Another Saturday Night

Los Angeles, California

At home tonight, prepping dinner in my tiny postage stamp of a kitchen. The owners are young, and their decor is comprised of dark cabinets, dark floors, grey walls. An ubiquitous look that doesn't matter much to me as I try not to long for beat-up flooring and eclectic farmhouse furniture. Try. Not. To.

I am listening to A Prairie Home Companion as I have for many decades and it comforts me because of that. Garrison Keillor's voice has been a constant to me over the past thirty-plus years. One of the last things I do now each night is to listen to the podcast of his daily A Writer's Almanac. It gives a sense of closure to my day, and wistfully reminds me of my young dreams to be a poet.

Tonight, dinner is (as I look at the wreckage) leftovers from last night: pasta shells which I tossed with yogurt tempered with a spoonful of creme fraiche (truly the ultimate comfort condiment that will nurse me through it all) after tossing the pasta first with olive oil; pecorino romano, reggiano parmigiana, and truffle cheese (adding half of what I had grated); some magic pasta water; the mix of yogurt and cream, then the rest of the cheese. Lots of pepper. And with it all, I roasted fat, autumn red grapes with brussels sprouts. It was good. Besides the leftovers, I tossed a Caesar salad; the croutons crisply cooked in butter and olive oil; the greens, sadly-diminished, from a bag of organic romaine purchased at Trader Joe's several days ago, in a moment of I have no appetite, no idea, but maybe this would be good to have. I expect single humans everywhere will understand this.

It's so hard, this making my way and I feel sad and loose-ended. I remember what I left behind; needing to be the one to walk away from the house with the crystal glasses and the sunsets from my kitchen. I also remember the sad, empty misery of feeling left alone there in the midst of what should have been enough. I brought A Prairie Home Companion to the marriage. I bought the crystal glasses. I imagined and offered the let's do this, and the do you want to do that? I was an engine but was not the little engine who could. Otherwise, I would have made it work. I would have sucked it up and continued to pretend that there was someone else there with me. I would have made water from chocolate.

It takes a lot to leave your home. And it took me a long time. I didn't want to be the one who left. But the sad truth is that when a marriage is offering nothing to either party but blankness to one and pain and bad memories to the other, someone has to leave. And he was tenacious. Eventually, I found a place. I packed as I often packed for my months in Carmel, and tried not to look back. The old adage of possession being nine-tenths of the law is not a consideration in California matrimonial law. We own equally regardless of who retains residence.  It is still my home. I picked the paint colors, and the tiles for the pool that he did not want to build. I chose where art was hung. In the master bedroom a crucifix I bought in Carmel, a replica of the one buried in Father Junipero Serra's hands, hangs on the wall above a tiny watercolor of the Carmel Mission Basilica. And on and on and on. I said to my friend at the time: it's just stuff. And truly, is not what is substantial in life. But I had dressed my home with love, and, if it is true that home is where the heart is, what was left of my heart remains silently there.

I have often thought that the support I offer my friends when needed is surely within the realm of do what I say. And truthfully, at this time in my life, I would not recommend to anyone that they do what I do. I am alone with my limp romaine. Not stretched to the limit, but not yet seeing any hope of light at the end of the tunnel. This is it, and what I need to live. I won't stay in this place. I know this. I know this. I know this...

Tomorrow night I will go out. I will dance with Joel, and I will probably feel better. It is Armando's band, and he is a musician and a gentleman. I will be glad to dance to his music, and to applaud heartily after each song. He is from Nicaragua, and his brother is also a musician. Armando has his own band, but also plays in his brother's, where they make music together. That must be something; to create and share that, while watching us moving to the waves of music they are sending out.

I have always loved the Sam Cooke song, Another Saturday Night. It's a great singalong tune, and I have it in my iTunes library and on many of the playlists I have created, and subsequently given as gifts. So on this, another Saturday night, I tell myself that there is music; there is A Prairie Home Companion; there is pasta; there will be dancing. With Joel. I am a refugee, but life is as it should be for me for now. Maybe a faint glow at the tapering darkness of the tunnel will appear shortly. Maybe I will find myself a home down the road somewhere. A place to hang my hat and my heart. You never know. I guess you just have to have faith.