Ernest Shackleton marries
Emily Mary Dorman, 9 April 1904, while on hiatus between the voyage of the Discovery and the voyage of the Nimrod.
You have to wonder what it would be like, falling in love with an Antarctic Explorer, marrying him and then sending him off on a ship again, watching the masts and the sails disappear into the cold and dark with his men and his dogs and staying behind to think of him wandering farther south than any man at the time has ever gone, perhaps never to return, never to come back to you. It can't have been easy. Talk about love in a cold climate.
Some enchanted evening.
I forget, in my dotage, the lengths people who fall in love will sometimes go to. What people do for love. There was a time of course, and oh what a time it was. It was a time of ... innocence, you might say. Ancient history now.
Oh sure, in more recent times there have been moments of what you might call, what, passing obsession, passionate fancy, temporary madness, even one instance I like to think of as something more, something special, a 'relationship' -- except my friend D reminds me that in this case I am not allowed to use the word 'relationship.'
"You give money to the check-out girl at RiteAide," he reminds me pointedly, "and you don't call that a relationship."
He has a point. We have argued the question before of whether cash on the dresser top even qualifies as dating, and as I have lost that battle I try to change the subject.
"My writing is my relationship," I reply in defense, shifting the conversation to what I imagine is a higher plane.
"Oh please," he scoffs.
"It is," I insist with a pinched whine. "I blog to reach out."
"That is so..." I watch him searching for the word. "Delusional," he finishes, with a note of wonder that I am so far gone.
"And that is so... unfair," I say. "You don't even read my blog."
"I tried once," he counters. "But the title was like, something about Virginia Woolf, and I was like, sorry Dude."
"I see," I respond, clenching my jaw. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case."
"It didn't sound very interesting," he answers. "I'm just saying. What's this one called?"
"Ernest Shackleton marries."
"Right," he answers. "Hello." Then he seems to relent. "Look. I'm not saying you can't have a relationship," he explains in a compensatory move. "Just that, you know, it has to involve someone else who knows they're in it with you." He pauses.
"Oh well, thank you for the clarification," I reply with thinly veiled disdain.
"I'm not saying you'll never meet anyone," he answers.
"I'm relieved to hear it."
"It could happen. You could meet --"
"-- a Stranger," I finish for him.
He nods encouragingly as if, okay, sure-why-not.
"You will meet a Stranger," I continue, in a sudden disconcerting bass vibrato, "across a crowded room."
He stops nodding and frowns. "Not exactly and don't sing," he warns. "I'm so out of here if you start with the singing."
"Some say relationships end in fire," I announce, shfting to poetry, paraphrasing Robert Frost's bleak prediction about the end of the world, "Some say in ice." I know I've lost him now but I am thinking about Ernest and Lady Shackleton, separated by oceans of frozen water and snow and paralyzing cold, ice hanging in shaggy tears from shredded sails.
"But if love has to perish twice," I adlib, "I think that ice would probably suffice."
Of course it is all just words, all jumbled up. Writing is like that. And writing, regardless of intentions, and even if D won't let me use the word, is too about reaching out, having relationships, which as a matter of fact I've been learning lately. Sometimes one-sided, or seemingly so, and not wholly satisfying for everyone concerned. Not what you were expecting, not long-lasting, not forever, not what you were looking for. Sometimes when you were least expecting it.
Sometimes in the middle of a whole other life, exploring unknown frozen terrain, a stranger only coming in from the cold long enough to get warm in some crowded room, before setting off again for places so far away no one else has ever been. Your eyes meet, metaphorically speaking, across the glittering ether, and you remember what it used to feel like, that dance of connecting and understanding and being charmed and feeling intrigued and attracted. Such fun. Such good times. Remember? You remember.
You have to wonder what it would be like, falling in love with an Antarctic Explorer, marrying him and then sending him off on a ship again, watching the masts and the sails disappear into the cold and dark with his men and his dogs and staying behind to think of him wandering farther south than any man at the time has ever gone, perhaps never to return, never to come back to you. It can't have been easy. Talk about love in a cold climate.
Some enchanted evening.
I forget, in my dotage, the lengths people who fall in love will sometimes go to. What people do for love. There was a time of course, and oh what a time it was. It was a time of ... innocence, you might say. Ancient history now.
Oh sure, in more recent times there have been moments of what you might call, what, passing obsession, passionate fancy, temporary madness, even one instance I like to think of as something more, something special, a 'relationship' -- except my friend D reminds me that in this case I am not allowed to use the word 'relationship.'
"You give money to the check-out girl at RiteAide," he reminds me pointedly, "and you don't call that a relationship."
He has a point. We have argued the question before of whether cash on the dresser top even qualifies as dating, and as I have lost that battle I try to change the subject.
"My writing is my relationship," I reply in defense, shifting the conversation to what I imagine is a higher plane.
"Oh please," he scoffs.
"It is," I insist with a pinched whine. "I blog to reach out."
"That is so..." I watch him searching for the word. "Delusional," he finishes, with a note of wonder that I am so far gone.
"And that is so... unfair," I say. "You don't even read my blog."
"I tried once," he counters. "But the title was like, something about Virginia Woolf, and I was like, sorry Dude."
"I see," I respond, clenching my jaw. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case."
"It didn't sound very interesting," he answers. "I'm just saying. What's this one called?"
"Ernest Shackleton marries."
"Right," he answers. "Hello." Then he seems to relent. "Look. I'm not saying you can't have a relationship," he explains in a compensatory move. "Just that, you know, it has to involve someone else who knows they're in it with you." He pauses.
"Oh well, thank you for the clarification," I reply with thinly veiled disdain.
"I'm not saying you'll never meet anyone," he answers.
"I'm relieved to hear it."
"It could happen. You could meet --"
"-- a Stranger," I finish for him.
He nods encouragingly as if, okay, sure-why-not.
"You will meet a Stranger," I continue, in a sudden disconcerting bass vibrato, "across a crowded room."
He stops nodding and frowns. "Not exactly and don't sing," he warns. "I'm so out of here if you start with the singing."
"Some say relationships end in fire," I announce, shfting to poetry, paraphrasing Robert Frost's bleak prediction about the end of the world, "Some say in ice." I know I've lost him now but I am thinking about Ernest and Lady Shackleton, separated by oceans of frozen water and snow and paralyzing cold, ice hanging in shaggy tears from shredded sails.
"But if love has to perish twice," I adlib, "I think that ice would probably suffice."
Of course it is all just words, all jumbled up. Writing is like that. And writing, regardless of intentions, and even if D won't let me use the word, is too about reaching out, having relationships, which as a matter of fact I've been learning lately. Sometimes one-sided, or seemingly so, and not wholly satisfying for everyone concerned. Not what you were expecting, not long-lasting, not forever, not what you were looking for. Sometimes when you were least expecting it.
Sometimes in the middle of a whole other life, exploring unknown frozen terrain, a stranger only coming in from the cold long enough to get warm in some crowded room, before setting off again for places so far away no one else has ever been. Your eyes meet, metaphorically speaking, across the glittering ether, and you remember what it used to feel like, that dance of connecting and understanding and being charmed and feeling intrigued and attracted. Such fun. Such good times. Remember? You remember.
first, george, you ARE such a romantic and on top of that, you make me laugh! i laughed through the whole 2nd part. the 'd' part. i can just hear it. no romanticism there.
the idea of you singing 'across the crowded room' went right to my minds ear. i'm still laughing.
i can only thank you for keeping me on the sane side, not to put a heavy burden on you, but, you know....
love you and thank you.
bianc
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ice hanging in shaggy tears from shredded sails
Sigh. George, I'd meet you in a crowded room any time.
In fact, even in a dark, empty one, provided there's a pillow or two.
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