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Remembering
It's raining again.
Driving home from the gym this evening in the gathering darkness, I was abruptly and poignantly swept back in time. . .
1981 - my sixteenth summer. . . and it's scary to think how long ago it's been. . . My first summer dating. I'm six months older than T, my first boyfriend, so I'm doing the driving. There's not much to do in Longview, so we see a lot of movies that are playing at the two theaters in town. Actually, we see the few movies several times. This is the summer of Raiders of the Lost Ark, which we see at least three times. This is Longview, so we also see Clash of the Titans a couple of times because there's nothing better to do.
But it's not the movies I'm thinking of tonight: it's sitting in my Volkswagen Bug with him and spending an hour or more kissing, and then driving home alone afterward in the dark, almost deserted streets. I don't usually think of rain when I think of that summer -- so it's not so much that summer at all: it's him, and that first discovery of passion, and the exhilerating sense of breaking the rules while doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. Driving alone that late at night was another milestone, one that was almost as important as what we were doing together. Being out late, in the dark, outside of the sheltering walls of my parents' house and the pools of light from the porch and the windows, left on to welcome me home and to keep back the dark. . .
"What I'm doing" was pretty innocent stuff. It took us half the summer to get around to open-mouthed kisses, and we didn't go any further past that point for a very long time. I was, as I have commented here before, a classic Good Christian Girl, and he knew what he was dealing with. Or he did at first. He was part of an initiatory transition, and I was never quite the same after those first few weeks. He was Han Solo to my Princess Leia, and I had been looking for a scoundrel in my life. One with a heart of gold, of course - but a scoundrel. He was it for me.
Remembering those nights brings to mind other nights. . .
One of the best nights of my life was outwardly undramatic. I was with one of the best friends I've ever had, a living daimon, camping on the edge of a desert. We were sitting in directors chairs, and there was no one else as far as the eye could see. It was summer, and sunset came very late. We sat under the Big Sky and watched the stars come out and a storm front slowly build up miles away. We saw lightning, heard the thunder, but the storm itself never threatened us. Above us, the stars were clear.
Of all the friends I have ever had, this one was the one with the deepest sense of purpose in his life. I've always envied him that. And that night, I was all too aware of my own lack of purpose, of the way I had drifted through life. We talked, and he asked cogent questions that made me do some hard thinking.
There was a sense of being outlaws, out there alone together. I was still married then, unhappily, although I had not yet reached the point of choosing divorce. I don't think I can communicate the whole complexity of the feelings without saying far too much about the old fantasies (non-sexual) with which this evening resonated, or the complexity of the friendship with this particular person (not actively sexual, but with sexual awareness between us). . . and that evening was vivid and intimate and spectacular and very much apart from everyday life.
And finally, there was opening night of the first play I directed. It was a small affair, as these things go: a black box theater in a student center, with an audience limited to 50 people. But we were sold out, and my cast was wonderful, and I was wearing a lovely strapless sundress in the California spring evening, and felt beautiful as well as proud and accomplished. The professor of directing, who was the most difficult to please of all our faculty, didn't say anything to me that night, but he was smiling -- and that's when I was sure that I had accomplished something significant.
I wasn't going to be graded for the production, even though it was the result of a suggestion from my thesis committee. It was, in fact, something of an outlaw production (long story), but it was my own personal "senior exercise." By being able to gather this cast and crew, rehearse them, withstand the wildly unusual challenges that were thrown at me, and create a production to be proud of, I knew that I had mastered not just the classroom lessons of my major, but had achieved the personal growth that had been my own reason for coming to college and choosing a theatre major.
Re-reading this now, I realize that I use the word "outlaw" twice, and it certainly lurks beneath the first memory as well. A day or so ago, I wrote about needing the daimon to help me break out of the boxes in my life. Passion breaks us out of boxes. Ecstasy takes us out of our normal consciousness. My directing professor told me, "Sometimes you have to get in over your head before you can find out what you're capable of." I have always felt I was capable of far more than my daily life demanded of me -- but I almost never dared to do so on my own initiative.
I'm starting to ramble. . . . How does a single mother, a sensible, rational person, keep passion alive? Not so much sexual passion, but the passion of creativity and daring and expansiveness -- the joy that doesn't ask permission or approval. How do I continue to break out of boxes without cracking the foundations I need to be a responsible adult? That is my fundamental question.
Driving home from the gym this evening in the gathering darkness, I was abruptly and poignantly swept back in time. . .
1981 - my sixteenth summer. . . and it's scary to think how long ago it's been. . . My first summer dating. I'm six months older than T, my first boyfriend, so I'm doing the driving. There's not much to do in Longview, so we see a lot of movies that are playing at the two theaters in town. Actually, we see the few movies several times. This is the summer of Raiders of the Lost Ark, which we see at least three times. This is Longview, so we also see Clash of the Titans a couple of times because there's nothing better to do.
But it's not the movies I'm thinking of tonight: it's sitting in my Volkswagen Bug with him and spending an hour or more kissing, and then driving home alone afterward in the dark, almost deserted streets. I don't usually think of rain when I think of that summer -- so it's not so much that summer at all: it's him, and that first discovery of passion, and the exhilerating sense of breaking the rules while doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. Driving alone that late at night was another milestone, one that was almost as important as what we were doing together. Being out late, in the dark, outside of the sheltering walls of my parents' house and the pools of light from the porch and the windows, left on to welcome me home and to keep back the dark. . .
"What I'm doing" was pretty innocent stuff. It took us half the summer to get around to open-mouthed kisses, and we didn't go any further past that point for a very long time. I was, as I have commented here before, a classic Good Christian Girl, and he knew what he was dealing with. Or he did at first. He was part of an initiatory transition, and I was never quite the same after those first few weeks. He was Han Solo to my Princess Leia, and I had been looking for a scoundrel in my life. One with a heart of gold, of course - but a scoundrel. He was it for me.
Remembering those nights brings to mind other nights. . .
One of the best nights of my life was outwardly undramatic. I was with one of the best friends I've ever had, a living daimon, camping on the edge of a desert. We were sitting in directors chairs, and there was no one else as far as the eye could see. It was summer, and sunset came very late. We sat under the Big Sky and watched the stars come out and a storm front slowly build up miles away. We saw lightning, heard the thunder, but the storm itself never threatened us. Above us, the stars were clear.
Of all the friends I have ever had, this one was the one with the deepest sense of purpose in his life. I've always envied him that. And that night, I was all too aware of my own lack of purpose, of the way I had drifted through life. We talked, and he asked cogent questions that made me do some hard thinking.
There was a sense of being outlaws, out there alone together. I was still married then, unhappily, although I had not yet reached the point of choosing divorce. I don't think I can communicate the whole complexity of the feelings without saying far too much about the old fantasies (non-sexual) with which this evening resonated, or the complexity of the friendship with this particular person (not actively sexual, but with sexual awareness between us). . . and that evening was vivid and intimate and spectacular and very much apart from everyday life.
And finally, there was opening night of the first play I directed. It was a small affair, as these things go: a black box theater in a student center, with an audience limited to 50 people. But we were sold out, and my cast was wonderful, and I was wearing a lovely strapless sundress in the California spring evening, and felt beautiful as well as proud and accomplished. The professor of directing, who was the most difficult to please of all our faculty, didn't say anything to me that night, but he was smiling -- and that's when I was sure that I had accomplished something significant.
I wasn't going to be graded for the production, even though it was the result of a suggestion from my thesis committee. It was, in fact, something of an outlaw production (long story), but it was my own personal "senior exercise." By being able to gather this cast and crew, rehearse them, withstand the wildly unusual challenges that were thrown at me, and create a production to be proud of, I knew that I had mastered not just the classroom lessons of my major, but had achieved the personal growth that had been my own reason for coming to college and choosing a theatre major.
Re-reading this now, I realize that I use the word "outlaw" twice, and it certainly lurks beneath the first memory as well. A day or so ago, I wrote about needing the daimon to help me break out of the boxes in my life. Passion breaks us out of boxes. Ecstasy takes us out of our normal consciousness. My directing professor told me, "Sometimes you have to get in over your head before you can find out what you're capable of." I have always felt I was capable of far more than my daily life demanded of me -- but I almost never dared to do so on my own initiative.
I'm starting to ramble. . . . How does a single mother, a sensible, rational person, keep passion alive? Not so much sexual passion, but the passion of creativity and daring and expansiveness -- the joy that doesn't ask permission or approval. How do I continue to break out of boxes without cracking the foundations I need to be a responsible adult? That is my fundamental question.
no subject
well, there're always the weekends... ;>
no subject
I'll take a vacation day, send The Child to Grandmommy's house for the night, and we'll stay up and drink and tell stories.