Grit In My Teeth
Bridget Cowles
After living in Tahiti, I developed a taste for sand.
I was awarded a two year grant-almost unheard of-to live and write in paradise, then moved back to New York a year earlier than I intended. Unfortunately, I’d been so happy in Tahiti that I was forced to give back some of the money and come home where I continue to feel dismal enough to be productive.
How does a woman like me “develop a taste for sand?” Let me tell you.
I’d been on the island for six months, lounging around in a hammock, staring at the fish through the glass floor of my hut, actually taking long walks on the beach just for the hell of it. In New York, whenever possible, I don’t walk much farther than to a waiting taxi.
I hadn’t spoken to anyone except for the elderly Tahitian woman who brought me fresh food each day and swept out my hut. Couldn’t actually be called conversations, but she was pleasant. It freed me up from having to take on the mundane chores of caring for myself. Every single item that woman brought into my house had a few grains of stark white sand clinging to it. Even though she washed everything she put in the kitchen, there was always a light dust at the bottom of my refrigerator. I never saw it going in. Perhaps it was just so much a part of the place that it floated in the air, like the dust motes and soot back in the city.
My normal depressive nature was slowly giving way to a sense of peace and contentment the likes of which I’d never known. It was such a foreign feeling-I hadn’t yet determined whether I liked it or not. I’m not sure I was even aware of what I was feeling.
Even the solitude was new for me. A New Yorker is never really alone. For me, whether on the subway or in the midst of a conversation with my closest and not-very-dearest friend, Silvana, I feel as if I’m the only one who’s truly aware, truly in touch with the depth of the tragedy in which we live-but I never feel alone. Wish I did. It would be less painful than feeling crammed in with half the population of the world, but still being apart. It’s the isolated crowding that feeds my depression; it’s my depression that makes me write.
No one can really understand how intensely I feel things. Now, I’m sure some of you are saying, “Oh, no, you underestimate me. I feel things.” Go ahead and tell yourselves that, but I know differently. I’m a woman constantly in a state of despair, angst, worry, anxiety. It’s just that way for me. If I’m going to keep making a living song writing, that’s the way it better stay.
Sorry. I’m digressing again in that self-indulgent way which has chased away all my former lovers. To hell with them, anyway. And to hell with you if you’re in a rush for me sort this out.
Where was I? Yeah, solitude. Well, the most amazing thing happened to me in Tahiti. As I spent more and more time alone on the beach, I felt more and more connected to the rest of the world. It was a wonderfully pleasant feeling. I finally understood those annoyingly cheerful store clerks who chase you out of their store with a lilting curse of “Have A Nice Day!” Okay, there aren’t really many of them in New York, but I’ve been other places, too. And, yes, they do capitalize every word when they talk. Damned if I know why.
Happy and content, I decided to accept one of the innumerable social invitations that were always being delivered by the housekeeper: a dinner party at the vacation home of a well-known American actress and her much younger lover.
No, won’t tell you who she is or who else attended. This is my story.
The day of the party arrived, and I was oddly excited. In fact, I couldn’t ever remember being excited about any social event before. The closest I’d felt in the past was a sinking dread. Almost the same physical reaction: queasy stomach, light sweat, shortness of breath. Excitement, however, is much more energizing. Not wanting to over- or under-dress, I wore all black-you can never go wrong with black. Yeah, Tahiti is warm for all black, but I have an image to uphold. Remember, I was invited for my depressive New York demeanor and poet/songwriter status.
The party wasn’t until 9:00. Parties don’t start until after dark, even in Tahiti. I was feeling so damn perky I decided to walk the three miles. Almost dark when I started out, yet there was the most incomparable sunset spreading behind me. Along the way, I saw those exotic night-blooming flowers. What are they called? I don’t remember either. Anyway, I saw those beautiful flowers, I heard the calls of tropical birds, I smelled now-familiar, but unidentified sweet scents.
By the time I got to the party, I was singing aloud. I don’t do that. Ever.
Inside, the usual wild array of the famous and infamous. There were several people I didn’t know or recognize. Almost everyone seemed to know me. My hostess was surprised when I wrapped my arms around her, swinging her up off her feet as I planted a kiss on her perfectly rouged cheek. When I put her back down, she swayed for a moment before regaining the composure for which she’s so well known. Suspicious, she said, “Marina, you quit drinking?”
A hearty laugh escaped me. “Well, I hadn’t thought about it. But you know, I’ve hardly had any coffee, cigarettes, or alcohol since I came to the island.”
“Writing much?” her ever-present, swarthy Latin lover asked.
“Some. As a matter of fact, my writing’s found a new direction,” I replied. “I brought along a new poem, if you’d like me to read it.”
Those guests not already out on the deck crowded around. I read an enthusiastic two page ode to the salty scent of the sea shells decorating the small table next to my bed. The man who’d been standing attentively at my elbow since my arrival backed away and sat on a stool at the rattan bar. No appreciation for the beauty of simple things.
I followed the ode with a sonnet about the pleasure of lounging in a hammock for days at a time. More people drifted away, some muttering, looking over their shoulders at me as they retreated in search of booze.
As I started in on my third poem, which starts, My true love’s eyes are as green as the fronds of the palm tree which rustles in the balmy breeze, my hostess quickly took my hand and said, “Marina, honey, read that one later. We don’t want you to spoil my guests, now do we? Let’s make them wait.” She practically pushed me onto the tropical print couch next to a bottle blond who appeared to be passed out. A fine stream of saliva oozed out of the corner of the woman’s mouth, and her skirt was caught on the back of the couch cushion, exposing most of one hip.
The rest of the party was spent in brief conversations with a very skittish crowd of people. As soon as I began to talk about the wonders of the island and how I’d finally found true happiness, my partner in conversation found an excuse and dashed off. Finally, a gallery owner from New York, whom I’d known for a decade, left the group he’d been talking to. They watched him as he walked toward me. I felt like I was back at my first junior high school party, hoping one of the cool guys would ask me to dance, conscious that the other kids were watching and waiting to see who’d be picked last, praying it wouldn’t be me.
When he got to where I stood, the man-yes, he must remain nameless-bent toward me and said in a confidential tone, “Your cheerfulness is really putting a damper on this party. You know, Marina, you’re downright upbeat.” He lowered his voice further. “Stop it-it’s going to ruin your career.”
Well, that’s it about the party, but I must say the man was right. I stayed on the island for another six months. My social invitations all but dried up. Instead of hearing from my girls Alanis and Fiona, the only mail forwarded from New York was an offer from Pat Boone to collaborate on a children’s album. I actually considered it. The work I sent home to my agent was returned with a letter expressing great concern about my mental state. I laughed it off. I was so ecstatic with my new life, I kept writing my pleasant little songs.
Finally, one day my agent arrived on the island. He found me lying in my hammock, a joyous song on my lips. He walked up to me and pulled me to my feet. Holding me by the shoulders, he shouted, “Snap out of it, Marina!” At my startled look he let go of me and lowered his voice. “I’m worried about you. Your career is drying up as we speak, and the word in New York’s you’re writing verse for Hallmark.” He took my hand in his. “Come home now.”
Against my will, I packed my few belongings. I brought a coffee can full of the sand from the beach.
So, that’s how I came to be living back in the Village, alternating cups of espresso with whiskey. With my first experience of happiness, the only thing that keeps me depressed, besides the comforting dirt and crime and overcrowding of the city, of course, is a steady diet of caffeine, cigarettes, and booze. Every now and then, I’ll take a small fistful of the fine white sand and sprinkle it around my flat. I put some in my bathtub, a dusting in my bedsheets, and always leave some in the bottom of my refrigerator. Having the sand here helps me not to feel so deprived, but I have to be careful not to lose touch with all of that angst and rage which keeps my poetry and song lyrics sharp.
So, can I bum a cigarette? I just finished my last pack.
