Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 23: I knew I had mountains to climb…

washingtonLivy – Journal Entry

It’s happened Trudy and I feel like a wood sprite hippie chick gypsy girl. Morgan. Seen him a million times in dreams, he telling me I’m like a field of fresh flowers. The image of him. Makes me warm where I don’t want to admit to getting warm. Me, a hippie gypsy girl with little cymbals on my fingers, finger cymbal “zills”, dancing and making tea, potions of tranquility, spells like a white witch and I imagined he’d had me in mind though I’d not not actually seen him for so long.

I’ve seen him now and he told me I smelled of a million sweet tea leaves and said my hair was beautiful. Told me it was beautiful and I thanked him and invited him for tea in my village flat and we talked about New York and getting away. A “Norwegian Wood” day without a goodbye:

“You’ve already been so many places,” Morgan said.

“But none with you. It would all be new again if we went together.”

Morgan kissed her and said, “How about California. I’ve heard of this Buddhist temple in the mountains north of Los Angeles.”

“Sounds lovely. Are you a buddhist?”

“Not really, I mean I like  what I know of it.”

“And what is it you know?”

“I know that there is a direct connection between how you live and how your life unfolds accordingly.”

“Karma and all that.”

“Right, and how everything is connected and everything has significance.”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the world could see it that way?”

“It’d be a different place.”

“But New York first.”

We wandered the streets excited about the promise of things to come and things in the present. Picking up things and showing them to each other and going to places like Washington Square or Central Park and listening to street musicians and eating pizza or souvlaki or potato knish. Steaming potato knish that makes clouds in the winter air; the winter air made more wintry with the blocking of the sun by skyscrapers and the insular feeling they create. A sense of place within the concrete and steel and the rushing here and there, Manhattan Island, a place unto itself. And we unto ourselves moving about in the cold, mufflered or scarved, and holding hands. To feel his touch, to touch him and to feel him touch me and to spend the day teasing at touching with the hope of more touching and more skin in the night where we find a place filled with light, orange light from a fire or candles and an inviting bed. I love that he loves that I’ve gypsy blood and says he’d never tire of hearing it. Told him I’d write a book about it:

“It was a bit like having Tevye for a grandfather; a free spirit longing for a better life. He’d come to visit and dance around like Zorba the bloody Greek. Oh my mum loved him so.”

“That sounds cool. I’d like to meet him.”

“I would have loved for you to have met him but he died when I was a little girl.”

“What about your father?”

“My dad seems to only have picked up his melancholy side but my grandfather left me his journals.”

“I love stuff like that. Messages from another time and place.”

“It all seems so simple and lovely. Maybe we can be simple and lovely.”

“I’ll be simple and you be lovely.”

“Oh you are a love aren’t you? You see what I mean Trudy,” Livy said looking up to the ceiling.

“Who’s Trudy?”

“She was my best friend my whole life until a few years ago.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you another time. Sad really and I don’t want to be sad now. I just know she can see us and she knows that I’m happy. You know I still can’t believe you came for me. You were such a dozy little knight in Portugal.”

Morgan laughed.

“I had a lot going on… I was a “bloody’ headcase… and you were like no woman I’ve ever seen… but I knew I had mountains to climb.”

“And I knew you had to climb them and that you would.”

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