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summer/fall 2007 no. 9

A Natural Selection for Supermonk with ox by Anya Bellow   The basic discovery about any people is the discovery of the relationship between its men and its women.     -Pearl Buck                                                                                                                                               It was April and balmy. Russell opened the window to his home office and could barely remember what it was like to feel cold, though it had just snowed a week earlier. He looked at a picture of Lilah on the desk and thought about putting it in a drawer. But he had a strange superstition about putting framed pictures flat down — as if, by dint of some voodoo magic, the person in the picture would suffer somehow. So he kept it there...and then went back to rereading emails from Clare — like the one sent in haste after she read his novel Face Blind (about a young boy with prosopagnosia — face-blindness). From: clare Sent: Friday, February 4, 2007 1:07 PM To: Russell Levey Subject: face blind R, Just finished FB and want to say all sorts of things and nothing, no things... how can an email express my adoring of Timothy...? more to write, more that i think, feel....but it then sounds like i'm trying to seduce and that is the last thing i want to do right now... but we're here and we've read each other's books, and Face Blind and you, your art and life, deserve an immediate response... - c There was such seriousness and passion in that note, it opened his heart every time he read it. He took a deep breath in of the warm and wet air coming into his window and wrote her an email, knowing she'd be there to receive it. As it turns out, he was right; she was in the middle of writing her third novel, trying to complete an academic paper, and editing Literary Darwin, her online journal. From: Russell Levey  Sent: Friday, April 27, 2007 12:07 PM To: clare Subject: picnic Clare, I want to see you again. We don't need to talk about your book if you don't want. Will you meet me at the waterfall on Tivoli Bay – near Mill Road? I'll bring lunch and wine. In fact, call me when you get this, okay? -RL 678.4378 Though they had decided it felt like three years and three lifetimes, it was actually only three months that they had now been playfully and soulfully emailing, after meeting briefly at a party. And it could have ended there, at the party, had she not decided to go against her nature.   Ordinarily, Clare was not much of a party girl; nor did she care for traveling in potentially hazardous conditions. So it was hard for Clare herself to understand her willingness to go with Matt to New York City one snowy night in January — to a party, of all things. She usually turned down his invitations to events, whether they were in the city or around the area where they both taught, Bard. Matt was gay, so the rejection was never really all that painful — just curious. But now Clare was up and ready for a trek to Tribeca in blustery weather and had no idea why. Matt was just as surprised, but thrilled.   The Duane and Reade party, as it was later called, was full of literary folks, actors, artists and Green-party politicians. When she saw him, she knew she had to talk to him. But Clare, the Asian, Jewish-Scot beauty was especially glowing that night, and had the darndest time trying to disentangle from the many people who wanted to talk to her. Though she was highly social, she was also highly sensitive, almost introverted. The people who came up to her were a blessing to her. But he wasn't coming over. Who was he? She pulled Matt to the side. “Matt, who is that guy over there? Do you know him?” “Who? You mean that extremely gorgeous Bob Dylanesque creature in the glasses? Lay man, lay...lay across my big braaaaass bed!” “Matt!” “No, I don't know him. But I'll find out for you...Mmmm...mmmm...” He was mmmmy, to be sure, but it was something in his eyes that Clare recognized or maybe even 'remembered' that drew her to him. Something that made her feel she had to meet him. It was easy enough to find out about “Mr. Dylan” — Matt just asked the charming but ooh-too-thin hostess. Turned out Russell was a top editor at Oxford Press — and a writer of fiction, just like Clare. And something about him separating with his wife possibly....But Matt wasn't too clear on that because the hostess wasn't too clear on that. Russell smiled at her at one point when their paths crossed for a second. Another time, while she was engaged with a lovely and fascinating woman, he came by and looked like he was about to join them, but didn't. The woman had just said something very kind about Clare (which, of course, he missed), but then started talking about astrology. Clare, the literary scientist, enjoyed talking about it, but lowered her voice in case Russell was listening. Later he could maybe learn to accept or even like her openness to things, she thought, but she was too serious about him already to risk losing him based on a 'bad' first impression. He who she didn't know. She was like that, though; she already felt she knew him.   As he hovered about, they caught each other's eyes again and then she knew. So when she finally was able to break away from the discussion of rising signs, she went over to him, a bit uncomfortably. “Hi!” she said, “I hear you're an editor at Oxford Press and that you write fiction. I'm an editor and I write fiction, too.”  Perhaps possibly, maybe, he might have found this endearing, but he had little chance to have any attitude or feeling about it or her because a woman that Clare knew from upstate — Terry — appeared out of nowhere and started talking a mile-a-minute. Terry was supposedly happily married and knew Clare was single, but she would not let Clare talk to him. Wisely, Clare excused herself to refresh her margarita. When she got to the kitchen, Matt was there eating tapas, and knew immediately from her face that something was wrong. “Where's Mr. Oxford Press?” “Oh, Terry from Tivoli is talking to him. In fact, she kind of swooped in on us just as I introduced myself to him.” “Ah, she cock-blocked ya!” “She what?” “Cock-blocked you... she cock-blocked you, darlin'! But she's not half as pretty as you.” “Awww, thanks, hun. I love it — cock block....never heard it before! Must tell my evolutionary psychologist friends — they'll love it, too. But the real question is, why? I don't get it. I thought Terry and Doug were so happy.” “Honey, I don't know.” And he hugged her and said, “You sure are beautiful tonight, though.” Clare, feeling a bit better, had some fun and flirty moments with several men after her cock-block talk with Matt and decided to go back to see Russell. Damn and darn, she actually thought to herself. Terry and Russell were on the couch now and she began to doubt Terry's insistent avowals about her blissful spousalhood. And if it were true about her happiness, how thoughtless to rain on Clare's parade like this, to cock-block her! Terry knew about Clare's devastating break-up with her boyfriend just a year before; how could she monopolize the one man Clare found attractive in what felt like a whole year? Clare sat down next to Russell and he looked at her sweetly. They exchanged several sentences, enough so that Clare discovered Russell had a country house in Rhinebeck (very close to her home in Barrytown), but Terry 'held' the couch. Every so often Russell would smile at Clare as if to say, Yes, my, Terry sure can go on and she's quite the entertaining woman. But Clare was unable to be generous and smile with him about her. And she felt awful about it; it was so unlike her, which made her even more angry at Terry. She was angry at Russell, as well. Why does he stay talking to her? Maybe he's just tired physically and spiritually and this is in some ways easier than dealing with me, Clare thought.   “I'm so tired, I think I'm going to take off,” Clare said. “You're going to drive to Barrytown now?” Russell said, concerned. “Oh, no...I'm going to go get my friend Matt in the other room and he's going to drive.” “It was nice to meet you,” Russell said to her smiling softly. “It was nice to meet you, too. Goodnight...” she said, looking at them both and retrieved Matt from the kitchen, and left the Duane and Reade party.   That would have been the end of the story, or at least, their story, except Clare could not stop thinking that she felt cheated from her destiny. Her fate might have been what had happened, but her destiny was to meet him, really meet him. So against her instinct, she emailed him. From: clare Sent: Wednesday, January 6, 2007 8:07 PM To: leveyr@oup.org Subject: the duane and reade party   Hi Russell, Sorry I didn't get a chance to talk to you the other night. (And don't write that we did because I'll have to disagree!) Here's my online journal: www.literarydarwin.com But hard copy is so nice — I'm jealous that you edit things you can feel and smell.... Hope that we will get a chance to talk again. cheers, clare     She decided he had less than two days to get back to her. If he got back to her within 24 hours, that would be even better. Regardless of when, though, if he signed it Best, she was doomed and they were doomed — and how did 'best' become one of the worst email closings ever? she wondered. What she hoped for, of course, was an invitation for coffee or drinks or something! But there was no invitation in his reply to her, not even close. From: Russell Levey Sent: Thursday, January 7, 2007 4:09 PM To: clare Subject: Re: the duane and reade party Hi Clare, Thanks for the email. I took a quick look at your journal, looks great.  I'll have to revisit for a more serious read some time. Of course, I agree with you about the wonders of hard copy, musty or fresh off the press, but I am afraid the days are numbered, sadly. It was very nice to not talk with you, hope to not do it again (with apologies for split infinitives). Best, Russell    Shit. She hadn't gotten such a bummer of an email since her last boyfriend (ten years her junior) sent her the one about choosing Andie because she had more reproductive capacity. Those evolutionary psychologists sure could be pricks sometimes. Of course, the right and appropriate thing would be to leave Russell alone. That's clearly what he wanted. But why? It made no sense. She was so used to being coveted (asked out daily by men), that this seeming disinterest just didn't compute. Perhaps I seemed too eager, she thought. Who really are the choosers, she wondered? She had been teaching and writing that women were the choosers, based on studies in ethology and primatology and evolutionary theory. But she was now beginning to question this (again). So she let it go for several days and finally wrote:   From: clare Sent: Monday, January 12, 2007 8:17 AM To: Russell Levey Subject: Re: Re: the duane and reade party Russell, thanks for having a peek at literary darwin. best to you, clare     It was such a defeated, simple and cool reply that it made him think. Why was he afraid to talk with her? Literary Darwin! Russell thought (and halfway mumbled) to himself, Damn it, God! Why do you send me her? I could handle another gorgeous woman, could ignore her. But Clare — she fucking fascinates me....and those eyes...I could look into them for an eternity. No. I will not go read more. I will not order her Mad book! But Russell had to. Mad Erosion: A Darwinian Novel was calling him, wanted him. He devoured her evolutionary fiction in less than two hours and didn't know what to do with himself. He was still, in many ways, attached to Lilah, his maybe soon-to-be ex wife, and still in the midst of detaching. He wanted the separation as much as she did, and yet, he hadn't quite let go. Yet here was something — someone — that made him feel pulled from that attachment. He wrote Clare an email that floored her (she literally had to lie down on the floor after reading it) and they spent the next three months sending each other emails, intense and beautiful and dopaminergic, every day. Spring Fever “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.” -Song of Songs Russell now paced his Rhinebeck country home, awaiting her response, feeling alive. For the first time in what felt like years he could feel the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins, and everything around him, even the dumb paper clips on his desk, looked somehow different and new. What a teenager I am, he said to himself. Of course, partly he was anxious because she had already said No about meeting to talk about Mad Erosion. Russell had explained it was because he was using it (among other works) for an article he was writing for Metafictions on fractals and the science of writing. But Mad Erosion was partly about stories and art as mating signals and displays; it made her self-conscious to meet to talk about it. And she was uncertain about his love for Lilah still, and was afraid to become attached to him for fear of some unknown pain in the future. It was too soon to get involved with him, she decided, and if he really were the one, he'd wait for her. If he were the one, then it wouldn't matter what she said or did. Clare stared at the email about the waterfall. From: Russell Levey Sent: Friday, April 27, 2007 12:07 PM To: clare Subject: picnic Clare, I want to see you again. We don't need to talk about your book if you don't want. Will you meet me at the waterfall on Tivoli Bay – near Mill Road? I'll bring lunch and wine. In fact, call me when you get this, okay? – RL 678.4378   She had just put down a poem she had been reading by Robert Kelly, “Elegies,” that resonated with Russell's email. Why did this always happen with them? It was as if they were 'strange attractors,' connected by the laws of quantum physics; invisible to them, but real nonetheless. In all those pages find me one new thing, anything, name of an angel, lips of a woman you (not I) kissed in dream – a kiss is strange, a wordless speaking in the other’s mouth,  and the sun writes only shadows on the ground, tell me, lover, one new thing, that’s all, fox in a thicket it could be, a hunter dead beside his rifle, a green feather in his hat band rolled from his head, and not far away you hear a waterfall. She wanted to hear the waterfall. And a picnic sounded so good. It felt pure and honest and she was ready for that. She called him and they met. "You realize," she said, handful of grapes in her hand, "that our narrative could be interpreted and read through so many lenses — evolutionary psychological...eastern religious/spiritual...Marxist/feminist... psychoanalytic... but there are many others...aren't there? What about quantum physics? You do seem to love that model." Russell was really of two minds on this that day. One mind (which he called 'bonobobrain') was ensconced in images of Clare completely naked on the blanket: grapes, skin, breasts, lips...kissing her all over; her sweetness making him so hard, his hardness making her so wet, and going into her and making love to her in a way that he had never known was possible — connected and open, yet sexy, forceful. But Russell's scholar-mind was so much stronger, and he looked at Clare very seriously and said: "All those lenses are different ways to look inside Schrödinger's box. They're all just simplified rationalizations of a reality that is over-determined and beyond our 'conscious' grasp. Being able to code-switch between the lenses might be adaptive in the 'real' world, but in the end, it's always inadequate. Don't you think?” How did this happen, she wondered? She had virtually written about such a man in Mad Erosion, in some ways dreamt him up, and here he was knowing it all, and making her very warm. The knowledge that all our ways of understanding the world, reality, fiction, and their own relating, was transcendent and beyond everything they could dream up in their philosophy seemed to be the answer she'd known all along, but was looking for nonetheless. But why did this make her want to remove his jeans and remove her dress and do everything that she knew Russell was imagining? Mmmm, she could practically smell the moss and earth, as if they were already closer to the ground than they were. Russell went to his bag and pulled out a book. “Here. I think you'll like it. It's about the relationship between Emilie du Châtelet and Voltaire. Du Châtelet was a woman of science, and at the time of their epistolary correspondence, Voltaire was a poet, though soon to become a great thinker. They wrote over four-thousand letters to each other — apparently, some so rapidly...several a day...it was like email.” She smiled at him and opened it. She looked at the dedication page (by the author) which said: For Clare: A life to imagine. And for Russell whose life has just begun. “Russell, how weird!” “Yah...but no weirder than most of the other stuff between us...But it's true, you're right...when I first saw it my left-brain went into a freaked-out hyper-paranoia...but then my right-brain calmed me down and said 'Tao.' Clare giggled a bit at Russell's admission and took the book to her chest, lying down on the blanket. She was thinking of Russell's use of Taoist philosophy in his book about the boy who couldn't recognize faces. She was thinking how she was the very opposite of that boy (she was better than most at recognizing faces); and that maybe she had something that could be called prosognosia — probably something to do with her right temporal lobe. And she tried to make a mental note to herself to look it up when she got home (but making mental notes seemed to be getting harder and harder to do by the year — something to do with her waning estrogen, she thought, and those thinning hippocampal cells). "It's interesting you called the dedication weird. Do you know the etymology of 'weird'"? Russell said. "No, I don't....what is it?" “Originally it meant fate or destiny." "Oh, as in the weird sisters from Macbeth! Yes, well it's weird, on both levels..." she said.  "Here," he said,  reaching for  the book, "look at page thirteen...Actually, let me read it: You are beautiful so half the human race will be your enemy You are brilliant and you will be feared You are trusting and you will be betrayed...  Voltaire, 'Epistel on Calumn' 1735, soon after meeting Emilie... ...Everything Voltaire predicted came true.  Clare, this all sounds so true to me about  you....” “Oh dear!” she said, smiling. “No, but it's true...Like that James Bond film Live and Let Die...Do you know it?"  "I do!" "Well, remember when Bond seduces Solitaire by bringing a pack of rigged Tarot cards? — every card is "The Lovers." Then he takes her virginity and she loses her power of second sight. Fun for the plot of the film, but —” “What are you saying, Russell? Should I not trust you?” “Oh, Clare, of course you should trust me. What does your intuition say? Or do you have such an abundance of oxytocin that...Yes, that's what I'm saying....I think you have an abundance of oxytocin...I worry for you is all....” “You're sweet. And, yes, I trust you, Russell...And no, I don't trust everyone...Don't worry about me!” “Good. I'm glad you trust me...You know, the heart is the organ that knows to trust first or not. It's an electromagnetic transmitter. It's not all about neurotransmitters and hormones...” “I know. I've read some empirical work suggesting that women are more attuned to intuitive information from the heart than men.” “That sure doesn't surprise me! I've been reading about transplant patients...do you know that stuff?” “A little.” “Oh, one was a real 'heartbreak' story...this teenage girl would talk to her heart because it was from a young man. She was in love with her new heart!” “Oh, my goodness!” she said. “It must be because of the large number of neurons,” he said. “Neurons? Hearts don't have neurons...they have receptor sites that — ” “Oh, but they do! The heart is a third 'brain' in the body, but I think it's also the real transmitter of the electrical signals from consciousness, the 'aura field generator.' “The aura field generator?” “Yeah, the circulatory/pulmonary system doesn't just charge blood with oxygen... it constantly replenishes the electrical charge. It's pretty clear the pineal gland's the receiver...it seems to serve as a crystal and it's sensitive to electromagnetic fields. But I don't think the brain has much capacity to transmit over a distance. The heart, now — it's always been understood, by many traditions, as the seat of the mind...and it's near the solar plexus, where all the nerve bundles converge." She was still stuck on that phrase “aura field generator,” but she just loved listening to him and didn't have the heart to interrupt. “I think maybe these waves have been overlapping and entraining between us,” he said, “long before we met in January. Maybe we passed by each other in town and we've been connected ever since. Maybe it's why you felt compelled to go to the party — some threshold finally broke. It's a tantric meme thing!” “Oh, how can it be that I'm sitting here by a waterfall with a man who says 'tantric meme thing'?; with a big-shot editor who knows about cardiac psychology...more than I! I feel like the luckiest girl in the world,” she smiled, knowing how silly and sweet it sounded, especially talking with that great grammar — more than I ! — but she couldn't help herself sometimes.   Clare then put her head on Russell's shoulder and her arms around him, breathing him in. She wanted to smell him and taste him and they kissed like it was their first time ever kissing in their whole lives. Then she moved her head down and kissed him through his jeans, undoing them. Russell then moved her down to the blanket. They were kissing again, looking into each other's eyes.   Clare could feel her heart open....and as she felt its warmth and the energy flowing from there to below, she wondered if it was okay...Was Russell a man she could do this with? Would this warmth turn to — "Clare, you're beautiful...I feel you...feel you opening to me, can you feel me opening to you?" Clare responded without words, with her heart and eyes and whole body, and  he understood. "I want to feel you more," he said.  And as he went inside her, he looked into her eyes for an eternity. "Thank you," he half-whispered, "for choosing me."