Page 124 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“Two years ago, I went to Bali on an artist-in-residence program. I stayed in a house on stilts overlooking the hilly jungle and the river in Ubud. Before the plane touched down, I made an intention. It was almost like I gave myself permission to just dream and create and not dwell on the past or worry about the future, you know? And it was like, the whole world opened up, all my senses were heightened, and I was in that state of flow where time ceases to exist.”
I’d done something similar. Not in Bali, but I don’t think the location mattered so much. It was a mindset shift. A reminder that the power and the peace and the positive energy is within you, and you just have to tap into it. “Sounds like a spiritual journey.”
Cleo nodded. “That’s how it felt. Art was my daily ritual. My meditation. My catharsis. In the end, I had a dozen pieces of art that I barely remembered making but all the uncomfortableemotions that I tried so hard to avoid and shove aside were all right there on the canvasses?—”
She cut herself off when I ushered her into the coffee shop on Loisaida Avenue.
I should have taken her on a more scenic route because I could listen to her talk about her emotional connection to art all day.
“Wow,” she said. “This is a blast from the past. I haven’t been here in years.”
Apparently, I used to frequent this place, something I only found out last year.
“Finally, you brought your lady in!” the man behind the counter said, beaming at us. “You two used to always be together. Now it’s just him alone. Café con leche, hot buttered bread, and a cake for the beautiful lady?”
Cleo grinned. “Sounds perfect.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Gabriel
We satat a small table by the window with our knees touching. Cleo divided the cake in two and handed me a plastic fork like this was our standard practice.
“Your work is extraordinary,” I said. “I meant to tell you that the other night. It’s thought-provoking and vulnerable and there’s a luminosity that shines through in even the darkest pieces. You’ve captured the entire human experience on canvasses. Loss and grief. Shame and hurt and anger. Joy and hope. And the beauty and bizarreness and complexities of everyday life.”
Cleo stared at me. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “You…” She shook her head and let out a heavy breath then sipped her coffee and set the cup down, her tone changing. “So what do you do in Montauk?”
I wish she would have said whatever she was thinking before, but I answered her question and gave her a snapshot of my life. “I run on the beach with my dog every morning. I swim in my pool. Tend to my wild garden. Practice guitar, write bad poetry, read Murakami and Sufi poets. I play piano and harmonica andlisten to music…” I paused. “It’s weird. I’ll read a book that I’ve probably read before, but I don’t know the plot or the characters so it’s all new to me. Same with movies. But with music, it’s different.”
“Different how?”
“A Neil Young or Rush song will come on the radio, and I’ll know the lyrics. I’ll know the song. Even if it’s not on any of the CDs I have at home, I’ll know it. Just last week, I stopped at the store to pick up some milk. A Fleetwood Mac song was playing, and I knew every word. Fleetwood Mac.” I threw up my hands as if to say,Explain that craziness.
“It makes perfect sense,” Cleo said, a small smile playing on her lips. “You have music in your soul.”
I leaned back in my seat with a sigh. “Then I need to find the key to unlock my soul. I’m supposed to go into the studio in September.”
Her brows shot up. “You’re writing an album?”
“Trying to. I’ve got three songs.” I held up three fingers for emphasis. “Basically, I’m fucked.”
Cleo laughed. “You say that every time and then you disappear for a few weeks, get in the zone and write like a madman. I used to have to remind you to eat and sleep because you were so consumed, soobsessedwith the music that nothing else existed. But it was so magical and so inspiring. In the end, you’d have all this incredible music.” Her smile was soft, her eyes unfocused like she was in a different time and place.
When she caught me watching, her smile slipped, and she lowered her eyes like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
“Cleo.” I leaned in until I found her eyes. I wanted to tell her that it was okay to reminisce, and that I wanted to hear it now. “It’s okay?—”
“No, Gabriel, it’s notokay.” She stabbed her fork into the last bite of cake but didn’t eat it. “Where did you go when you left here?” I saw the flash of hurt in her eyes before she averted her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “Wherever you were, they obviously didn’t have phones.”
If she only knew how many times I’d fed coins into a pay phone to call her. But every time, I changed my mind and hung up.
What was there to say?
I’m lost in the desert, took a peyote trip, and oh yeah, I just had a psychotic episode so can you come and pick me up?
“I went to California. San Francisco. Big Sur. It was cold and damp all the time, so I kept moving.” I drew lines on the tabletop with my plastic fork. Two down, two across. Tic-tac-toe. I drew an X in the center box. “I ended up in a desert town in New Mexico…”
If I left out parts of my story, she’d never know. But if I wanted her to know me, the man I wasnow, I had to be honest. Chances were I’d never measure up to the man I was before, the man she’d fallen in love with, but I couldn’t withhold the truth or pretend to be someone I wasn’t.
