White Tiger on Snow Mountain (27 page)

I knew all this not because I wanted to but because I had to. It was the opposite of eavesdropping: Eaves-talking? Eave-stalking! Forcing your neighbors to listen to you sound off about bullshit no one wanted to know.

And then there was Jasmine. I don’t know what it was about her, but when she was in the room, I couldn’t keep my eyes or ears away. I found her hypnotically, overwhelmingly, even charismatically annoying. She was long-lined and dark, with long black hair, long black nails, a tight black tank top and gypsy skirt, a clatter of bracelets on her thin, waving arms, and a hippie clutter of coins and rocks and the scarves of enemy nations warring about her shoulders. Dark, kooky, kohl-lined eyes blinked and gooed in a thin face with a hatchet nose, a high forehead, and red lips that smacked and chewed each word as it filled her mouth.

“Clyde,” she’d murmur, “read the part where your step-uncle shamed you.”

And poor Clyde would nod, red with fresh shame, take out his thatch of pages, and begin: “Meeeeeeee . . . ooooncle . . . wuzzzz . . . nod . . . reeely . . . meeeee . . . ooncle . . . ,” bleating and blurting in the off-key honks of the deaf. Why couldn’t Clyde sign his text, like when I saw his brilliant hands flash and dance about a friend or boyfriend on the corner one evening, fingers sculpting air into elegant hieroglyphs? Why couldn’t he have someone else read it for him? Or, since he lip-read their comments anyway, at least have them mouth-mime, sparing me the agony of hearing them?

Because Jasmine insisted. He had to “own” his text. It was
essential to his deeper process. So she tormented him, smiling blissfully while he struggled, baying and hooting: “I . . . haaad . . . toooo . . . sit . . . onn . . . heees . . . laaap.”

Then came the insights. Maureen, patting his hand and enunciating into his face: “I loved it, Clyde. I really related to the uncle because it reminded me of the part in my memoir when, while I’m attending my cousin-in-law’s bachelorette party in the Meatpacking District, a handsome dashing stranger sends a bottle of champagne to our table. He was so charming and proper, I agreed to visit his Tribeca loft to give him my opinion on some fabric swatches. He seemed like a true gentleman, and offered me use of his guest room since he didn’t feel comfortable with me driving home. Next thing I knew I was swept away in passionate lovemaking. Only the next morning when I looked through his wallet and briefcase did I realize he was CEO of a major salted snack company that you would all recognize if I was legally permitted to say the name out loud. But the part your memoir reminds me of most is six months later when, after he hadn’t returned any of my calls or emails, I decided to take the high road and showed up at his office with a picnic lunch. When security escorted me out, it retriggered my trauma, and I flashed back to that moment on 9-11, when I realized that, if my temp agency had booked me to work at a firm in the towers, I would be dead now.”

“I agree with Maureen,” Sonya put in, tonguing whipped cream from her lips. She’d traded her sex issues for food issues, and her belly, sprinkled with crumbs, no longer let her close enough to the table to properly assault her wedge of Black Forest cake. “The shame and the saltiness reminded me of the first time I fellated a stranger . . .”

At this point I fled, circling the block and gulping big portions of cold, clear New York air. On my return, I got more coffee and a napkin, which I began to ball up and stuff in my ears while Jasmine inspired the group, who sat with eyes closed, except for Clyde, of course, who eagerly watched his guru’s lips. Sonya’s softly chewed.

“Breathe out,” Jasmine intoned. “Exhale fear, doubt, and judgment. Now breathe in creativity, abundance, and light. Invite your higher self to take you by the hand. Can you see it? Your spirit guide?” Everyone nodded. “Good. Name it.”

“A golden angel . . .”

“Friendly elf . . .”

“A tiger who can speak and also turns invisible . . .”

“A dragon I can ride . . .”

“An Indian warrior, I mean native person . . .”

“A flock of magical wonderful birds . . .”

“Elloophann!”

“Excellent,” Jasmine said. “To name the thing is to create it, to call it forth! This reactivates the primal power of words. God speaks and so let it be thus. We too partake of the divine when we create. But be careful of this power, friends. Use it wisely. As writers we truly change the world.”

They all nodded, pleased yet sobered by their awesome gifts. She went on: “That’s why each morning I dedicate my practice to the goddess within. I meditate, light incense, then write my morning thoughts in a special book with my favorite pen before breakfasting quite simply on green tea and fresh fruit.

“I never edit my work or block my flow. That is the ego speaking, the controlling male principle. I keep my sacred channel free and let my goddess flow directly through my opening,
as though she were speaking, moving my lips while I merely transcribe. I am but the instrument. Hers is the beauty and wisdom. In the evening I chant my thanks and light a candle. I express any question or creative complexity I might have, I do not say ‘problem’ because there are no problems, only learning opportunities, and what you call block is merely a clog in your channel. Usually, I dream the answer. I meet my characters in the dream, and they tell me what they need from me. Sometimes I even wake up with the answers jotted in the notebook I keep by the bed. It’s like having your book write itself!”

The group bubbled over at the idea of eliminating the tedious writing part of the writing process. I meanwhile had been working for six hours that day. I had written one sentence. Then I had crossed it out.

Why did everyone find my work so easy except me? I readily admitted I could never do theirs. No lawyer, baker, auto mechanic, or social worker would suggest I just show up at his job tomorrow and take over. Nevertheless, at weddings and bar mitzvahs, HR executives and architects forcibly pitched me their life stories, without ever once asking for my input on labor policy or building design. An oncologist cornered me at a Christmas party, demanding to know where writers gathered to “swap ideas.” I longed to tell him I’d had some thoughts about cancer in the shower that morning. Could I swing by the spot where doctors hung out, the lab or medical conference, and make them all sit and listen? Instead, I told the truth: Writers don’t hang out. We sit and grind our teeth, and the only ideas we swap are about how to obtain insurance. We came to this café because it had light and heat and a working toilet, things that might not be true at home. I myself was cat-sitting for another,
more successful writer while she was out of town on a magazine assignment. My plans for next week were to move to a friend’s couch. After that I could camp in the park and roast weenies over my unpublished drafts. But meanwhile, as long as I had two dollars, I had a home.

Then something beautiful happened. As I sealed my ears with wads of napkin I’d dipped in my water glass, my silent tablemate removed her headphones. Staring bashfully at the crumbs on the table, she whispered to me softly: “I hate her too.”

It was a sweet moment. I wanted to take her hand under the table, but I was afraid to scare her off. It had taken months just to reach this stage. Really, we had Jasmine to thank. Nothing brings people together like hate.

Meanwhile, Jasmine’s students all took their notebooks out and began scribbling away like five-year-olds, letting their consciousnesses stream. She peered about through slitted eyes. “Sorry, everyone, but I feel bad vibes from somewhere. Don’t let them invade your sacred space.”

At this we both giggled, the tablemate and I, like students caught whispering during quiet time. Jasmine shot us a dirty look and we faced away, trying to swallow our mirth, which as we all know just makes it mirthier. It was wonderful. We snorted and snarked, peeking at each other from behind fingers and bangs, falling in love right under Jasmine’s glare. I hid my smiley face behind a newspaper. My girl tried to settle herself with a sip of tea, but she sprayed it all over her meticulous notes, which made me laugh even harder. Then she started coughing. Then choking. I looked over and her eyes bulged. Her face was red.

“Hey, are you OK?” I asked as she gurgled, trying to remember if I was supposed to pat her back or do a Heimlich. Then she fell out of her chair. Her teacup shattered on the floor. She curled on her side, shaking, as the waitress ran over. Someone yelled for 911. I helped turn her over. Blood streamed from her nose.

She managed to stand, clutching a bloody napkin to her face. I trailed uselessly as the waitress rushed her to the hospital down the street. Shaken up, I knelt to gather her papers, the careful microprint now stained with tea and blood, when I felt something like a cold finger tracing my name on the back of my neck. I shuddered and looked up. Jasmine was staring right at me, eyes aflame. She smiled.

3

When I got to the pastry shop the following afternoon, my tablemate had not returned. The waitress, bringing my coffee and cheese Danish, said she was fine, and I left it at that; I had an important sentence to tackle that day, and as soon as I read the newspaper and failed to complete the crossword, I was going to get right on it. I savaged my Danish. I got more coffee. I went to the bathroom, just in case, as if prepping for a long flight. I didn’t want to be interrupted once I got going. I rolled my sleeves up. I decided I was chilly. I rolled them back down. I opened my document. I took a sip of coffee. I began to type:

When I first met Samantha Jane, she seemed like any other ordinary veterinarian. What I didn’t know, nor did I then suspect

I did not then know, nor did I yet suspect

Knowing not nor having had suspeculated

Suspicious. Was I? No.

I should never then have thought

I shouldn’st. I shan’t.

Oh, I shan’t, shan’t I?

You darens’t!

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCkFUCKFUCKFUCK

My fingers ground to a halt. I could not go on. It had been a rough day. I stood to stretch my back. Jasmine was in session across the room. Her acolytes were all writing with their eyes shut now, using their nondominant (submissive?) hands, to free up their chi or some such.

“Creativity is a gift from the universe. We are but humble servants.” She was speaking with her own eyes closed, palms up, offering invisible fruits. “The story chooses the teller. Who knows why it comes or whence it goes? Why does the moon come and go? Both are mysteries. The readiness, that’s all.”

I know. Preposterous nonsense. But meanwhile there they were, churning the words out like mad organ virtuosos, hands aflap like frenzied doves. Their faces shone ecstatically. They heard the inner song. Their hearts were open fountains, gushing forth. My heart was a dry socket. A clogged drain. A corroded pipe packed with dust and hair and tears. I had not written a usable word that day, nor finished a sentence in weeks. It had been months since I filled a page without destroying it immediately. Honestly, when was the last time I had written anything worth reading? Years? This was my shameful dirty
secret: I had sacrificed everything to a calling that no longer returned my calls. I had refused to quit writing, but writing had quit me: I was blocked.

As Jasmine’s gang continued to cover page after page in spastic scribbles—Who cared if it was illegible nonsense? They were writing! They couldn’t stop!—something in me snapped—Fuck it!—and as if to degrade myself even further, to grind myself under the boot heel of my mind, I shut my eyes and typed blind, letting the spirit move my fingers across the keys. I have to admit, it did sort of cheer me up. I smiled, craning my head in a tribute to Ray Charles, and playing the chords to “Hit the Road Jack.” Then I opened one eye and saw Jasmine. She was looking right at me. Our gazes crossed. She smiled slyly. There was lipstick on her teeth. Scowling, I shut my laptop and hurried out.

That night I had trouble sleeping. I ate a huge bowl of ice cream (vanilla chocolate chip with salted peanuts on top), watched TV till I was bleary (back and forth between
Law & Order: CI
and
House
marathons), and finally, floating on my back, caught a wave. But it was one of those sleeps so light they barely cover the darkness. You hear every car cough and drunken mumble, each toilet flush and stairwell sigh: our neighbors, the ghosts of New York. Finally, around four, I got up and decided to e-pay some bills. I opened my laptop and there it was, my blinded brick of text.

It was, as expected, mostly mush, a sloppy sauce of gibberish spiked with the occasional morsel of digestible language, but not much nutrition:

qerewlrweljdlksjldjlkclkxnckxcnxbitchkd;kd;skd;asj\kdsa;kd;sakd;afkdskdfskj;skdnvnoa’’34pjfj;4kjijpndlvkdanfssssss;kkf;sdfk;sdfk;ss;k;sdkf;skf;sendorphinskeiodijvnrgderds

You get the idea. It ran on like that for a couple of pages. Certainly no novels were getting written like this. Still, with the buzzing hyperawareness of insomnia, I noticed the random words thrown up like driftwood here and there and collected them in a pile, ignoring as unsporting one-letter words like “I” and “a.” Here they are, transcribed:

bitch endorphins lose it ernie vacuum engine moon evening biotech estuary lard incontinence extra vein early morning evil battles endeavor lilies include each vacation earwax motion escape

I did make out one semicoherent sentence, if you can call it a sentence, scattered words staggering like lost drunks through a cloud of typographical burps and stutters:

But every leaf is ever veering every moment evermore.

I poked around for other nuggets, without luck, but I did notice a pattern. The words began with many of the same letters, repeating like a rhythm that coursed through the run of type: “BELIEVEMEBELIEVEMEBELIEVEMEBELIEVEME.” I mumbled them over, barefoot at my desk, as if sounding out a strange tongue: “Believe me.”

4

By morning the small chill of my discovery had faded. OK, so my left (right?) brain had spit up an alphabetic pattern, or code, or whatever, and beamed it across the dark hemispheres to my right (left?). So what? Hardly a breakthrough. It wasn’t even a decent avant-garde poem.