There
really are times when I get away from the werewolves, vampires, ghosts, and
demons of paranormal and write about the more quotidian matters of life.
"Zen and the Art of Marriage" explored several notions that float
around in my thinking. One is the nature of creativity—both the good and
the bad side of it. The other is marriage. What is the essence of marriage and
the nature of it? Why do some marriages succeed and many others fail? Is an
artist’s creativity inimical to marriage? What makes for a proper balance in an
artist’s life between the creative and the quotidian?
These
considerations came from a couple of things I noted on the matter. Artists seem
hard to get along with. Milton was divorced—a rare thing in his day.
Solzhenitsyn—even though, like Milton, he was a very devout Christian—could not
get along with his wife very well. And we hear of artists who can’t seem to get
along with anyone, let alone a spouse. I had also read an article in a magazine by a woman who was an artist and finally ended up divorcing her husband because
she felt she did not feel “free to be creative” because she was married (even
though her husband was, by her confession, loving and considerate and they had
a good relationship).
Is there something
about being creatively gifted that alienates? Is the artist the brooding Byronic
hero, too restless and moody to love anyone? These were some of the questions
that went into “Zen and the Art of Marriage.”
Desmond
is a painter. He is successful, always finding enough work and does well for
himself. He has recently split with his wife, Joanna. They have children. What has
split them up is Desmond’s behavior when he is working on a project. He becomes
angry, touchy, and intense. His wife and kids know not to talk him. He stalks
the house, brooding, ultra-focused, unable to be civil to anyone.
Finally, they split. Desmond is shocked, but Joanna has put up with him for too
long to want to be reconciled. She takes the children and moves out. Alone,
Desmond despairs. And to fill up the empty hours he begins to study Zen. The
study helps him to understand himself. He invites Joanna to stay with him at a
remote cabin in Canada his family owns—so remote you have to fly in to get
there. To his surprise, she agrees.
They fly
up together. She is cordial but distant. They are civil until he brings up Zen
and tells her it has changed him. He asks if she has read a book on Zen he sent her. She unloads on him:
“I
read a little of it. I don’t want to read books. You should have been reading
books like that before all this happened.”
He
had not expected such a level of hostility as he caught in her tone.
“It’s
a good book and it really helped me, Joanna.”
“About
five years too late. You think you can treat me like you did the last years we
were together then undergo some kind of”—she searched for a word—“conversion
and that will make everything all right? It’s still just about you, isn’t it?
You read a book and that should cure the whole problem. The problem, Desmond,
isn’t me! It’s you. If you could get that through your head you might
understand why I left you.”
Her
attack cut through him so much he did not know what to say. The scenario he had
built up in his mind of an even, civil, heartfelt conversation that would end
in reconciliation dissolved like sugar in hot tea. She was angry. He had hurt
her and words were not going to repair the damage he had done to her soul.
When
he did not answer, she drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
“That’s
how I feel,” she said, her voice softer and more conciliatory. “I can’t pretend
I feel any differently. I pretended I felt fine for years when we were married
and I can’t do it anymore.”
He realizes his
plan has failed. They do some things together. He paints a watercolor of her and,
as he works, tries to modify how he behaves when painting. They boat, see bear
and moose, and get caught in a torrential rainstorm. She seems to have fun. Seeing her naked when they
come back, soaked, to the cabin rekindles his passion for her. Desmond desires
reconciliation, but after their spat he cannot find words and they spend most
of their time together in silence. At one point she weeps over how terribly the
divorce has hurt their kids. He comforts her silently. Despite this, Desmond
decides he has lost the bid. They will not reconcile. This deepens the silence
between them, though the silence is not hostile. Before he goes to bed that
night, he reads from the Tao Ti Ching
Those who know do not talk.
Those who talk do not
know.
Keep your mouth closed.
Guard your senses.
Temper your sharpness.
Simplify your problems.
Mask your brightness.
Be at one with the dust
of the earth.
This is primal union.
He who has achieved this
state
Is unconcerned with
friends and enemies,
With good and harm, with
honor and disgrace.
This therefore is the
highest state of man.
 |
| Lao Tzu |
In the morning,
he finds a note from her. It reads, I am
at the lakeshore, bathing. Please come
to me. He finds her there naked. They make love. Through silence, he has
opened the door to reconciliation. Desmond knows it will not be easy but also
knows—through the silences that have brought him the truth about himself and her—that
there is hope and their relationship can be mended. When the pilot returns for
them, he and Joanna are ready for the endeavor. They sit together in silence on
the flight, knowing there will be plenty of time to talk when they get home.
The story
appeared in a zine called Dirty, Filthy
Secrets. As I recall, the journal did not last long. I can’t find a reference to it
on the internet, let alone an archive. So many journals only have a short run and so many good stories get lost in cyberspace. This may be another I need to resubmit. Of course, it seems I'm saying that way too much lately.
For additional titles, see my Writer's Page.
For another love story, one that is indeed about vampires and the paranormal, get a copy, print or electronic, of Sinfonia: The First Notes on the Lute. Nelleke is world-renown lutenist and guitarist. She also has an appetite for human blood.
I would love to hear your comments.
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