a pleasant and enlightening thing, to know and feel someones writing and sense of place deeply, on a cellular level. What I mean when I say this is I feel the era of these women heavy in my bones. Not some past life sensation implied by a channeler, no, more like a mise-en-scene you cant quite wash off your skin. Someone once said to me “I want to sit, and think only of you.”. That kind of reverie is how I feel when I think about the lives these women led. Sadly though, I sometimes feel a sense of amnesia about my self worth. Each of these women was so self possessed, so capable of the gravity that was dealt them.
Who in this day and age would consistently and mindfully seek out a good meal in the company of themselves; no paper, no iPhone, no time limit? You and the careful hands of your thoughtful server, reaching an understanding and then playing out that meal with no marker between each savored detail. “I walked in when Celia Cruz came on, smiled when I tasted the sea salt and hamachi, and said farewell after the praline melted on my tongue” If only we could measure our days in savory moments, instead of by tick marks on our virtual calendars. I admit, I have tried to eat alone, guiltily gazing at my phone between courses as if there should be somewhere else I should be, doing something else. Its criminal that we don’t lavish ourselves with the right to enjoy our food as slowly as we would like. It is as if we are (e)racing the time it took for the craftsman who made our meal. Sometimes it makes me ashamed, because we have all been trained to be such efficient craftsmen that when you see a cook slowly, deliberately stitching food together it can charm you quicker than the curl of a mirthful smile.
When I think of the resolute loyalty that some of these women had for each other, and their lot of creative kin it does make me yearn for another. Let me be clear, I do not believe myself to be incomplete without the love of another woman. I do not normally fall for the Hollywood filter that casts all lovers into some siamese mold. I have and do hold loyalty with a very select few women, we would give our last dollar, hold each other up unto exhaustion. But that understanding between women of that same caliber of intelligence and savvy, that simple look that casts a question and a reply, I do not have that yet. The women I have loved have left me perplexed, held me at arms length and only let me see the inner workings of their hearts briefly enough to see the complexity of their chambers and no more.
It leaves me curious enough that a younger me would be bereft, and indeed my tenderest parts do cry at times for the loss. The wizened version of myself tells me that on some molecular level I choose this in women, this fierce defiance, this complicated current below a smooth looking glass. Is it an independence almost remembered or not quite fully forgotten.
An artist, or a writer subsists on a good portion of melancholy, or solitude, or reflection. That airgap between themselves and the world that allows for their art to expand, and be absorbed. A lover is not fond of this gap, a lover craves a closeness that is not sustainable, an intimacy that almost demands vacuum. How to be both; a lover and an artist? No room to perfect your craft if you are consumed with your beloved. No room for the one you admire to see all of your finest details in a mirror that is held too close.
All of these women came to terms with age and infirmity, in themselves and those they loved. Some of them were dealt such harsh blows to the heart that I bowed my head sadly for a moment when I first read of their losses. It is hard to believe that one’s heart can beat again when it feels cold and cottony where it once skipped and dropped at the touch of one so dear.
What do I want, ultimately, and who do I want to become so that I might better prepare myself for her if and when she ever finds me? Of M.F.K I want the grace to savor everything, and to gracefully observe life’s blows. Of Gertrude, that charming impish ageless love of my nearest and dearest, whether they are my lovers or my confidants. Of Romaine that composure that speaks silently to all and says that what defines me will always persevere over what might try to break me. And of my dearest Simone that soft, subtle imperfection that allows for light to shine in and illuminate all that I truly love about myself and the world around me.