A lover that won’t blow my cover August 25, 1985
I would say life is complicated with Safire if it wasn’t
just the same problem over and over. Most of the women I’ve dated want a
particular type of working-class slob that is just not me.
Dr. Thomas, of course, would ask me how I cause such women
to fall for me. But I suspect this is a much more common problem than my good
professor would admit.
An artist – man or woman – must first fight against the
natural urge to form a clan. I think Reagan’s political right has tapped into
this with their return to the family stuff. A married man generally is too
caught up with day-to-day survival and providing for his family to burn down
cities in protest, and often do not have time to explore their art once they’ve
settled down into routine.
It all boils down to finding a mate that will support their
art, the habit of art, the long hours necessary to dedicate to their art.
This is hard and often what you get are two people seeking
different goals, and romance often competes with the energy needed to dedicate
to art.
Dr. Thomas would ask me why. Is art some kind of means of
escaping human involvement?
Perhaps it is. I don’t see it as unhealthy, and I don’t
understand why an artist can’t have both.
I need time to dedicate to myself, and if this sounds selfish,
I don’t care. I would otherwise feel trapped.
I have the luxury at work of being alone if I want to, isolating
myself from the night crew at the mall simply by keeping the main gate closed,
and pretending while baking in the kitchen that I do not hear the guards and
others pounded on the gate as I work.
The radio keeps me company.
When I have set aside time for myself each day, then I can
be cordial, knowing how I have engaged my own interests first. (This all sounds
a lot like the mantra Pauly used to give and recalls when he put on headphones
and would not answer his apartment door when we knocked.)
With Fran I had a tough time setting such periods aside,
between work, making love, and such, and frequently got up hours early do
engage in my own work before giving her the time she wanted, and still that
wasn’t enough.
She wanted to tie me up to the bed each night where she
could hold me hostage, so suffocating me that I was willing to rid myself of
amazing sex for my small space in time.
Maybe I played the role of suffering artist too much and
that contributed to the demise of the relationship. But there was truthfully
not enough time during the day or night for me, my art and Fran.
Other women I’ve dated, however, had the strange notion of
needing to save me, remaking my life so it fit comfortably with theirs. Some
confused artists with the idea of intellectual when they are hardly the same.
In many ways, Michael would fit that bill better than I
would, had he been older and less far out on the limb.
Some women pick out men that are just like their father’s or
convert them into clones of their fathers, leading ultimately to self-destruction
for both parties involved.
Dr. Thomas did once ask me why I made such people love me,
only for me to reject them in the end or have them reject me.
Certainly, my involvement with Safire falls into this category.
Perhaps my life is best said in the rock song that says, “I need a lover that
won’t blow my cover, someone to thrill me then go away.”
Comments
Post a Comment