Therapy Session Five
“How’s the writing going Morgan?” asked Dr. Nolan.
“It’s good,” Morgan replied.
“Is it satisfying… I mean maybe you could try mixing in some painting?”
“I think painting’s dead, it’s been done. The art world’s been living on momentum for about thirty years now… at least, painting as a vehicle for social change or even political change. People are just buying the romance of it now. Matching it with their couches. ”
Dr. Nolan smiled, “How about theatre, acting?”
“Christ,” Morgan said, raising his eyebrows, “theatre’s become this sort of thing for guys without balls and women who wish they had them.”
She smiled again, “The gender bender thing has gone on hasn’t it?”
“And on.” Morgan said.
“Still there’s more than just the ‘Avant Garde.’
Morgan said nothing.
“Just keep writing Morgan… your plowing through and there’s still room in there for what you have.”
“Thanks Dr. Nolan,” replied Morgan and he wanted to kiss her and kiss every woman he saw from here on out. Then, as if having read the direction of his mind, she said,
“Has there ever been anyone really special Morgan… a woman?”
He smiled immediately, then thought for a good long minute, breathing, looking around, seeing her.
He started abruptly, “Since I saw her on the train…”
“Saw who Morgan?”
“The English girl on the train in Portugal.”
“Right, I’m sorry, you mentioned her once.” she motioned for me to go on.
“A couple of months ago I started having this recurring dream of showing up in England, or, well, it was a big city, and everything was really dark and dingy like everything was covered in coal smoke and sort of Oliver Twistish and there was this sort of strange vibe like she had expected me to come but was just sort of going about her business as if I wasn’t there and everything was sort of slanted – buildings, rooms and sort of surreal,” Morgan paused.
“She was expecting you, but sensed you were unsure.” Dr. Nolan said.
She looked at him like maybe there was more. Morgan breathed again and pushed his hand through his hair.
“Lately the dreams’ve been sort of minimalistic, just she and I smiling and talking and a few weeks ago we hugged and I could smell her hair and woke up feeling happy. The other night (in the dream) I was in the bathroom (washing my face I think) and she came in to have a bath wearing a short robe, we talked but I don’t remember what about and then she dropped her robe and got in the bath and asked me if I thought it could last between us and I was thinking what a fickle bastard I can be and told her we would have to give it a few days and just see how things worked out (trite, boring), but knowing, in the dream, that I’d finally put all the baggage behind me. Then I leaned into the tub and kissed her on her cupid bow lips, and woke up feeling content.”
“Sounds like you were both moving toward each other. She was more ready than you. She got all the way in the bath and you were just washing your face. You were both involved with water but you weren’t ready for the bath.”
Morgan sat quietly for a while. She smiled at him and he knew this was going to be the last time he needed to come here.
“I know where it all comes from, I know that it’s worthless to blame anyone but I’m still having a hard time moving.” he said.
“It’s gonna take a leap of faith Morgan,” she replied, “for her, in your writing, whatever you want to do.”
It was almost seven o’clock, she’d given him extra time today and he realized that she knew they’d be wrapping it up. There was a pause and a warm smile.
“If you don’t mind my saying Dr. Nolan, I think you’re one of the most incredible women I’ve ever met… my whole life I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with me and now…”
“ There’s nothing wrong with you Morgan, you just haven’t had enough people tell you you’re all right. You’re exceptional Morgan and thank you… you’re an incredible young man…” she had tears in her eyes, “…now get out there and give the rest of the world a bit more Morgan Blake and just make sure you know what you believe in.
“I think we need less crap.”
We hugged forever and I walked out. That night I wrote this:
What grown love
will come and
color the things
and have done?
having no one,
excepting my son,
who rushes to me only sometimes,
grown love lies languorous.
I love the ocean’s
salt smell and
am opened by it,
but I am as changeable and
and gather my strength
as she does
from everywhere and
nowhere at all.
What then can
I love that
doesn’t run fleeting,
or is fleeting me,
I cast a daydreaming eye to a made up North Sea horizon
she stretches as a sunset,
golden-tinged autumn dirty-blonde curls draped
over an expanse of swirling curves that
wend their discursive way to my feet
head to toe
even though I’ve already said sea