9:20 a.m. - 2005-08-10
Goodbye Rant
Returning home, transformed by my secret, I carefully chopped the garlic, the mushrooms, while my heart was suspended somewhere above Lily Rock. Gliding like a lavendar hawk in the twilight. After dinner, I took my crumpled paper, the one with the circles and scribbled numbers, the blueprint for freedom. The fax machine, duplicitous and cold, was downstairs in the music room. Ron, eyes closed, listened to something classical and loud just above. My hand trembled as I fed my resume into the indifferent slot. And the secret was out. Hovering invisible. Climbing the stairs, I felt scared yet lighter. I looked about, studying the gold records lining the steps, the Grammy with Ron's picture in a small shadowbox. I saw them for the first time, knowing that soon I would see them no more. Ron stirred, observing me almost wistfully. I believe he knew. I remembered my father's epitaph for my disastrous teenage marriage, "he's a good man, just not for you." And here was the first man of whom my father had approved. The man to remove my shame in the only eyes that mattered, those of my father. He was a good man, there was no denying. Just not for me. And my vagabond soul nodded in assent. Each item in the house seemed suddenly beautiful in its transience. The abstract over the piano shone, at once, irridescent. A looming pearl. The ceramic iguana, indiginous to the beautiful hill in a way I could never approach, seemed animated from within. I washed the dishes by hand, by zen. The circular motions were somehow healing. Replicating the full circle irony of fall after fall and the imminent resurrection from the dust of each new error. The haunting release. So familiar. So fresh. The pang of loss occluded by the lure of liberation. Again and drowsy again. Wandering into the monkey trap with sleep in my eyes. Only to spring myself free by letting go of the prize. The dubious prize. I loved Ron in a certain way. But the girl with the moon in her eyes was irresistible at moments like these. Tenderly, Ron held me throughout the peaceful night. There were calls to be answered in the morning, but the morning was yet to be. I allowed myself to curl into the sincerity of his embrace. To honor what had been, with the gratitude of a child while the clock in the distance poignantly marked my escape.
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