Friday, 5/16/97 Deciphering attraction FLESH Spiritual, physical
desires are not necessarily simultaneous nor quenched by one
person
The following are excerpts culled from Warren Craig’s journal:
So Megan and I were making love. I had her hips in my hands and
stood by the bed looking down upon her. Her skin was hot and wet
and she had her eyes closed. When she opened her eyes again, she
looked directly into mine, and with hope, with ineffable
conviction, whispered, "I love you Warren." At one moment, the dim
light on the nightstand caught her squarely on the right side of
the face. I looked at her, and saw something in her green eyes, a
maverick shade of blue that I had noticed before, a cacophonous
chord increasing in volume over time, hinting at a consequent
dead-end silence. I felt the overwhelming urge to utter the words
"you know what … I don’t love you and don’t think I ever will."
But I caught the sounds before they escaped from my mouth.
Afterward she placed her head upon my chest, my left arm around her
body. Soon she fell into a peaceful sleep. But I could not sleep
because my spirit was trapped with its vehicle of flesh, pinned by
her arms about me, her body atop me, sedating me, strapping this
flesh to earth. Fall Quarter, 1995. By Week 4, my life slipped into
a static routine. In my classes, the lab, the relationship, I left
my body on autopilot, watching from the point of view of third
person. I figured that it was about time that I show up for my
Friday 9 o’clock – some classics discussion. There I found myself
eye to eye with a countenance that made my oceans move quiet
crescendos, lulling my spirits into a calm spell of white-light
heat. "An angel," I thought, intuitively. She had a soft, white
complexion, arched eyebrows that imparted a look of constant
intensity, curiosity; she propped up her long black hair with her
glasses, and locks of hair fell gently along her cheek. I had felt
her watching me. When I turned to look at her, her eyes widened,
her mouth made a pretty shape, conveying surprise that I had the
audacity to look back at her, but she looked at me still. We shared
a moment deadlocked in that strange staring contest. I couldn’t
break away. I was traveling down a friendly avenue, walking under a
mist-covered overhead where droplets of truth, old melancholia and,
finally, unadulterated contentedness spiraled down on me. Two
minutes later, the sensation of being watched returned, and we
resumed the locked gaze. After class we said nothing to each other.
I had to rush off, having a busy Friday routine to attend to.
Inexplicably, however, the feeling that gaze had instilled upon me
remained for the rest of the day, my body tingling, the flesh was
the cauldron of a stoned witch doctor. On the way home, I almost
got run over crossing Gayley on that ridiculous two-second signal,
but it didn’t matter; I was invincible, untouchable. At home, I
plugged in the Stratocaster and turned up the amp. My fingers flew
over the frets on their own accord, writing a song. From the amp
came a melody ringing with simple joy, a melody the likes of which
I have never heard before. Then the phone rang, startling me. It
was Megan. She was feeling kinda sick, she said. I told her that I
would come over and cook her some dinner. The guitar was placed on
its stand. The amp was turned off. Silence. I spent the weekend as
two distinctly different people. At Megan’s apartment, I acted as
her caretaker. I held her. I tucked her in to bed. I made noodle
soup. By the amp with the Strat in hand, I composed and played
music for hours on end until my fingertips grew tender, until my
middle and pinkie finger started to bleed but playing still. On
Sunday night, guilt caught up to me as I lay in bed with my
recuperated girlfriend, telling myself how wrong it was that
someone else, a stranger, could have such a profound affect on me.
Struggling with the dichotomy, I resolved to start skipping Friday
morning discussions again and restore the routine. But when I
picked up my guitar to practice, I could hear her. I ran into Dave
during Week 8 in the Molecular Biology Institute. I was doing some
lab work and he was coming out of an office hour or something. As
always, I told him everything, confessing my sins. I don’t know
why, but he is something of my surrogate "man of the cloth." Some
of the questions he asked really stuck. "Why stay in the
relationship with Megan?" "Because," I said, as if reciting from a
Hollywood script, "I really care about my girlfriend, I don’t want
to hurt her and she needs me. The relationship will be fine; we
just have to try to make it work. I don’t want to be the one to
break us up. I’m just going through a phase. I love her, I’m just
… confused." "Isn’t this confusion a strong indication that she’s
not the one?" he stated bluntly. "What was it that attracted you to
Megan to begin with? And what about this other girl?" It was not
until later in the day that I found an answer. From the first time
I saw Megan, and still, there was a kind of feral physical
attraction. Our bodies complemented each other, interlocking parts
of a liquid beast, pushing for that moment of release, that
apocalyptic euphoria. The end of the world, as it were, because the
release lasts for only so long. Afterward, even though we would
hold each other tightly speaking in hushed whispers, there was
still a feeling of unrequited longing. With the other, she
compelled me to make music, somehow conjuring resolution. And there
was no feeling of sexual urgency or the urgency’s temporal quality.
With the guitar in hand, it was as if she were guiding me through
every page of my ethereal journal, leading me through my past,
absolving me, resuscitating the soul from the vehicle of flesh,
distancing me from its routine disequilibrium. There was an
inexplicable, unexpected, but wonderful, connection at work. Is it
possible that the physical and spiritual states could be separated
in such a manner? Aren’t they necessarily prerequisites for each
other? If given the choice between the two, which would I choose?
Which would you choose? Before the final in my classics class, I
found myself sitting directly in front of her and we just started
talking. I asked her a question about the Acropolis and she reached
over my shoulder to answer me and momentarily placed her hand on
top of mine. Was it intentional? Her small hands were soft and warm
Do you remember that fall finals week, when it rained for the first
time that season? I think it was Wednesday. During the exam, the
sun and the rain fell simultaneously, leaving behind all things old
in the garb of something brand new. It was a gorgeous night, let me
tell you. Emerging from Fowler Auditorium, my emotive self was
exposed to the effects of the campus lights, that seemed to dance
and hum and reverberate with quiet energy; the paths glistened
gold, paved with the night-light glow. Walking on the path with
her, I saw stars in her eyes, and with her voice they set lyrics to
my music I told her my name was Warren and she told me her name was
Melanie. Then we turned onto Bruin Walk, just outside of Ackerman.
Our paths were to diverge here. She wished me a good winter break,
said, "See you around," smiled and continued down Bruin Walk.
Perhaps I didn’t realized it before, but it was very, very cold. My
misty breath caused the campus lights to recede as I stood there,
very still. Silence. My legs began to move, and I caught up to her
a few steps down Bruin Walk. The lights were dimmer there. Vertigo?
I looked into her eyes, my mouth opened, and tactless, unrestrained
words escaped. She responded graciously, sympathetically and I
watched her continue down Bruin Walk. I walked through Ackerman,
and then back outside again. The night lights paved the path with
gold glow. I gazed up at the open sky and it was filled with empty
promises and the foreshadow of music. I asked, "Is there such a
thing as equilibrium between what we feel and what is? Is there no
grace for nerve but virtuous hearts, or are these things limited to
fiction? I returned home, plugged in the Stratocaster and turned up
the amp. I started to play one of the recently composed pieces just
as the sound of thunder and water droplets came pounding down. The
pitter-patter percussion provided an unwanted presto accompaniment,
gravity to ambient music. Nevertheless, sounds emanated from the
amp, her voice prevailing, singing a lovely melody. But the
rumbling heavens drew closer, rocking the sky back and forth like
mad lovers, approaching. Faster they came, closer, closer until her
voice faded away underneath the rolling sounds of the sky. All that
remained in its wake were mediocre, cliched melodies. Then the
phone rang. It was Megan. I donned a rain coat. I walked out the
door. The guitar was on its stand. The amp was silent. Dave Yu Yu
will return from his prolonged hiatus (as his usual self) in two
weeks. In the meantime, he can be reached at daveyu@ucla.edu.