GRAND CANYON: KANSAS HIGHWAY BLUES

We drive as long and far as our eyes will allow us, finally pulling up at a trucker’s all-night diner somewhere on the outskirts of Limon, Colorado, where Wiz goes in to fill up with coffee and a bite to eat. I catch some needed sleep in the car. My mind is swimming in a sweet and swirling torrent of dream. Esmeralda is with me. Though I have left temptation behind, she remains implanted in my heart and mind.

Is it wrong I wonder? Can a man betray his loved one in dreams? I have no heart to stop the passion that runs through my veins and fills me with sweet pleasure. This is not my dream alone. It is too powerful. It is the dance of the temptress and gypsy magic. It is positive proof that we live our lives both as physical and spiritual beings. In our imaginations we are not confined. We are free to wander and roam wherever the spirit takes us. It is more than a sensual feast. Our bodies blend and mold together, joining in a rhythm only our hearts can keep. Love among the stars, at heaven’s gate, before the eyes of the gods, a muse of celestial poets, gardens of delight at the sweet and tender mercy of Eros. It is the twenty-four hour wet dream in the sanctuary of liquid desire.

She dances by firelight in a gypsy caravan, bidding me come with her eyes. She lays her body down by a river of moonlit waters and opens to my embrace. She leads me to a forest of starlight and reveals to me her soul. She pulls me to her breasts, soft and charged with radiant energy. She locks me in her fold. Our legs and arms entwined, our bodies as one, we are capable of flight, no longer physical but embodied light.

Wiz emerges from the all-night diner ready to take the wheel. He senses my distance and allows me to roam in dreamland while he drives deep into the night. The highway is flat and straight and I am caught between sleep and awake. I am unable or unwilling to let go of the dream that has captured me. Eyes closed and I am submerged, sinking ever deeper, aware but unafraid of drowning. Eyes open and I return to the here and now but fail to find balance. Each time I go down it is harder to return, harder to pry the lids apart, harder to gain focus, harder to hang on to the world above.

Finally I let go. It is not mine to control. Let it run its course. Let it take me where it will. I will not fight back. I will not struggle against the dream that chooses me. Lit be. Let it have its way with me. It is not fro a man to turn away his destiny though it may cost him his life. There are forces at work that will not be denied. To do so would be perilous. It would plant a seed of unrest that would haunt me down the road.

We reach Kansas in the morning. Wiz has lost his caffeine high and hands the keys to me. The long night’s journey has rested me enough to drive although I am not completely myself. I am entranced in a state of awareness. The world has once again transformed. There is a sky of endless clouds, huge white billowy formations that roll over the land. It is world of dreams. Never have I seen such a sky. It seems to cover all of Kansas, moving westward from the floods of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers.

The dream takes on a new dimension. No longer confined to darkness it summons me in daylight and dances in the corners of my mind. I need only call her name and she appears before me. As the miles roll on and the clouds begin to reveal scattered glimpses of blue sky above, I am aware of another presence in the dream. It is another gypsy dancer, the one I fell in love with so many years ago, the one that uprooted me from my home in California, and the one whom I followed to Nashville. I glance in the rearview mirror and I’m startled to see a whirling red light.

A Kansas highway patrolman pulls us over and informs me that I’ve been traveling at 73 miles per hour. The road is desolate and the land is wide with sparse traffic. The speed limit is sixty-five. I’ve been lost in another world, unaware of his presence behind me, and I suspect that my lack of awareness more than my speed has led to his action. A 1965 Mustang with California plates and a driver that has been too long on the road is suspect enough. He asks for license and registration and I scramble to find them. In my haste I hand him the original registration, which is over ten years old. He walks back to his patrol car to check out my vehicle as I locate the updated registration. I hand to him with an apology on his return. He smiles and tells me he’s going to let me off with a warning but he advises me to keep my attention on the road. It is a warning in more ways than one.

Wiz has awakened to this scene and surmises the true nature of the event: Your wife just reached out from Nashville to give you a slap. I don’t doubt it. We had lived apart for twenty years yet in some strange way we were always connected, joined in spirit and in dreams. I call for her forgiveness and feel it is received. But forgiveness must be without judgment and it will be another thousand miles before the truth of what has happened on this open highway in Kansas will be revealed. I have no sense of guilt and I will not be found guilty. To dream is not a crime, no matter what form it takes. I have not betrayed my love but I have forgotten for a time its source. I have discovered what I have always known within: that it is possible to love again. It is always possible.

The closer we get to Nashville on the eastward swing of our journey, the more my thoughts will turn to her. My love for her survived a canyon of time and a thousand rude awakenings. I knew the first time I saw her in her layered gypsy dress, a bandana wrapped around her almost childlike face, that she was the woman of my dreams. She was innocence and wisdom and her eyes sparkled with anticipation of the life that would unfold before her. She was mystery and mysticism, reading palms and communing with the stars. She was spirituality and sensuality and her voice carried angels on its wings. She was a dancer and a musician whose talent shined like the sky of a million stars at Sonora Pass.

In the days of our youth she was beyond my reach. She was bonded to another man, the mother of a small child, and I was not ready for the life she would lead. My love remained within my heart. Later, when I went to New York to make my mark as an actor and playwright, I would dream of her. It was as if she called me from the distance of a continent and I answered in devotion. I returned to the central valley of California dead broke and struggling for a new way of life but all I could think about was her. My friend and roommate at the time was adept at reading the hearts of men. He revealed to her my affection though I had never revealed it to him.

It happened one night in the back yard of a mutual acquaintance. Beneath the eyes of heaven we touched. I wondered then as I wonder now how many of us are blessed to know such a sensation. To reveal the contents of the heart and to know in an instant the meaning of love. All this and so much more that a thousand words could not begin to describe it. All this in an embrace. She was my first true love and she became an obsession. We began a relationship of agony and ecstasy, of passion and jealousy, of joy and suffering.

Maybe it was too soon for love. We were young and neither of us was prepared for what love entails. We were still hungry for adventure. The world was wide open and teeming with excitement to commit to another’s dreams and ambitions.

It ended as suddenly as it began. Jealousy reared its bloody fangs. She had promised her love but she had never forsworn her freedom. The final scene was dark and foreboding. For years I would refer to it as the incubus. My accusation of betrayal struck so deeply that she threw herself at me in rage. I recoiled in remorse but the damage was done. Not long after she called to say goodbye. She was leaving the valley, bound for glory and adventure somewhere in Oregon. We parted as friends and for years thereafter I sent her a trail of love letters, hoping without cause or reason to win back her love. Eighteen years later my hope was realized.

Her travels had taken her from Oregon to Idaho to Nashville in pursuit of a dream. Her daughter had grown from a beautiful child to a mature young artist. She had gone through several frustrating relationships. She had come to the realization that she was attracted to men who abused her. They were broken spirits in need of nurturing and incapable of returning the love and support she gave them.

I had undergone many changes as well. Two fruitless relationships and a handful of brief affairs left me wondering if it all wasn’t a waste of time. Having received my degree in psychology and speech pathology I got a job in the public schools and there I remained for the past ten years. My life was secure. I had found a sacred circle of friends and was close to my family. I was alone but I was not lonely. I had decided not to settle for less than love. I discovered that a man could find contentment and meaning in life without ever finding his soul mate. I was respected by my peers and felt no animosity toward anyone in the world.

It was then that she came calling. It was not entirely unexpected. I had seen her a number of times over the years. I was her way to travel periodically and she would generally look me up when her path brought her back to the valley. On those occasions we had rekindled the old flame. Each time she left feeling a little empty when she left. The last time we had a fight over what I perceived as her selfishness. On a three-day weekend I had driven her to Idaho to rescue her belongings from an unknown fate. When we arrived I was no longer a lover but only a friend. She made visits to former lovers and former haunts, leaving me to my own thoughts. She began to speak fondly of the man she left behind in Nashville. I had not realized how deeply she could still wound me. When we parted company I promised myself that I would never welcome her again.

When she called I was polite but guarded. I was not certain I wanted to see her. I was certain that I did not want to repeat the romantic sojourns of the past. I found her waiting on the steps of my porch at two in the morning. Something about her was different. She had changed. I had changed. We talked through the night and sealed our newfound bond several evenings later. We made love like angels caught between heaven and earth. It was a night to remember. It was a union of spirits. We jumped the broom in Nashville at Christmas and married officially the following April in Lake Tahoe. The truth for all the romance is: she needed a marriage certificate to get health insurance.

From that moment everything changed. By all accounts the first year was a struggle, a battle of opposing wills. I was perplexed. I had moved two thousand miles from home and was very nearly abandoned there. The best that could be said was that we survived. Though we parted on good terms, I could not be certain what would greet me when I came home from this journey: a loving wife or a nightmare of opposition. She was invited on this homeward journey but opted to remain behind. She said I needed the space and she was more than right. I’d spoken to her only twice since I left. I wanted to live the moment and for the most part that is what I have done.

We pull over at a Kansas visitor’s welcome center, grabbing a cup of coffee and a pamphlet on golf in the Jayhawk state. We pick out a course in Lawrence near Topeka. It is billed as one of the best public courses in the state. It is a long and lonely drive, Wiz sleeping and dreams drifting in and our of consciousness as if driven by a will of their own. The greenery born of fresh and bountiful rain overshadows the traditional amber sea of grain. The crows are with us everywhere.

We reach Lawrence and find our way to the course with plenty of time for a late round. Laid out on rolling Kansas hills, the course is pleasing to the eye with plush evenly cut grass, elevated tees, thick rough and pine lining the fairways. I step out of Sally and feel as though I’ve set a record for tumbling in a high speed dryer. Wiz comments that I look like five hundred miles of hard road. Thanks a lot. I feel much worse. We check in at the clubhouse and sign up for nine. By the time we pull out our clubs we’re due on the first tee. I duff my drive and comment to the starter that I’m a bit road weary. He knows the feeling. He’s a navy man and recalls his first round after a long stint at sea. The ground wouldn’t stop moving.

It is several holes before I realize it’s not bound to get better soon. My spirit is down and trending downward. I haven’t the heart for laughter and camaraderie despite the beauty of the course and the friendly nature of the guys we’re playing with. I am far-gone and goner still. Wiz who is play a good round begins to wear on me with his teasing commentary and attempted humor. On the seventh tee he tosses me a pink tee. It is a running joke with us. I refuse to use yellow or pink tees but with my amber vision shades I can’t tell the difference. This time it draws no smile or laughter, just a worn out shrug as I toss it aside. His response startles me. With a look of downtrodden sincerity he announces: You hate me. I begin to rethink my state of being.

I had forgotten. I am not alone on the course. I am not alone in my struggle. Wiz has tried in vain to pick me up and I have returned nothing but grief. Wiz nails a three wood that sails right into the trees. I step up and hit the best drive of my round down the center. When he has trouble finding his ball I welcome the opportunity to make my peace by helping him to locate it. A load is lifted from my shoulders, leaving only the fatigue buried deep in my bones. I finish well, hitting the last two greens in regulation.

As we walk off the ninth green it occurs to me that our scores are close. I make inquiry and learn that he has bettered me by two strokes. The gods of golf have spoken. Wiz is gracious in victory, making excuses for my game. But there are no excuses in golf. I have been delivered a harsh lesson and one that will require pondering. For the second time on the journey, Wiz has defeated his mentor fair and square. He refused to acknowledge the first at Tioga Pass and now he refuses to gloat. He could easily have stumbled and fallen short. The road has been as rough on him as it has been on me. I’m proud of his accomplishment, proud of how he carries it and proud that he has not allowed the attitude of his playing partner to ruin his game.

I am also a little ashamed of my own conduct through the middle holes of the round: hanging my head, cursing myself, refusing attempts at encouragement, wallowing in self pity. There is no excuse. Regardless the circumstances, a bad round happens as a matter of course in the game of golf. There is a right way and a wrong way to handle it. I chose the wrong way, seeking excuses and finding blame in inanimate objects. The right way is to ask yourself what the round is teaching you. Had I asked I might have realized that I was in need of grounding. I had been swimming in a sea of dreams for the better part of twenty-four hours and could not feel the earth beneath my moccasins.

We head on to Kansas City with our thoughts surrounding the game behind us. We are in desperate need of nourishment and take the first inviting off ramp in search of a quiet homespun meal. There is nothing to be found. Our choices are between a pizza parlor with a karaoke stage and a Chinese restaurant. A rowdy man in front of the pizza parlor makes our choice for us. It is a wise choice. We are the only customers. The atmosphere is peaceful except for an explosive telephone conversation in Chinese by the woman at the cash register. The waitress explains: In laws. Over tea and wanton soup I believe the lesson of the round was: Accept adversity.

On our way back to Sally, we encounter another disturbance of the peace: a shouting match in the parking lot that has all the signs of a fight. We decide Kansas City is not our kind of town but we are too tired to move on. We stop at the first motel where a Persian man with a couple of missing teeth informs us: No vacancy. We find the next Motel 6 with a TV bolted to the wall and settle in for a long night’s sleep.

The first words from my mouth upon awakening in the morning are: Welcome adversity. Wiz nods in agreement. He had no comment the night before but the night has settled the issue. We are ready to resume the journey and anxious to leave this town behind.

Next stop: St. Louis.