The Capture

Diary clipping, NYC, 1962

Paul's mother cuts through the beautiful jelly glass to expose pork belly, ear, smoked and roasted. The Russian dish is displayed beautifully in the dining room of the Ritz. There isn't a person who doesn't belong here and the pressure is overpowering. 

She feeds me this evening. Like, y'know, she pays for it. 

"So, how long are you in town for this time?" I hear her various pearl bracelets clink together in regal lofty sound. Clink clink. When I close my eyes, all I see is England. I escape to England, I don't really escape. 

We don't really escape. We just switch places with one another. 

**

Paul and I are swimming the English Channel naked. He throws his head back in laughter and there is a sparkle. Why can't we keep moments frozen in the sea like gelatine dishes ?My Paul in aspic with garnish on the side. His white teeth and the slice of blue eye kept the way I had loved them forever. Before we spoke, there was this moment. Before couples really speak, there is this moment. It isn't really love or understanding. It is something I call the Capture. The Capture begins like a tiny regal hunt. You see the promise of plumed red, and, like some inbred royal brat you and your hounds ride deep into the mouth of the forest. You hope it's a forest. Similarly, you notice your beloved manifesting in front of you effortlessly. Leading you on; sparkling on a hilltop with bunches of flowers, or perhaps drinking from a water fountain on some street in Madrid. And, while you're starving, you reach for the biggest bone at the table. You take in the moment and drink the drink of lust until there's nothing left. But you don't stop there. You are selfish like an inbred royal brat. You claim the moment, the skin off beloved's back, their molars, their dollars, their life essence. Satiated you know you cannot be so you scoff in the face of logic. (To some of my readers I say, "I defy you "logic". Isn't it all the same?)The Capture happens so quietly and it is often completely one-sided. The Capture is very special when it is shared. The logistics of a mutual Capture resist description as too much blood is shed. Too much fear oozes. Two bloody lions. Regardless, both parties ultimately regale in their full claim of one another. 
I captured Paul but the Capture was not mutual. By the time I realized it was not shared, I became bored. 

**

I was sitting across Paul's mother at dinner realizing how disconnected I am from her son. It had taken me years, several states from coast to coast, a few western countries, plus one gelatinous Russian dish in order to realize how little love there existed between him and I. 

"I'm in town for a few more weeks. I know he is quite busy so I am going to work from the hotel room and write in the evenings. No blood spilled, so to speak" I add the latter tongue in cheek but she does not

know this.  I imagine myself sneaky. 

I am not sneaky. 

Her mouth dripping in shrimp sauce (she was now on the second course) forms a sort of ugly smile. She understands. 

"Jocelyn, I wish you all that you deserve", and makes a move for the bill. 

The dining room begins to smell of rain. Heavy November rain and such sadness fills me with the desire to run, to seek refuge. There is nowhere to run except deeper into the story. As mama used to say, "don't throw away the sparrow in your hand for the crow on the fence"

I never wanted crows. God mama, who wants crows? Mama is far away but her being out there in the world comforts me. Half savage and half aristocratic, applying red to her nails while searchin' for antique furniture in estate sales flyers. Bitin' into her itchy sunburn on her hand like a pleb. My mama across the country, makin' pudding. Falling asleep to the sound of magic rain in Albuquerque as we speak. Kissing the New Mexico land with her toes. 

"It's settled then, my darling", she says as she clasps her Chanel bag and closes her eyes in repose. 

What a lady. 

"You shall take a last trip to London with P in December and let me know how you get on. As I say, no worries regarding costs as I know your work is pending publishing"

Pending publishing. 

Those are rich person words for a poor broke writer experiencing writer's block + creditors a-knockin'

I don't even chuckle. I just imagine my grandaddy on mama's side laughing with me, remnants of the Navajo folded in the creases of his eyes, the rich darkness unfolding warm and grabbing me in. Takin' me home. The last pieces of Madalena shinin'

The refuge deeper into the story is a refuge into family, into the familiar, into the unspoken, unclaimed yet blood-known.