Arriving in California to the LA area in 1985 with many mixed emotions I recall the season. It was Christmas, a particularly tough time for me each year with the co mingling memories of Christmas past. This one involved the unsteady marriage after 20 years, the pending separation, the sale of our home, and the move to Irvine.
Irvine, a city (planned community) extolled by the Russian news agency "Tass" as an example of how Marxism in america can succeed. "Mr." susette had chosen a town where I could not even own my vehicle, a red pick up truck, unless I was a licensed gardner....
...A town where the garage door could only be elevated for 20 minutes without violation and a fine, thus preventing garage sales, a form of money-making ventured only by the peasant-folk, the likes of which I was. Irvine where the opener at any party event was, "...and what do YOU do?" ugh.
Irvine screamed of yuppie class bourgousie. These were societal members who could speak of the leather interiors of a 3.2 liter Ferrarie, but could not distinguish between a carbeurator and fuel injector. Mr. susette could not even change his own oil, but he was destined to purchase the high line Mercedez. "We need to look the part for my business!"
...and so...we were at the party and for the 12th time I was asked what I 'do' - and searching for an answer I said, "I am in shoes." Hoping the man would go away, he added, "Oh, you design?" I took a second and responded, "...uh, no I wear...and sometimes I sell." Mr. susette was horrified and upset with my undignified attempt at sarcastic humor. "Well, Christ, someone has to sell them!"
Just then a woman not as perfect looking as the other pretenders approached me. Her hair was bobbed below the ear, blue black and a natural black at that. She had a nonconforming gap between the two front lower teeth which gave an amazing humor and impish quality to her open invitation to laugh along with her. Diana wore huge glasses. She asked the awful question. "What do YOU do?" and I set down the wine glass and said, "I don't do a damned thing."
At that, Mr. susette erupted. He nullified my answer immediately with denials and proposals of grandeur. "Yes, she DOES! She is a singer, and she plays guitar, she paints and she writes and decorates." He amazed me. ...and now I amazed myself! If I was that super, I wondered why he didn't treat me like the Goddess that I was.
The woman burst into laughter, and Diana became my best friend. She too sang, played guitar and wrote. She was a professional writer, a professor and a philosopher. We spent so many hours and days and weeks trading thoughts, bending the perameters of the universe we shared and dedicated to friendship, secrets, sex, lies and video. Once on a drive to Mexico (in my red pick up), there was an exchange at the border between Diana and a 17 year old young man. I only picked up a few of the words, but was grateful to learn later that she had not entered into a business transaction that day for gainful employment - mine.
Diana made me laugh and I made her write. She taught me about love contracts, and I made her write. She denounced the painful kiss-ass industry and I forced her to bow to it in order to obtain her goal. She did both. Then there was an absence during which time I moved back and forth only to end up at her door once again after two years.
Greeting me at the door "bald", but that glowing gap tooth grin smiling at me, Diana explained simply, "Susette, I am not long for this world." (Not long for this world?) Cryptic to most, she and I spoke the same language and I knew that the next few hours would be harder for me than for her.
I had to be the strong one, not letting go, not showing the feelings, not feeling at all. Laughing without feeling funny.
Diana had a lover, a writer who cared for her enough to be there for her. And Diana with her love contracts, also had a roommate who was her lover, a man about 20 years her junior. He was devoted and sweet, naive and enigmatic and would care for her as well to her last day.
As I closed the door behind me that day, my cheeks finally felt the salty burn of tears held back from my beloved friend and teacher. She passed to the stars and became a mythical force sometime while I was busy searching for my car stolen by my delinquent daughter, and while I was emptying bottles belonging to my sodden boyfriend on his way to rehab. A fire took all of her published books from me, and all I have left of her is the world. She is a lot of places, and she is in my hotel where she has never checked out.
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