Chapter 8: Two Halves

Cherie's Journal  

They say the longing for our perfect mate is a need ingrained in our DNA. Plato, in his chats on love, wrote of a time when there was a third sex, which was the union of male and female in one body. Others have called this twin energy, or twin flames, two people in separate bodies that once shared the same soul.

Supposedly, we spend much of our time on earth trying to reunite with this soul in order to again become our full selves.

Until we unite with him or her, we feel a deep sense of incompletion. This can manifest in a yearning for a type of union we may not even be able to define. For most of us, we barely dare dream of this kind of connection and are satisfied to be "content."

Still, at our core we know something is missing. We can not fool this part of ourselves no matter how hard we try. That is because this yearning, this lack of completion, stems from the deepest part of ourselves. It is a need to experience Love in it’s fullest form. To fulfill it's promise is to stake our place in the divine.

When these halves do meet each other it is a rare phenomenon. If they are ready for each other, it is an experience like no other. All the passion, elation, fireworks, bliss, exhilaration, triumph, relief, joy and rapture available to two beings revolving in the universe become solely yours. 

But, if these two halves should meet before they are ready, it can instead become a nightmare on earth.

April 26, 2008

            "I have no idea what I'm doing, so you tell me what the fuck you want to know."

"You had this whole thing about art being created through antagonism.  People are--"

"Well, you pissed me off, so I'm gonna like, you know..."

Victor pulls me toward him, aware of, if not wholly sympathetic to, my frustration.

"What do you want to know, baby?"  Victor asks in a lolling voce. "What can I tell you?"

"What was our fight about tonight? We're having one at least once a day," I point out, upset.

"Control.  No, not once a day. Only in the last few days, we've had one, one a day, and it's due to control issues, deep-seated control issues on both our parts." 

"So?  You mean it's my fault, right?" 

"I don't know exactly what it is. I mean, I'm facing a wall." 

"Excuse me.  Why do you think you're facing a wall?" 

"I'm facing the Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson wall." 

"Oh, not the Cheri Martinson wall." 

"No, the Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson wall. Because with Cheri Martinson, the true Cheri Martinson, there wouldn't be a wall." 

"That's because Cheri Martinson is pretty much somebody you've made up." 

"Which is obviously another bone of contention, because I don't think Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson is ready to become Cheri Martinson." 

"And you're the one who decides this."

"I know what I see. That doesn't mean I'm correct." 

"What about your control issues?"  I demand.

"Well..." He laughs.

"Ha ha ha ha," I retort.

"Well, we still haven't finished with yours, but anyway, come to me, come to me, baby."

I nestle into him despite my reluctance to give up my irritation, and  he continues.

"It's, well, I like to have input in my relationship," Victor explains. "I don't like to be put in a situation where I have to be quiet if I see something silly."

"But you have so many things that you consider silly.  If things don't concur with your perception of things, they're automatically 'stupid,' 'silly'…'don't make sense." 

"Well, a lot of the things you do don't make sense." 

"See, in your opinion. They make sense to me." 

"I just think that we would be better off working together than we are as separate individuals." 

I pull away from him. "Yeah, but to be together, then I have to conform to what you feel is the right way." 

"It's not about conforming, it's about working together. It's about being open-minded." 

"And this applies to both you and me?" 

"Of course." 

"Oh?" 

"Absolutely." We both laugh. 

"Ah." 

It was eleven weeks and counting since our first meeting. Sometime before this I had decided to make detailed notes of our relationship patterns. Call it the scientist in me, but having come from one hugely spoiled pairing that dissipated into pure nothingness, I wanted to make sure that whatever transpired in this one could at least be documented for posterity, and for that purpose I bought myself a digital recorder.

"Ah." 

"It can hear me." He checks the recorder. "I'm holding my hand in the air like I just don't care."  He hums, nonchalantly, into the speaker.

"Well, we should mention that this is week ten..."

"The beginning of the eleventh week." 

"Okay.  So do you want to start--"

"No, actually today is ten weeks, because...anyway, ten weeks from when we first spoke and you heard my lilting accent.  Well, what are we talking about?  You and me?" 

"Yeah, where do you wanna start, do you wanna go back to the beginning?" 

"Well, that is what this about, right?" 

"This is going back from the beginning, to the present."

"What is this going to be for, eventually?" 

"This is notes.. for my book,"  I joke, "book two."

"For book two?  What's book one?" 

"Book one is how I got to book two." Now it's my turn to laugh. 

"From what period?"  He adopts a look of discomfort.

"Uh, from November when I left Alan 'til the end of February 08." 

"So, you're gonna write a book about those four months." 

"Yeah." Seeing his look, I regret my words.

"And you're gonna write about all those other guys." 

"No…." 

"And all the other stuff." 

"It's about, uh--"

"How you entered the sex zone." 

"No!" 

He takes pause. "What the fuck is it about, then?" 

"I'm answering your question, relax." 

"I'm not gonna relax."  The dragon's thorny spine was showing itself.

"Give me a second," I demand.

"You relax, witchy woman." 

"You have everything on the tip of your tongue." 

"Witchy woman." 

"You don't give thought, or maybe you do give thought, maybe that's what you're doing out here while you're painting, twirling things around in your mind.  But when you ask me a question--"

"You're a witchy woman." 

"--I'm actually thinking about the answer before I respond."

He picks up the recorder and shakes it. "Would it be a shame if this wasn't recording properly?  Because I have that horrible feeling...can you see if it's recording?" 

"Yeah, the red light's on." 

"It doesn't mean it's recording, though." 

"It's not notes for a book. I was kidding about that. I want to document how a woman who--"

He shakes the recorder harder. "Can you see the--"

"Yes!"  I take it from him and place it between us, on the ripped cardboard box that serves as an urban-style coffee table.

"It's about a woman who what?" 

 I search for an answer, not knowing how to respond. "It's about a woman," I say, "who is growing in self-awareness." 

He pauses. "Sounds like that's the first chapter of a book to me."

"Oh, are you gonna tell me how to write my book?" 

"No, this is what I'm gonna do.  I'm gonna say whatever the fuck I want, whenever I want to, and you better get used to it 'cause that's just the way it's gonna be."

"You are very pushy."

"Pbfff, I don't give a fuck." 

"You're an egotistical megalomaniac who has to have his ideas accepted by all. Your, 'Let's sit and talk, Cheri,' really means, 'Let's sit and adopt the Victor Oris way of doing things. And that's why I revolt, and that's why, in the car before, which is my domain--"

"You get all crazy.  Yeah, now we're getting it.  It's the domain of the Cherie Halapthorpe." 

"What?  Okay, so Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson versus Cheri Martinson, because I'm quite aware that..."

He takes a deep slug from the wine bottle he is holding, distracting me.

"You want me to put a nipple on it?"  I ask him.

"Yumm, Trader Joe's $3.99 Shiraz from France. Pretty delicious, I have to say." 

"Where are we?  Okay, so I'm quite aware that every time you call me Cherie Halapthorpe, it's a dig." 

"Well, it is. It's because you're not yourself." 

"How do you know what myself is?" 

"Well, if you're Cherie Halapthorpe, you better get off the couch, go down 95, go back south, baby, that's where you need to go.  Go back home to your horses and your sheep."  He laughs. 

"I'm glad you find this all very funny." 

"I find it whatever I want to find it, and you can't control it.  You wanna interview me?  You want to know what I think?  Then I'm gonna tell you what I think, and I'm gonna be the way I wanna be, and you're not gonna, in any, shape or form--"

"I am not modifying, putting any kinda stamp or groove to it. But the way you're talking is the same way you talk whether there's a recorder on or not.  So if I react to it, you've gotta just--" 

"I'm actually saying more than I would in our relationship, because you know why?" 

"I'm not able to handle it,"  I answer, greatly incensed.

"'Cause you get so fuckin' angry."

"But you can't handle things, either." 

"I can handle it all."  He puffs out his chest. "You know what the biggest thing I can't handle with you?  Is the fact that you shut off.  You shut down, you shut the conversation down, you shut everything down.  And you know what?  I don't do that to you."  

"You hopped out of the car before. What was that?" 

"Because you're off your head.  You don't listen to sense. You are so involved in your fifteen years of frickin' being Cherie Halapthorpe and being in control and being by yourself in a relationship with a man who would rather hit golf balls than talk to you--"

"Because I don't make sense to you, or your version of common sense?"

"Well, you're in a relationship now, baby. Get used to it."

He was right. Being present in a relationship was not something I was used to, nor had I experienced it with Alan. We had considered ourselves a loving couple, but in truth we never bared our innermost selves to each other except for a few brief moments in the beginning, which failed to anchor us when things duly fell apart.

"You're right. Alan and I didn't know how to talk to each other, didn't even know where to start," I admit.

Victor barely paused. "You know what I think?" he announced. "I am transitional guy." 

"And just would transitional guy be?" I ask, caught off guard.

Well, I'm helping you find out what you're really about, and to find out how to have a relationship, so that when you do meet whoever your soulmate is you'll know what to do." 

"Or when I meet my true twin flame." 

"Yeah, exactly."

My eyes flick to the bottle of wine he was in the process of draining.

"Because your true twin flame wouldn't drink alcohol, he'd be completely sober."  He fills my glass from the second bottle.

"You know that for a fact?" 

"No, twin flames don't drink." 

"Well, you're gonna die of thirst, then." I take a sip and recoil. Oh, this one's woody, isn't it?"

"Don't know. I have the other one in my glass, still." 

            I take another taste. The full force of what it means to be drinking $3.99 wine, albeit an organic one from some unknown region in Europe, hits me. Alan with his  $100 1997 Mascarello Barolo would flip over in his golf cart right now, if he knew.

"You want the first one back?" Victor asks, gamely offering his glass.

"No, no, it's okay, it's just strange.  From the first one to this was like, 'Whoo. Yuck.' "I can't even pronounce this word, it's Shiraz and Tempralino. Is that anything?" 

"It's fucking Italian shit.  No, it's actually Spanish.  Oh, that's why it's so bad." 

He sips from my glass. "You're right. It's is woody." 

"It's like licking a forest."

            He shakes his head. "Inhaling a burnt forest." 

"Drinking up the pine floor." We laugh. I like it when he's like this.

"Ugh, I'm gonna stick with the one I have," he says.

"Maybe if it breathes a bit. I reach over to retrieve the cork from the bottle.

"Do that again," he orders as I lean over. "I want to look at your large breasts." 

"We could plug that one up and open the other one,"  I offer, trying to ignore his ogling.

"Really?  You're very artistic when it comes to wine and food." My shirt is suddenly, whisked over my head. "You're amazing, he remarks, throwing the shirt aside, "and you have the best pair of breasts I've seen in many years." 

"It's the last pair of good breasts."  I angle myself so that he can't likewise rip off my bra.

"Well, considering the A-cup I was involved with..." He laughs again. "Okay, so, do you wanna go back to the start?  'Cause that's what this is all about, right? But I don't know if I want to be involved in this book, unless you use my name." 

"Sure, I'll make it all about you."

He moves closer upon the futon in order to sit closer to me, and the makeshift couch, being "genuine leatherette," squeaks embarrassingly as I shift my repose.  I am grateful that it's not July when I'd be wearing shorts instead of  jeans, for then I'd be leaving layers of skin behind me as well.

"You're squashing my leg," I complain, not minding at all. I add reflectively, "the book's tentatively entitled, 'How I Banged 500 Chicks in Seven Years."

"What about 'Ten and a Half Weeks?" he suggests. "Or maybe, it should be about how I go on an art tour, bang loads of chicks, and you know, then come back to you...?" 

"It actually could be my life post-Victor Oris."

"Where you meet the--"

"The true love of my life." 

 I'm relieved when he laughs.

"Well, you know, when it comes down to it, you women just need the money." 

"Yeah, right.  Is that what you think?" 

"Well, you're constantly worried about money." 

"Just women, we women--?"

"I'd say,  95% of women out there want security, yeah." 

"Oh, and the other 5%, what do they want?"  I fear this line of inquiry, but am too intrigued to let it go.

"They want to give and receive love. They're creative beings." 

"So creative beings don't care about security." 

"They make their own money, they don't give a shit." 

"Oh, 'cause they've already made it." 

"Or they're making nothing." 

Like him.

"So they don't care about heat or rent or food?"  I venture.

"There's women out there who make a lot of money, but they could never be with a man that didn't make money, you understand?  Well, let me finish.  There are women out there who need to be with a man that makes money, even though they might be superiorly wealthy." 

"And this is 95%. Of the women you know?" 

"You've got women who are educated and well-off, and they want a man who's at least comfortable. Then you have women who are creative women, that have their own money, but they need to have a man that's at least financially equal, if not better off than them. Then there's a very small percentage of women, very small, who are either artists or who are independently wealthy themselves, who make their own money, and who don't care about the fact that their partner has to, you know, have a certain amount of money for them to be with them. But it's a very small percentage of all the women on this planet." 

"And they have money, these wise women." 

"No, not necessarily.  Some are artists who don't have money, but don't care if their partner has any either." 

"So how do they pay the rent if they're both impoverished artists?" 

"You are being bombarded in the Western world, with what you have to have, what car you have to have, what house you have to--" 

"But I'm asking you about specifically, how do you pay rent, electric, phone, gym--and hey, you're from the Western world too," I object.

"No I'm not, I'm from up there." He points up. "Anyway, gym's a luxury." 

"Okay, Starman, computer equipment." 

"Computer equipment's a luxury." 

"No, it isn't, not if you have to create your art, for someone to see it."

"You can fucking draw. You don't need anything but a hand and some dirt to draw." 

"You need paint brushes and canvas--"

"Very cheap." 

"No, you need good brushes, you need the right watercolors, I've seen you browsing the shelves at Pearl Paint.  If you're a musician, you need instruments--"

"I've painted a bit, honey, okay?  I know what I'm talking about." 

Of course he did. Half painted canvases, unfinished sketches, and crumpled up drawings littered the floor and walls like so many termites in a tenement.

"Anyway," I continue, "if you're a musician you have to have instruments, and whatever electronic equipment you need. If you're a writer, you need the internet and the computer. I'm saying all these things that it takes to create your art--"

"Oh, you can't be a writer with just a pad and a pencil?" 

"And a computer to research."

"You think that you need the computer, that you need the internet, that you need all these things to write.  To write, you need a pad and a pen, that's it.  To create art, you have a fricking pencil--"

"We're gonna have an argument over semantics here?"

"And a wall, and then you can make art." 

"Then why don't you make some?"  I add, despite his lowered brow. "Mr. Unrealistic.  If you want an agent, you have to be online. If you want to get shows, you have to be able to put your creation online and send it to somebody, or be able to communicate with them. This is common sense. But put all that aside. You need to clothe yourself or your children." 

"I'm not talking about what you're talking about!" Victor rises and paces. "We're talking about two different things. I'm talking about the 5% of women whose main objective in a partner has nothing to do with how much money he makes, or if he's on the path with his artistic goals. You can be an artist where you do embroidery.  You can be an artist where you sketch. That doesn't mean an artist is necessarily selling his work around the world on the internet or has an agent, or has a whatever whatever whatever whatever whatever!"

"All right, I'm not asking that--" 

"Then what are you asking?"

"I'm asking if you're thinking this through."

His sharp look is supplanted with one of peace. "I'm thinking that you're one of the 5%," he says.  

There he goes, in one swoop, taking my breath away as well as my irritation and carefully-constructed self-armor. If only he would do that all the time, instead of us both erupting. Then maybe I wouldn't be so angry, or so guarded. Maybe then, I could admit the truth in his words, and we could do as he says, work together as one. But I have too many layers of fears for this. In fact, I secretly suspect that I am one of the 95%, and not one of the 5%, as he says.  Yet I won't admit to it, for he sees something better in me that I want a glimpse of too.

But it's  a doubt that plagues me.