CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Other versions of Clara and Epifanio's Love Story
(either/ors and both/ands)
Because our story varies from timeline to timeline and even within this one due to multiple Re-sets and other variables, infinite numbers of "beginning" encounters exist somewhere. I want to share a couple of them with you since I "live through" them with some version of Fanio.
It's a guessing game for me. I do not know any more than you do which versions of us converge with the ones we currently are, when and how certain versions reconverge or which ones seem to prevail in our shared experiences. You decide which are your favorites. Then, we live in you!
August 15, 2012, northern California
“You can’t put all this, this, this…stuff in there,” Epifanio tells me as he waves the chapters that feature the way we get together and our long marriage. “This isn’t going to happen. I’ve told you that, repeatedly.”
I am sitting on a hill near the main buildings on the first day of events at our Buddhist sangha’s new center. It is a beautiful, warm, breezy, early fall day. I am enjoying the view, the scents, the feeling of the air as I meditate and wait for him. He finds me sitting here, alone, after looking for me for a while, his irritation apparently building.
My heart flutters and my stomach somersaults. As he gets closer, I realize the extent of his displeasure. My hands start to sweat. I press them onto my pants' legs but do not speak.
Since I don’t respond to his demand, he goes on, “Why would you do that? What are people going to think?”
I smile and ask, semi-innocently, “What people? About what? It’s fiction.”
He sits down gracefully next to me, frowning, still shaking the papers toward me. “But you’re using so many facts, how will anyone know which parts are true and which are not?”
“That’s part of the fun of it,” I explain, overly patient.
I know I’m annoying him, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “If people have to keep guessing as to which parts are factual, they’ll want to keep reading, right?”
I see that I’m only making things worse, so I backpedal a bit: “Aren’t some of the unfactual parts so obviously untrue that it makes the rest less likely to be believed? Plus, I never use your real name and I do not identify your occupation or much about how you look. Who will know the character is based on you, besides you and I and maybe a couple of others, who are very unlikely to read my books?”
He is quiet and seems to be considering. Is he appeased? Then he looks at me, somewhat sternly. “Why are you including parts about a character that is mostly me as your ‘husband’ at all?" He thumps the packet with his other hand. The snap is louder than the crows' cawing above us. "I just do not see why you would do this.”
I match his quietness and also, his sternness. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand. You insult us both.”
Now, he looks uncomfortable. For the first time, he's a bit on the defensive. “Well, I do understand, I suppose, but I really don’t like it. No matter how much you want it or how many of these so-called “previews” you have, you are not right. We are not going to be married. We are not even going to be lovers. I cannot be open to it—to you—that way. You know this.” He sounds sorry, now, less angry. He puts the papers down underneath one knee so they don't blow away in the breeze.
I wish I could hug him. I look at him intently and keep listening. My stomach is getting very tight and starting to hurt. I remind myself to breathe and keep meditating. That helps. Spaciousness. Awareness. Peace. Love. Joy. Equanimity....
“Please take those parts out, or at least make the character less like me, or something?” He is pleading with me, and I feel a bit guilty.
But, not that guilty. I poke further. “'Less like you?' Do I capture you that perfectly? That's great! I must be a better writer than I think!"
He does not look amused.
I go on, now getting a bit angry myself. "How do you know? How are you certain? Do you see into every future? Do you know precisely how all of the multiverse timelines play out in this lifetime? I think not."
I pause but he is silent, watching me. I continue: "You are repeatedly making these claims. You say that you don’t have those kinds of feelings for me, that being together is not our future. You are so sure about your predictions. But, how are you so sure? What if the future I describe is the future, but for different versions of us than are sitting right here? On what premise can you deny that possibility?”
I’m too angry, now, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “And, by what right do you demand that I change my fictional story and characters? Why am I not allowed to write any version of any timeline I want? It’s my book!” I am raising my voice a bit, so I stop and breathe slowly, deeply. Peace, please.
He seems a bit stunned by the vehemence of my reaction, so I go on, more quietly. “It’s not time, yet, for us to get together in this lifetime, whichever version we are in,” I remind him. “How do you know that your feelings do not change? Are you infallibly certain that your perceptions or ideas or whatever you base your decisions on do not accumulate differently than you currently expect?"
I sweep one hand across the beautiful vista of mountains and ocean we are facing and ask: "What if it all changes, suddenly? One day, all your resistance―poof!―disappears―and you discover that you are passionately in love with me? Are you 100% certain that this possibility does not exist, in any timeline?”
I’m pleading with him, now, because I can feel him softening. “You do love me,” I remind him, unnecessarily. “You tell me frequently how connected we are.”
He stares off toward the distant shoreline and sighs. He doesn’t look at me. “Yes. I do love you. But, not that way. Not the way you want. I just don’t feel it.”
“I know,” I assure him. “I hear you. But, I need to be with you, somehow, until we are together in whichever timeline we are. Isn’t a novel a good place to put all my feelings and desires, all my beliefs and information?”
He doesn’t answer any of my questions, but he seems to accept my explanation. “Well, all I ask is that you put this conversation in there, too, then. I want to register my disagreement. I want my voice, my ‘version’ to be in this book, too,” he demands.
“Done,” I agree, quickly.
He turns back to me, a bit surprised at my quick surrender, and smiles. “Okay!” he says, seemingly much happier, now. “I can live with that.”
“Good,” I say.
We both get up and start walking back to the main building. He asks, “So, when is this coming out?”
“Very soon,” I say. “I’ll give you an advance copy.”
“Good,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I echo. “I couldn’t be doing this without you. That’s the truth.”
“We’ll see,” he says, laughing a bit.
I smile.
By the time he reads this, it all will be different. What is true will be obvious and all will be well. I cross my fingers, just in case.
I don’t tell him I write this about six months before we talk on this hill. That would really freak Epifanio out.
Written February 24, 2012
October 22, 2012, northern California
I am sitting on a hill near the main buildings on the first day of events at our Buddhist sangha’s new center. It is a beautiful, warm, breezy, early fall day. I am enjoying the view, the scents, the feeling of the air as I meditate and wait for Epifanio.
I hear someone behind me and look to see him walking toward me. His expectant then satisfied face tells me that he is glad to find me.
My heart flutters and my stomach somersaults. It’s been about eight months since we've seen each other.
After he and his lover break up this past summer, he vacates their rental, ceding it to her. He travels around scouting locations for his art and next residence, staying with friends around the region. Meanwhile, I also move, from the North Bay to th
e East Bay area of San Francisco. I am unemployed and finishing the final draft of this book while starting the other Volumes in this series. He hasn’t read the first book, yet. He knows from last winter that I’m writing a sci-fi novel, starting a series. We once talk about it, briefly, but he doesn't read any of it, yet. I don't tell him anything else, either.
I stand up so we can hug. He grabs me, exuberantly, and starts a large, sideways swaying motion with the hug. I’m almost in tears: that’s how glad I am to be in his arms. I hug him back tightly and laugh a bit as he exaggerates the sways and we both almost fall over.
I stand back to look at him (he’s about 9 inches taller than I). “You look great!” I say. “How go your travels?”
He sits down and pats the grass next to him, for me. I sit.
“Travels good,” he says. “Health good. Life good. All good. All bad. No good, no bad. All empty.” He often talks this way, in a kind of toddler’s shorthand but with a Hindi accent, as if he’s translating from some other language into India’s English, like the voice of that robot, “Short Circuit,” from the ‘80s movie. It is funny and familiar. He would make a great actor.
His presence melts the aching feeling I have when I am not with him. I sigh, happily, content to sit with him silently a moment. We both gaze at the distant shoreline and meditate.
After a few minutes, he nudges me with his elbow. “How are you?”
“Better now,” I say, my usual response. “Being with you always improves any moment.”
“Did it need improving?” he asks, a bit concerned.
“No,” I reassure him. “All is well. I just miss you.”
“Well, here I am.” He points to his belly and tries to extend it out. I laugh because he is very thin and there is almost nothing there to puff out.
“Did you miss me?” I hint.
“No,” he says, “why miss? All here, always.” He gestures, vaguely, in all directions.
He sees me pretending to pout. He adds, “Glad to see you, though,” in his actual voice and accent, then glances sideways at me, indicating it's time for me to turn off the pout.
I comply.
He smiles.
“Tell me about the plans for your new house?” I ask. This land we’re on is a new piece of property for him. Although there are some buildings already on it, he is going to be building himself (and me, but he’s not on board with that, yet) a new house. “Where will it be?”
He looks at me, a tad suspiciously. We have “difficulties” in this area, most recently last fall, and he is checking my motivation. “I’ve already chosen the site,” he says, slowly.
I feel him, watching my face, intently, for signs of….what? Foreknowledge? Hypnotic trance induction? A trap?
“Why do you want to know?” he asks me, rather sternly.
I immediately turn down my brightness about three stellar magnitudes. Matching his pace, I reply, slowly and somewhat dully: “Just interested. I know you want to start building soon.” I wait, to see if he relaxes around my retracted self. See? I’m telling him, silently, No danger, here. "These are not the ‘droids you want."
He blows out a breath and seems to decide something. Somewhat reluctantly, he asks: “All right. Spill it." A long, dramatic sigh blows out of his mouth. "What house plan do you ‘see’?”
I am astonished. Epifanio never asks me to talk about what I timult. He seems to dislike intensely that I do timult and has pretty much quashed my speaking of what I may know in advance of his knowing it, especially when it’s about him. “Uh, uh, well, um…Hmmm. Not much, really." Not precisely a lie: there is a LOT I don't "see."
Does my denial work? I hold my breath, mentally crossing my fingers.
He looks at me, piercingly. “No evasions, no lies. I ask: you answer.”
I protest, “I never lie to you.” I explain: “I just don’t tell you everything and that’s only because you don’t want me to tell you.” I am sending placating vibes. Is it working?
“Okay. Fair enough. Well, I want you to tell me, now.” He imitates my tone and emphasis pattern and we both smile. “What does my house look like? Where is it situated? Let’s see how close your ‘seeing’ is to my plans.”
It’s a trap. Fanio has set me a trap. So clever, he is. Once I disclose what I “see,” he gets to tell me that I’m not right (he’s so sure I’m not right). I can tell that he believes this will give him even more corroboration for his position in our longest-standing, mostly friendly disagreement, which is about our future relationship: will we or won’t we be a couple, together? Yes, no, maybe so?
I advance, cautiously, into this minefield. “Well, okay. Let’s talk about the site, first. Since this is my first time being here, in person, you know I only go in the public parts, right around here.” I point to this hill we’re on and behind us to the main buildings and the entrance. “So, what if I describe the road that winds through the rest of the property and where your building site is in relation to the road?”
“Go on,” he urges. He looks so calm, so certain of my impending failure.
I start to feel nervous but I continue. Only the future of our entire relationship now rides on the accuracy of my “previews.” I breathe deeply, searching for that clarity spot.
There. Brightness sparks in my mind with a great energy within it as I begin to “view” my “previews” again. I feel confident, now. Maybe a bit too much, but I know it relaxes Fanio when I'm playful, so I point to the road that extends behind the largest building behind the main house. “How about this: you hold up one finger every time I get something wrong, OK? If you hold up three or more fingers, next lunch is on me."
He nods, cracks his knuckles theatrically, wiggles his fingers, extends them all and smiles. “You're on. Go!”
I am momentarily distracted.
I love his fingers. Long, graceful, beautiful. I imagine them touching me, intimately stroking, probing....
I feel his eyes on me and am suddenly intensely grateful he cannot read my thoughts. Mentally shaking myself, I return to this moment, the brightness, the scenes in my mind.
“Up there, beyond where we can both see from here, the road goes through the trees and starts to wind a bit, for a little ways. Maybe about a quarter mile or less; I’m not good with distances. Then, it straightens out…” I trail off, watching his body language.
He is getting somewhat tight in the shoulders, straightens his back.
Interesting.
He also moves his hands, restlessly, but puts no fingers up.
I continue. “As it gets a bit straighter, it goes up a small hill. About a tenth of a mile or so from the last curve, on the straight part, is a clearing on the left, the west side. The road continues up a bit further, to the top, where it ends.”
He looks sharply at me, but I pretend not to notice.
So far, so good. Fingers are still retracted.
I am relaxing now, on familiar territory, picturing it all perfectly. “The clearing extends quite a ways, at least two acres on a fairly flat portion of land to the west and south of the road. There are some trees on both sides of the driveway entrance, but the site is clear along the rest of the driveway and for the building area and a bit around that.”
I watch him covertly as I talk.
Each time I describe a new area, he gets stiffer. His hands are fisted, now. He is sitting very still, gazing rigidly at the horizon in front of us.
“On the north side, the clearing is smaller and extends to a small uphill area and some trees, almost right away. To the south, the clearing extends a little before falling off, slowly, down a hill which overlooks a lot of trees and other hills, quite close. To the west, after the lot ends there is a large, down-sloping hill into a gully/valley, but the view extends for miles, across more distant, rolling hills and forests, all the way to the ocean, which I think is about twenty miles away. Same view as from here, I think.”
He now appears about to burst from his skin
. He turns to me, disbelieving, challenging: “Who took you there? Who told you all this?” He expels a frustrated breath as he waves one hand in the direction of the road up the hill.
Ahhh. Bull’s eye. I do not respond. I wait. Where will he go from here?
He looks incredulous and displeased.
“No fingers?” I ask, quasi-innocently, as I look up at him through my eyelashes, trying to lighten the energy.
He grudgingly acknowledges my correctness, but still has some hope in his voice as he says, “Not YET. Lucky guesses. Lots of property could be configured like that.”
He thinks, then asks: “What about the house? I haven’t built it, yet, and almost no one knows about my design. Keep going. Same deal.”
I look directly into his eyes, now, and ask, seriously: “Are you sure you want me to continue?” I give him permission to stop me, to stop this, but he doesn’t use it.
He meets my eyes, searching them for something. He continues looking at me and asks, somewhat plaintively, “What if you’re right? How is that possible? Could you have the site and the house right, but still be wrong about us?"
He easily gets up and starts pacing, reminding me of other conversations about this we have prior to and after this, different timelines. He does like to pace. He mutters: "She has to be wrong. I don’t feel that way about her,” as he walks back and forth by me.
I wait until he loops around again and comes back near me to say, quietly, as I look away from him back to the distant waves: “Listen,” I assure him, “No one can force you into anything. I can’t. I won’t. You know that. If we do get together, it happens because we both want to, because you do grow to love me ‘that way,’ or believe you could, and you want to give us a chance. That’s all I would ask, if I have anything to say about it, is for a chance. You already know how I feel about you.”
He stands beside me, listening intently, then moves to resume his seat at my side. “Tell me about the house,” he requests, less intensely. He smiles and wiggles his fingers again.
I'm a bit surprised by his resumption of our game and lighter mood. But, he sounds more open on this topic than I ever hear him be. Could this be changing for the better, right now, today?
“If you’re sure,” I challenge, and wait.
Two beats go by, then, “Yes. Tell me.”
“All right.” I take a deep breath, meditate into the conversation, retrieve the clarity and twinkles of my “previews,” again. I see the house clearly in my mind. Somewhat quickly, now, to keep his attention, I describe the house. I go into details about its layout, its structure, its orientation, watching his fingers as I talk. I explain the furniture’s placement, the appliances’ locations, the doorways, outside access points and stairwells. I warm to my task as I report the layout of the bathroom, the downstairs garage, the placement of food in our refrigerator.
I give a lot of details, going slowly, looking for fingers.
He seems to forget all about the fingers element because he is listening carefully, an awestruck look on his face.
I talk about the bedrooms, the kitchen, the window placements and sizes. I tell him about the outer, two-sided deck, the downstairs woodshop and art/sculpture studio, and the two-story greenhouse/”outdoor” meditation space with a small, indoor waterfall that he adds a few years later.
When I get to the part about the chip/pellet stove, he touches my shoulder, not with a finger, but his entire hand, like a stop signal
“Wow,” he breathes. He is very still, now. “How is this possible? How can you know all that already? I haven’t even finished the plans, yet, but every single thing… even some things I haven’t decided, yet, or even thought of fully….” He trails off, then looks at me, steadily.
He moves his “stop” hand from my shoulder to pull my chin around to look at him. I meet his eyes, starting to tremble. This is the first time he touches me like this, so tenderly intimate.
He looks searchingly at my face and asks softly, “How could I love you that way and not know it?”
My whole body is shivering while my heart feels like a giant flower blooming, filling my chest. I am acutely aware of his hand on my chin, his eyes on my face moving across my features like a caress.
I realize I’m holding my breath. I make myself exhale and inhale, rhythmically. His fingers on my chin feel so warm. I close my eyes.
He drops his hand from my face and looks back to the shoreline. “Explain, please.”
I open my eyes to touch his shoulder to turn him back toward me.
He moves willingly.
I take his hand in both of mine and I turn to straddle his flank, putting one leg behind him and leaving one dangling in front, down the hill. He silently allows this.
I tell him, gently, “When it’s 'our time,' you love me that way or you don’t. But, either way, you know. It’s not ‘our time,’ yet. When it's time, your heart changes. I don't know how or why, just that you could.”
I can feel his whole body relax as I talk.
He looks back at the distant waves.
I continue. “You have choices. You are in charge. No one forces you into anything. Really. I don’t know why or how, but I do ‘see’ some things, in some futures. Are these pictures from ‘ours’? I really don’t know. Maybe that's your house and I just visit a lot, as a friend. We find out, don’t we? Somewhat soon, now.”
“When?” he looks to me, plainly curious. “Do you know when?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “But, judging from how we look in some of my earliest ‘snapshots,’ I’d say about one to three more years or thereabouts, at the most. Could be sooner.” I point to our hair. "We aren't going gray that fast, are we?"
I let go of his hand and turn to look at the view with him. “I never see the actual beginning,” I explain. “I don't see how we ‘start.’”
There is an abrupt surge, a change in his energy, as if Epifanio seems to decide something. He quickly turns to face me, bending one knee toward my thigh, taking my shoulders in his hands so that we are facing each other, and asks, “What if it begins now?” He leans down and gently kisses me.
I am briefly surprised but I eagerly kiss him back. His lips are warm, soft, perfect. It’s everything I imagined our first kiss would feel like.
As we kiss, he deepens it, becoming more searching, more insistent, opening our mouths, inviting our tongues. He puts his arms around me and I put mine around him, matching his intensity. We are both wide open, joined in awareness, in oneness, fresh in the present. I feel a tingling throughout my body which increases as we kiss.
He slows down, stops kissing and slowly pulls away, still facing me. We are both breathing hard, looking into each others' eyes.
He is flushed and seems a little stunned. “Oh,” he says. “I really had no idea.”
My heart is beating so fast I'm surprised he can't hear it. I deliberately slow down my breathing.
Crows caw and flap loudly, flying overhead. Our hair is lifted by the breeze, distant voices murmur behind us. I hear and see everything, but his presence snares my attention. I can sense his heart beating, hear him breathing, still taste him in my mouth. I know his curiosity, his awakening passion, his surprise.
Fanio looks off to the side, and up, briefly, considering. Then he comes to a decision.
I feel every muscle in my body tense up, awaiting the verdict. This is it.
He looks back at me, solemnly. Then, his smile appears, slowly. Soon, it’s large and lights up his face. “Good!” he announces. “This works!”
I blow out a long breath and allow my muscles to unclench. “Just like that?” I ask, playfully.
“Just like that!” Fanio answers, happily, as if he has resolved a longstanding, difficult problem.
“Yes,” I agree, measuring out each word: “Just like that.”
I let him take my hands and reposition us until we sit side-by-side again, our thighs touching in comfortable, expansive silence, watching the clo
uds slowly move across the horizon.
On this beautiful, fall day in 2012, we begin our partnered life together, after knowing each other since 1985 in many other ways. It’s a bit like being an "overnight success" after playing in coffeehouses and bars across the country for decades, I realize, drily. But, success is success! I’ll take it!
I am glad to have him loving me when The Band comes. For sure.
written February 24, 2012