Monday, November 21, 2011
Are you the fish, Friar?
Tastes and sounds in the morning.
Fresh salmon fillets sizzling in a pan.
I had, uncharacteristically, had fish for breakfast. It was damn good salmon. It brought memories of Manzanilla, Mexico. Cheap hotels, lots of fish from the nearby dock.
Eating fish, which, of course is great for the libido...And you're in an illicit love affair. It is wrong. You know that it's wrong. You are somewhere between heaven and hell, on the edge of thinness and self-deception. You are a married man, but as the product of your generation, a somewhat naif man. If it feels good, do it.
She was lying face downwards on her terrycloth towel, a breeze toying with her fine blonde hair. I reached out to stroke that hair, so spanking clean, and the woman turned to face me with her full pale blue eyes, wide apart and a little crazy, the high California cheekbones and a mouth as wide and pretty as an idyll's.
We were lying in the grass before a Mexican spa, one of a dozen in the central plateau, the hot springs of Los Antes, lush and tropical in a benign late February sun. Before us steamed a pool, hot as a bathtub, fat old tourists squatting therein like latter day versions of souls being cleansed in Dante's purgatory.
What a far cry this was from frosty Canada, from the sense of hopelessness and death that comes every February, when nothing seems to break the gloom, the threatening darkness, the pallor of one's skin. Canadians are more like Finns or Norwegians, not at all in temperament like the "slow Americans" that someone had labeled them.
Like the Finn, the Canadian drinks to excess in the course of a long and oppressive winter; he entertains gloomy and destructive thoughts on the worst of the snowy or slushy days, building up slow, smoldering resentment against one's wife, one's children, one's dog.
I hope I didn't come to Mexico just to escape winters, I was thinking, my plans, my equations, my diagrams now not meaning very much at all. I was conscious again that I was in possession of a body, mine and that in the end, back there, no gain, no gain at all was worth the loss of one's health.
But how little it had taken to turn it all around. The sun. O that sun! No wonder the Aztecs had worshipped it.
And now I was a sun worshipper, at least, second hand for it was Valerie who seemed to almost thrive in water or near it, and I was in the presence of a Loreli, a Russalka--and, dumb cossack, too enamored to know I would soon be moored on a rock.
The truth, they say is often couched in humour and irony.
Joke out of Newfoundland:
A monk is frying fish.
"Are you the fish friar?
"No, I'm a chipmunk."
Ah, the stupid people that come into ones life. Heh, now that you've become a monk. And some of these folk are gorgeous, and make a fool of you.
I have been over the years been amused by old writer Norman Podhoretz:
"The higher your I.Q. the easier it is for people to 'take' you."
I was 38, not really into maturity, still a boy-man....And I don't know about the IQ.
And now the fish-friar.
Is it too late for reconstrucion?