| in america 3 part 3 - 2003 september-october | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
20th September 2003 It is a morning I wake lonely. Complaining of Tom. But I have many interests. It doesn't take me long to find them. This is a white morning. I cannot write my surroundings here with love, but I could write them. It is an immediately harsh place. The roof is crowded with air conditioner boxes, large pipes, a large, roofed air vent. Across the north is the long blank wall of the Lips building with its foolish sign. The looming tower of the apartment building on Olive, with its ugly aluminum windows. More air conditioner boxes on other roofs. A black-painted metal fence with its bars cutting up the pink beige cathedral. To the west a concrete apartment tower, 60s, and the new condo frame completely blocking the direct line of sunsets. Between and among are palm trees but they are hard to see. The two on 4th have new bundles of strung beads, chile-red. There is a lot of ugly sound, big fans and air conditioner motors on my roof and on the other roofs, planes landing - I don't always hear them - yesterday a helicopter that circled just north-west of here, shining a spotlight toward a murder in Maple Canyon - maybe - or some desperate felon hiding in a bush. Last night a lot of Friday night drunks. I have been working on all seven of the students. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, three days to polish off the letters. All of these people can write, I can't resort to grammar. It's all psychological work. That's the edge [my college] has, it's possible to work from the understanding that intellectual errors aren't necessarily corrected intellectually, the thinker has to get emotional/perceptual foundations clear. 21 I'm lonely - it's too many days speaking to no one - I don't have crushes and fantasies any more - now I just have a hollow heart - there's no one.
23 A glass building I am lying in all day. It's a pyramid with a high peak. It has concentrated a wonderful heat of the sun all day. The door is open onto a building site. I hear construction men talking about building it A woman is in the building giving a talk about it. She is talking about the group of people around the architect at the beginning of his? her? career. I am writing notes on a device that's part of the architecture - it is like a horizontal zipper made of strong paper. Slots open out into more writing space. The woman giving the talk is standing in front of me. I guess the talk is over. I'm surprised she's speaking to me but I suppose she feels friendly because of my interest. I'm somewhere else walking toward a group of men on their knees. I think they must be boy scouts. They are singing the first verse of a song I know. After the first verse the singing falters but a large man next to me knows the words and pulls everyone along. I know them too and sing them.
The man is singing harmony. In the last line he does something exquisite with his voice. A dying fall. I open my eyes and find myself next to a dark-haired man who is an architect, part of the story the woman was telling. He is wearing a dark rose teeshirt and I am lying pressed against him down my left side. He has taken to me. I like him and like being pressed against him, though there is space on my other side, so I don't move. I am intently feeling his quality. There is an entertainment going on in front of us. He directs my attention to a woman in the white make-up of Japanese theatre. When a troop of dwarfs come on in a silly act he holds up his hand so I won't have to see them. This was a last dream before waking. I came out of it melancholy, yearning. The company of the man. The company of the woman, who when she walked away I could see was a light confident body dressed in very casual clothes, plaid shirt, jeans. With Tom these years I haven't had to deal with my weakness in relation to normal smart people, the way they give me a chance but then I subtly fail, so that I am comfortable only with failures. That left-side man liked me but I was thinking he was going to find out there's something wrong with me and change his mind. Thinking of fine people with the old melancholy. The years of fear that Tom would screw up at any moment, shame at saying I'm with a desk clerk in a welfare hotel, stoic anguish at being savaged for my quality. - I still had Rhonda's letter to write but today I put on my blue shirt and took the bike down streets and back-tracks along the fringes of the canyon system we're on the edge of here. I was going to Amvets but on the way I looked at streets and houses. I looked brown and bright, blue black and red on my bike. At Amvets I found: Christian Dior pyjamas, my size. A shirt, cotton, long-sleeved, the olive green color I'm wearing these days. What I like is that it's cotton with 3% spandex that gives it a sort of washed bashed look. Black linen pants for $4. A heavy glass tumbler, very heavy, heavy enough to hold branches without tipping. A short-sleeved shirt (is it okay? maybe) that's like a '50s penny-loafer blue-jeans small-check teenage-boy shirt, girl if tomboy. All this stuff looks new. Afterward I ate Thai chicken at a street table in Oldtown. Everywhere I'm looking at Cherokees. Sally wrote a poem about an ugly girl who stands ashamed at a microphone saying no one will eat lunch with her. A pretty girl gets up, takes the microphone, says, You can eat lunch with me. I said, I'm not sure you realize how horrifying that was from Ashley's point of view. I said every soul is on an edge, if it's a soul at all. What Ashley needs is for everyone to know that, so she doesn't have to carry it for everyone. Then it isn't a story of mercy and courage, but a story of adventure and investigation. I find myself saying to Tom, You're right, my students did take your place. They want it more, they use it more than you do. They will carry it further. After the first packet reply I see what happens. I embolden them to say whatever it is with less fiber holding it together, I give them confidence in their reader. I told Favor she might need to think of the relation of writing and emotional work differently. She uses writing to go into vapor, fantasy. I sent her to the plain and bleak. She fancifies pain, riffs off pain. I said, If you write the wet in a dry way, I think it can be a key for you. She wants to be shamanic, flying. No. She can impress the ignorant that way, being poetic, but it's nothing. She needs to get down, speak plain. Emily speaks plain but she's relaxed. Favor was trying to sound relaxed. No. She's going to have to be a tight, fierce one. Emily is not neurotic. She's fortunate, she's alert, she's graceful. Favor is deep and not graceful though she can fake it. Astro hasn't really come onto the board yet. Nor Cynthia. Nor Anne. One of my tests is how long a stretch of writing can someone sustain before they step wrong, say too much, go didactic, go sentimental, grandiose. 25 Fog yesterday and this morning, blank sky. I'm depressed and somewhat scared. Depressed because the packet period is finished, its burst of sociability, and I'm lonely and there is no one anywhere ahead of me, more days without love or touch or liveness. How much of this can I stand. Scared because I have to talk to someone about my pap and cholesterol tests, and the string says yes I have cervical cancer and will be dead - but then I check how soon and it takes it to the silly, dead by tomorrow for instance. I feel I could have cancer and die of plain loneliness, that my loss of ambition might be because my body knows it is quitting. It might be quitting because it lost body hope when I gave up on Tom, or it might be quitting because I have done what I needed to do. I'm depressed too because it is so ugly here, 5th Avenue is so ugly. I'm stuck without a car. My roof is so ugly, the roof I look out at is so ugly with its stained asphalt, patched pipes and righteous stupid air conditioner boxes. Sagged rolls of roofing paper.
It says: it's always the child who wants love and touch. Deal with it as such. I am starting over. It will be years before I have friends here. Don't look for them, just put yourself where they are. Be happy in the undecidedness of it and persist in reserve, it says. I'm here to be on hills looking toward the sea. I'm grieved by not being part of a real university, where there is science and real scholarship. Some days she sews with nothing on, her pulses galloping. It amazes her, how love remains, hiding in her skin, flooding up from the cells as she works. The pleasure costs her. It is excruciating to feel the depths of her hunger. A woman sewing dresses that a man can see are skins of her. The land of woman, Regina McBridge. "It amazes her, how love remains." I cry, I feel to cry, when I read that. I feel, I lived in love. It was deluded, but does it matter, when not to love is simply death. Love woman fighting to love, not at any cost, but at many costs. There was another love I wouldn't give up. It was love of intelligence. And yet without erotic love, as I am now, I don't have intelligence either. When I had erotic love, when I was in love, love fought with intelligence. I worked so hard to see, or to make, Tom someone who would be right to love in attachment, in common life. He is not, he's something else. And yet I got to love, I stayed in love for years. Now I want to know, does love remain? Because I suppress and deny every loving memory of Tom. I'm disgusted by him, and that's a desperate loss of myself. It's why I've gone around miserable all day, scowling. Love woman's death. Alma verde. Do I secretly miss Tom? No, I miss myself. Can I be love without it being love for him? I knew it would say yes, but will it say how? It will say, by welcoming the animals of fear, pain, anger, those animals of howling energy. His benefit was that he gave me those? Yes, it says, and I will feel them if I do nothing to prevent it. Okay. 26 Louie said she was desperate yesterday too. She dreamed the electric touch of a little dog. She made me happy by liking the digest of student embodiment work I sent her. We were talking about memory and menopause. I said at this age we are more competent and less able. If we go through menopause correctly we come out as leaders. That ignores the fact that many of us are leaders before we go into menopause. I'm at the new Starbucks on 5th. Three hard hat guys walk by, older men with crooked bones. There is an overcast, flat grey light. As soon as there's a breeze it's cold. - 1994 jeep dark green 78 thousand miles, $3700. My money has departed from G&F so it should be at or near this bank. How will I get to Escondido to see it? Now I'm too excited to work. - Was on 9 public conveyances from 8 in the morning to 5 in the evening. I drove a beautiful boxy thing that looked new on the outside - candy-flake dark green - and sounded fine and felt fine and had huge macho tires - really macho tires on which it stands strong, autonomous and proud. I lit up when I saw it. It is a thousand or so cheaper than some '94s with more miles. It is a straight 6, which I may someday understand to be as good as he said it was. "High output." It also had a pale tan interior, which I hated, and a bad smell in the carpets. The car seller said he guaranteed the smell would go away, it's from the steam cleaning in the detailing. The carpets were wet and it stood closed. Drive fast with the heater on to dry it out, he said. The skin around my mouth was stinging and my throat hurt - if it's mold I'm sensitive to it. I said I would call him next week to see whether the smell does go away. Another thing I don't like is that it's two-door. It has a radio/CD. 4x4. - Alright I've done more study - it's low miles for $4000 but there are others at that price that don't have tan interiors. I like its macho but it needn't be candy-flake. - In all that day what did I see - transit centers - country destroyed with a terrible uniformity of commercial building - hardly a rocky hillside anywhere. Where there was any wild land it looks trashed. It's in the deadest-looking season, dry, disordered, its forms of hills and gullies cut across with fences, off-road wheel cuts. I was riding through the country I've been reading about in The Indian lover, which is poor writing but vigorously imagines the country as it was in 1844 - Penasquitos, I heard a Mexican woman say to the driver; Rancho Bernardo, I saw on street signs; El Camino Real, Encinitas, Rose Canyon. Almost only the names remain. In Escondido there is a regional transit center with a large paved plaza that has shade trees dappling plain concrete benches. People sat at distances enough so they could see each other. That was a good place. The owner of Diggs Wheels on West Mission in Escondido was a pile of pudding, a Lutheran from Iowa who closes his business on Sundays and prints his prices plainly on the windshields. He had not learned to flatter the customer. His idea of selling was to talk about anything that came into his head until I brought the topic back to the car. Another salesman in a lot I stopped at in Oceanside, when I said I was looking for an older Cherokee, laughed and said That would be my wife. He had a Cherokee that was black and too new, and another that was a Grand Cherokee. No Grand Cherokee, I said. When their first grandchild was born, he said, he told his wife she was now a Grand Cherokee. He said it pleasantly and looked happy, a relaxed host. Did I miss Tom? Not while I was standing in car lots. He would have been excitedly telling me things I already knew and wanting points for holding back from talking to the salesman himself. But I miss telling him about it afterwards. I would like him to have seen that tall proud machine with its big rubber - what did Mr Diggs say, knee-high in rubber. I did like how high off the ground it was. Whatever Cherokee I buy I think I will stand beside it next to the Grand Canyon. Garth Murphy 2002 The Indian Lover Simon and Schuster 28th Tuberoses in the turquoise jug. Plums green and brown with oranges in the Moroccan dish. Small carrots, beets, greens, stringbeans, watermelon, packed in the fridge, strawberries and raspberries eaten up. Sundays I celebrate vegetables. I do not have to buy the jeep with the smothering tan interior. I can buy a blue one with leather seats and fewer miles for the same price probably. I am happy. Is it alright to feel I'll be more proud to be seen in a Cherokee Sport - they're everywhere - I mean is it disloyal to myself to like the thought of not being visibly poor, as I was with my dark red darling? It was beautiful but discredited, like me. A newish SUV - but it's not a big SUV - is not my pilgrim soul visible, as the Fairmont was, so does it mean I'm not a soul anymore? No it means I am better equipped to take back roads, it means I'm an athletic soul. It means I can take mountain roads with less anxiety. Alright. - Now I have to discover what I really want to do in the next year - suspend questions of whether it can look like art and be fundable - I have told so many stories I don't know whether I can discover what I want - visible intelligence - seeing & 'seeing', is it? - pictures and stories - what seeing is - how it's done - how it evolved - Gibson - scientific visualization - how much can be seen - coevolution of vision and natural form - seeing and learning to see more - seeing and making. That is the hard version and then I open the seeing folder and find the soft, the open, the subtle - oh, can I do that - What I really want to do is find a form for that beauty. It's a beauty of state. Do I want to read research too, yes, but I don't want to write it. The doc writing was a kind of exile. I want to pick up that fine mind, the fragile one - There was a 2-days new moon over the harbour as it started to get dark. That mind is heart and it isn't stout heart, it is frail heart, scared heart. 29 What I always want to do is tell about life, tell the unrecognized things that indicate life is more than they know. Yesterday going through my perception files I looked for Laura Sewall on the web and found a book review that praised her. Who should I send it to, I thought. Cynthia. I sent it. This morning I had a reply that said she had begun reading the book yesterday before she got my note. - Monday evening - here's my house - its colors - guava branches in tall straight-sided glass, tuberoses like apple blossom pink and white bubbling out of the turquoise jug. The Powerbook screen dark blue like night sky. Two lamps. Birds of paradise in a water glass on the brass tray. The hiss of the computer, traffic on 4th muffled by glass. I'm eating stewed plums red in the glass bowl. I'm saying these sounds and colors because I'm lonely. I have the task of the Canada Council application and lack its core. I'm not sure I really need the money. I'm about 7000 in debt. I do need money to work. I do need to work. I need money for Rowen. Is Seeing the right project? 30 I got up and wrote this morning. It isn't done yet. Test drove the blue jeep Eddie brought down. Held off his formulaic pitch and pressure and didn't buy. Was reading a paper when Tom walked in unshaved and grey-faced with his eyes sunk. He was alright half an hour later. He'd been lashed by what I wrote in the early part of this journal. [He read it while I was at the farmer's market.] The word evil. He thought about all the things we did together. He was more open with me than he'd ever been with anyone, he said. He was closer to me than he'd ever been to anyone. I said I went there but I didn't stay there. I like a lot of things about him but we were never meant to be mates. He tried to sell me that because he thought it was the only way he'd get my friendship. He can have my friendship without it. I don't want him using romance against me any more. I don't want to be hooked. He looked up Read Island on the Encarta program at St Vincents. He kept clicking to zoom in. There was Bold Point. He followed the route from Read Island all the way down the coast to California. 1st October I rode downhill this aft through a zippy Santa Ana happy and beautiful to mail the application. Uneasy too, what if I get the money, won't it be too much and too easy? I've never sent an application before that I wasn't desperate about. The application wasn't written in extremity and doesn't have the powerful beauty I used to make. It was as if I almost had confidence in my stature. My work has earned support - yes but if I'm not utterly scrupulous it will lose its sincerity and so its value. I have always gone on the line and said I will give up everything to do true work, and believed it's necessary - if not to give everything up, at least to be willing to. Was there anything false in the application? I don't think so.
I loved seeing my graphics. 2 Andrew Harvey, Sun at midnight - here's a book that shows him reduced but more honest? His silliness shows, his hysterical need to turn everything into wonders and blisses and agonies. He marries his boyfriend among wall-to-wall white flowers and the Mother blesses the union. When they fuck light emanates from everything in the room. Black magicians send cancer, death threats, falling sheets of lead. He revises the story he has been telling for 15 years. He saves the devotion by detaching it from Meera and sticking it on the ineffable Virgin Mary. He has to see the insanity of his New Age community but at the same time it's his bread and butter. He finds the story he can continue to sell - now he is saying the return of the Feminine is the only thing that will save us but it has to be done directly, without guru intermediaries, who are mostly black magicians who learn telepathic projection and clairvoyance in black magician schools in India. And what's the remainder - the weakness people have in consequence of cut-off early love. He calls this book a memoir of the black night but that's his grandiosity. He was a wonderful writer. There's almost no good writing in this book. He reminds me of William. What if love was the real choice? Would I have to love the guard who had beaten me? Then, one morning, I awoke and knew quite simply what I had to do. I had to choose what was at the bottom of my heart, the fire I felt there when I thought of my mother, or our cat at home, or the flowers and vegetables in our kitchen garden. So I went out into the camp yard, covered with snow, with a grey lowering hopeless sky overhead and closing my eyes, I screamed with my whole being silently, 'I choose love!' When I opened my eyes, a sun not of this world had come out and was glazing in glory all around me; the snow along the barbed wire glittered like diamonds, and the air was sweet and hard like the skin of a cold apple against my cheek. The guard I hated at that moment came out of another building, smoking a cigarette. - I felt no fear at all, and no hatred, only a burning pity that scalded my eyes with tears. The light in my chest did not leave. It has never left. I have quoted this passage (in which he is telling someone else's story) leaving out the bits where he hypes it, including his capitals on Love. Choosing love is the essence of it. They then go on to lie on the basis of it: bliss is eternal, ie eternal life; love is an external force that defeats evil; creation has a meaning.
"the darkness beyond the mind, the darkness of love" "the unitive way of love in darkness" He's still promulgating dualities, body-soul, creation-transcendence. "an immense, deep, slow, rich work from heart centre down to all the others through the top of my head"
Andrew Harvey 2002 Sun at midnight: a memoir of the dark night Tarcher/Putnam Tom showed up. He says he's moving to Mexico. Dressed horribly in a white teeshirt with a company logo, no socks, just his support hose showing, because he hasn't got any socks I suppose. By the end of the hour I couldn't wait to push him out the door - a horrible man. I wasn't sure why I was feeling such disgust. Something about lying, I think. When he's hurt and sad he has a ground of honesty in him but when he starts to fluff himself up he is hideous. That was Johnny Cool today. Oh how could I ever have liked such a man. He's very hollow-cheeked and hungry-looking, did I do that? No. Is it happening because he couldn't stay off dope? Yes, I think. That gives me a squeezed heart. At 5 the conference call with Margo, Jim, Goldberg, Lise. I forgot that these people see the students - I forgot that I can say what I think and it's liked. We rumbled through Scott, Favor, Rhonda. I felt better the moment Goldberg said there was a problem with Scott's (smooth specious) proposal. It was eight o'clock. I was sad after Tom, at the end of work, lonely. It's Thursday, I was going to phone Rowen. He's cheerful. Mary phoned him. How was she? She seemed lonely. He talked to her about acting classes. I say now he won't want to tell me about them too, but I could try to sound lonely. You already did, a bit, he says. Ow. He joined choir because they sing songs like ---- (corny songs). He is going to English classes. He is memorizing the book he says he liked best when he was little, Yurtle the turtle. He went and got it and read it to me - all of it. I listen silently wondering how I can be the mother of so amazingly anachronistically corny a young man - howcome he doesn't despise Broadway songs, crooner songs? Howcome he has skipped youth culture? He wears his black jacket every day. He thinks he looks nice in it. He does look very nice in it, beautiful. He has joined the improv team too.
3 I like to think of Rowen walking around every day wrapped in that light, well-made, shapely thing - its light quilted lining, inner pocket, cell-phone pocket. High civilization. And his dark blue suede shoes with the white star. Rowen and I are never going to be close. He is Michael's child. We don't feel each other. He isn't interested in me, has no clue who I am - is that true? Yes. But I am providing what's making a difference. Miserable at night on account of Tom's hideousness. - I went up to the top of El Cajon Boulevard on the bus and rode my bike back, stopping at all the little used car lots. What did I find - at Cars Plus there were a bunch of Cherokees - a 92 2wd, not a Sport, blue-green, no roof-rack, a salesman who said the price is $4430 but "we can work something out." 113,000 m. In the parking lot at Henry's Market I saw a green Sport and yearned for it. So this is what I want: 93-96 2wd (4 is okay) green big tires straight 6 CD player roof rack good condition automatic red strip wd be nice low mileage airbag wd be nice. 4 Can I write about yesterday. Turn off the music. I have tried two different ways of dealing with salesmen. With Ernie in the blue jeep I was being hard. I was at the wheel, he was lying, I decided all our moves. I knew it might nonetheless be a good jeep. He was pressing for a handshake, I was holding him off quite cynically. Yesterday I was on the bike with hours on the strip already behind me, I'm not getting anything here, and I tried something different. I was girly. I let whatever I felt ingenuously float out. Mike was not as stupid as Ernie. The reason I am not getting anywhere is that I don't know enough about what was going on overall. I don't know how much margin they actually have. So did I learn anything? Neither feels right. I don't like the male game it is, the guy in Escondido was doing it right. I did learn some things from Mike about what it is for him. He doesn't like to be shopped, he said with some anger; if I go back and forth between dealers, he means. He also doesn't like to think he is getting less than some other guy would. I thanked him for not pressuring me and he jumped up defensively as if I'd said he wasn't manly enough. Meantime I am getting a lot of exercise. I rode the whole way back home. I go to the laundromat on the bike, the farmer's market. I like to see my strong brown arms and hands moving around me. My polished hair to the left of my jaw. - And then I took the #25 for hours to Clairemont and weeded the slope. I was contented and interested. Plants are company. I feel plants as company. And about Rhonda's packet. She spiked me. She wrote that two semesters ago she saw me limping across campus and thought she wouldn't want me as an advisor. But I'll ask how that spikes me. 6 Monday evening - all the packets in - how are they. The wonderful thing today, a big black bookshelf that is in the closet now, so that the pile of stuff I used to leave stored in the car is all stowed, and the fridge on a shelf is somewhat raised, better lit and easier to reach. My house is improved so much that I am starting to be able to dote on it the way I like to dote on my houses. The orange light at the gate is gone, bathroom window opens so it's airy in that little closet, weathered chairs on the deck, papers gone off the table because they have new narrow shelves above and below the boots at eye level in the closet. Velvet red salvia splendens Van Houttei in the dot glass. The many-stemmed carnations next to the birds-of-paradise are full blast. That water glass - and the curved one - is such good glass and so well shaped. There's a white candle in the pewter holder. My pleasure-cell. All the red-spine journals on the top shelf with Haida eyes staring out over the heavy brown pot. Clear glass. Lamp shade like manila paper sets a soft light sort of the color of the walls, whiter on the table. The lamp above my head on the filing cabinet is a white spotlight. I'm listening to NPR, piano. Don't like the announcers. My cleaned-up closet and packed black shelves are very satisfying. I open the closet door to gaze at it. - Scent of tuberoses as they open. News, ten o'clock. Turn off the radio. Turn off the table's lamp, open the bed. I'm getting fussier about how clean it is here. Quiet. A fan outside on the roof. Motorcycles growl. Swishes of traffic. A bus on Fourth. 7 The mesquite after all has several thick bursts of leaves. 8 Weeks of grey mornings. Yesterday something like 54% of voters chose robotic goonish Schwartzenegger for governor. It is a backlash against women. It is a consequence of Bush's wars. The stupid and ignorant are rising up in confidence that their crudeness has its chance. I'm looking at those two construction guys thinking bitterly that they voted for him. It was a vote for an image of goon masculinity. Eliz took me to look at a garden on Mount Soledad, Seattle computer people who bought a big compound on the hillside across from the golf course. 9 Thursday night, 7:30. Have been working on Favor all day, a very heavy fluid. I am less ruthless with her than with Scott or Michael. I feel her more fragile. I don't really understand a chaotic very early mother. She needs to find a ground that doesn't melt. I have on Willie Nelson. It's only 8. Nothing to do. Sort of moment to make a drink - I go to a journal I pull out of the row. December 2001. I fly to see Tom and buy him a lamp. That lamp is gone now, with his room and everything else in the room and my love and interest. Then the phone rings and it is Mary. She does what she does and I seethe. I get furious when she talks about respecting parents, and so on, too long to tell. But then she suddenly says in a different voice that toward the end of his life Ed made overtures to her and she was too dead inside to respond. At some point in her marriage she decided to die. Now that he's gone she sometimes thinks that if she had done something differently it needn't have gone the way it did. I say I think she died before she was married, she died in her childhood, in relation to her mother. She lost hope. As soon as she isn't trying to attach me or Luke and is simply speaking from her own dilemma I am not mad at her any more. Then she says that when she was in Edmonton with Darrell and the group of students she started to come alive. She was reading the letters she wrote me in 1970. She was only 46 then. 10th After she told me these things there was the little relieved jump to a new topic that used to come to me at the end of a session with Joyce. She said late last week when she was walking on the street a woman with a dog caught up to her and walked alongside her. They talked. The woman was in her forties, dark haired, slender. "She said she wanted to walk me home." M said she didn't need to be walked home. The woman said, "I want to see where you live, because the day after tomorrow I'm going to come and take you to my house for tea." The woman did. She lived in a beautiful corner apartment "with cathedral ceilings" and big plants. She was easy to be with. They had a very pleasant time. Her name was Joy.
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