The Apostate's Diary, Sunday, February 27, 2005

Sunday, February 27, 2005
London

Last night Fiona came over for dinner. I am still almost completely broke but wanted to make her a nice dinner, so bought chicken and cooked it with garlic, ginger, rosemary, and lemon. We had salad and stilton and brie with baguette, and as a first course, slightly overcooked pasta with garlic, butter, oil, parsley and cheese. I have a cold and wanted to eat a lot of garlic. She brought champagne, which was festive. Over dinner we talked about lots of things—mostly she talked, about her relationship with her father and mother and brothers. She grew up feeling at odds with her mother and enraged by her father, much as I did, only lately she has discovered how much she likes her mother. At 40 she is just becoming friends with her mother. This of course made me rather wistful, as I could not help but remember the way my own mother and I became friends.

When I was 14 or 15, I wrote my mother a letter, provoked or inspired by something I had read, no doubt, in which I told her that I wanted to be friends with her. She was moved by the gesture and made a sincere effort. Also she confided in me a great deal, probably more than she ought to have, and I felt I got to know her better than many young women seem to know their mothers at an early age. I loved to be in her presence. I’d hang around as she put on her makeup, help her make dinner in that orange flowery kitchen. Isn’t it strange? The best times with her were the most mundane. What I’d give to drive around town doing errands from dry cleaners to drug store to market. Stopping at 31 Flavors on the way home.

Last night that I was actually Joni Mitchell’s long-lost, never acknowledged daughter. In my dream, my real mother was present, but hovering somewhere in the background as I hovered over the star’s shoulder, making a confession of the “rapture” (that was the word I used) I had experienced while listening to her songs. She wanted me to name the ones I had liked the best, which were not the most famous ones, and I could not say. And my mother, who was no longer my real mother, but only my erstwhile mother, hovered in the background silently. I had a notebook in which Joni Mitchell had drawn something in blues and purples, abstract and muted shapes of a woman’s face. Hard to focus on. My own paintings looked childish and crude in comparison. Anxiety of influence. Bloom missed so much.

Fiona went home rather early, at about 9.30, but not before making plans for a “girls’ night out” with my wild American friend, Marion, who is very good at picking up men. I texted her after she left to tell her how much I had enjoyed the dinner, and she responded that she was sure we could become good friends. I sincerely hope we will.

I am ill, run down, coughing, miserable when I step outside. I had meant to get out the door early, to have a coffee and then to beat the crowds at the British Museum. But CY called and we ended up talking for about two hours. At first I felt impatient and bored, even irritated with him—he has such a strange and disturbing relationship with his mother. But he was finally so ardent (and not a little pissed) and full of passionate longing for me, and I don’t mean that he expressed this in a doggish or simpering fashion. He earnestly wants to come to England, and as earnestly wants me to come back to LA with him for May and June. He has professional conferences and teaching appointments and god knows what—so much more going on in his academic, professional life than I do at the moment—and needs to be there. He also went on and on about how wonderful our connection was, how lovely it was to live with me, how well we understand each other. When he started talking about having sex I winced. Usually I am the one who initiates these conversations, but this time I remained so silent, since I couldn’t think of what to say, that he ended up apologizing…He was a little drunk, since it was 1.30 am for him and he had just come back from a pub with two English blokes. And we have had sexually frank conversations in the past, so he was perfectly in line. I just couldn’t bring myself to join in, and worried not a little bit about how I will respond to him when he finally comes.

Fiona and I talked about whether or not I should let him come to England—and decided that it would be the honorable thing to do, and perhaps also the intelligent thing. He does seem to care for me a lot, and to have a great deal of respect for me, and to be a decent, loyal, good man. He lives in the city of my birth, near my family, and many of the people in my family have met him and liked him. So it would be rather idiotic to dump him without even giving him a chance, especially for someone who is, after all, MARRIED, and who doesn’t seem to be moving any too quickly towards divorce.

Still in my heart of hearts I know that I would be happier with MD. If he were ever to become available, and to invite me into his life, I would go. I would drop everything and go.

But until that happens, I will hold onto what there is that is secure and stable in my life…so little is. CY does disappoint me in lots of ways: when it comes to music, art, literature, and talking about emotions. But he is steady and romantic in his own way, and we have a nice kind of vibe when we live under the same roof, and he has given me a degree of security that I have not had for a long time.

I still have so little self-esteem, so little dignity in myself, so little respect for myself. This has a lot to do with not being able to be the kind of mother to BNO that I want to be. It is as though the very core of myself is deeply wounded…it is deeply wounded. This is the part of me that would mother him if I could, and it is also that part that was not properly mothered or fathered. And it is also the part of me that feels inadequate and small and imperfect and pathetic. I don’t know what I do that is valuable or good or true. I don’t take much pride in my work, nor do I have a home life that I feel proud of. It is this lack of self-pride, of self-esteem, that is the problem. I do not in my deepest self feel low or bad, but rather on the level just above that one. It is not that I hate myself completely, but rather that I have lost the feeling of goodness, of virtue (?) of beauty that must once have been strong in me, for it is not dead.

I would say that getting tenure, writing the book, would help with this problem. But I can’t say this, since so few of my other accomplishments have made me feel strong. The feeling of strength has to come from within, but it is hard, hard, to go for long periods without affirmation from without. One starts to break down.

I will just call BNO now, even though I know he won’t be able to talk, and that his stepmother will try to cut the conversation short if he does feel loquacious. It’s usually better to call after school, but I miss him. And also I want to know how he is doing.