It’s easier to communicate ideas, rather than emotions.
People don’t really care about what you feel anyway—although they pretend they do.
I don’t even bother trying to explain anymore when people ask how I’m feeling. I could tell them in one word—Calypso—her name, and they’d still be none the wiser.
The truth is, I can’t give someone else my experience, whether it’s blissful or horrific—some things I have to hold in my heart and say nothing.
The closest I can come to telling is to sum it in one word—fire.
I will tell you what happened, but don’t expect you to understand.
Simply put—one look from her ignited a conflagration in me.
But remember, as Mark Twain said—words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.
I was staying with a friend in Chelsea—he had rented a cottage to finish writing a novel and invited me to spend a month or two as long as I left him alone to write. I was recuperating from a bout of pneumonia, and rest and peace was exactly what the doctor ordered.
It was a beneficial arrangement for both of us.
I remember that first spring morning waking up in Chelsea—lying awake listening to the singing of birds and watching sunlight shimmering on the walls. It was peaceful.
After breakfast, I decided to go for a walk.
The furthest I had walked in the past few weeks was a block or two—but here in the suburbs of Chelsea, the air was invigorating and the weather lovely.
I walked for about twenty minutes and stopped to catch my breath outside a beautiful country cottage.
A young blonde-haired boy was sweeping the walk and I called out a cheery hello. As soon as he saw me, he shrunk back inside the house.
I thought it strange, but the morning was lovely and I soon forgot about the boy until a dark haired woman approached me.
She was the most beautiful and sensual woman I had ever seen. She had dark smoUldering eyes and the look of a gypsy.
“Have you lost your way?” She asked.
“No,” I laughed, “I’ve just gotten over pneumonia and went for a walk—but I’m afraid I wasn’t quite up to the exertion.”
She nodded as if understanding the illness. “Where are you from?”
“I’m staying with Paul Randall in Surrey Street, by the Mill.”
She arched an eyebrow. “That was quite a walk—you must be parched. Come inside and I’ll pour you some lemonade.”
I was fascinated and readily agreed.
We sat in her back garden and she brought a huge pitcher of icy lemonade on a tray along with some glasses.
“This is a very beautiful place" I told her, "have you lived here long?”
“Forever,” she smiled.
“Was that young blonde-haired boy I saw sweeping, related to you?”
“Oh,” she said startled, “You saw Hob then, did you?”
I smiled. “I have no idea what his name was—I called out to him, but he seemed frightened by me.”
“I’m surprised you saw him at all.”
“Is he a recluse?”
“You might say that,” she sighed and combed back her hair with her fingers. The gesture was incredibly sensual. I’m afraid I stared at her, fascinated by her lovely, lustrous dark hair.
I had to force myself to look away and focus on the lovely garden and the stone pathway that led down to a meandering brook.
There was an awkward silence between us and I fumbled for something to say.
“You musn’t get many visitors,” I said.
She fixed me with a curious gaze, as if surprised by my observation. I noticed her lovely eyes weren’t dark as I first thought, but violet.
“That was a strange observation,” she said, “about visitors.”
Thinking I offended her, I hastily explained. “Oh, it was just that you asked if I were lost—I concluded not many people must come this way. Perhaps you’re a little off the beaten track.”
“I am,” she smiled, “and I like it that way.”
Again, she fixed me with that smouldering gaze that left me breathless and flushed.
I’ve always been shy and now I felt naked and simple as a fool. “I should get going,” I said as I got to my feet.
She looked hurt.
“But we haven’t exchanged names—and as you noted, I don’t get many visitors. I’m Calypso,” she said, holding out her lovely hand.
“Tony Hill,” I said, grasping hers and feeling a rush of excitement as our fingers blossomed into awareness.
I felt giddy as I’ve only felt once before when on a carnival ride called a tilt-a-whirl. I remember the ride spinning fast, then tilting vertically and everything dissolving into a blurry watercolour.
I remember being suspended between sky and earth, being pulled by centrifugal force and gravity.
Now, her gravity was pulling me into her, searing my insides and blurring my brain.
I panicked and had to get away. I can’t remember if I said anything by way of goodbye, but found myself stumbling blindly back down the road toward my friend’s cottage.
It was an eerie experience.
My story might have ended there and sometimes, I wish it had—but I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
I became obsessed with her mouth, her touch, her feral charm. I felt the pull of her gravity on every fiber of my being.
I had known the burning fever of respiratory illness—it was nothing compared to the burning that now spread throughout my body.
It was more than a fever—it was a pathological obsession.
I was again out of control on a tilt-a-whirl being torn between what Freud called Eros and Thantos—the life drive and death drive.
I was a madman—frantic, restless, driven by lust. I knew this was an insane obsession, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to go back and see her—and not by day, but by cold moonlight—why that was, I didn’t know.
I did return one cool windy night, when clouds were racing with the moon and the road was filled with trembling shadows.
I pounded at her door until she opened and when she did, I grasped her tightly and passionately kissed her—my mouth greedily plundering hers.
Her eyes were aflame with wild desire, more untamed than mine. She bewitched and entrapped me and I was desperate to spend my passion on her—to expel my demons in blind rage.
I wanted to kill her or me, so great was the force that swept through me. It was a vast, unreasoned, uncontrollable anger like the fury of a storm that has to be spent.
That night was a blur of eyes and mouth and hands. In the morning, she asked only one thing, “Did you find me beautiful?”
I laughed her to scorn. I wanted so badly to mar her beauty, disfigure her face and despoil her loveliness. I hated the lovers she had and all she would ever have.
I left Chelsea and never went back…but am always returning.
I close my eyes and see her. I lie awake and taste her. I can’t bear to hear the wind or see the moon or be alone. She robbed me of my soul.
She’s won. I’m just one of many, left to pine away in darkness, unsatisfied by others.
I can’t take a lover or be with a woman—yet each night, she whispers with dark accents in my ear, kisses my feverish brow and asks, “how do like you that?”
I surrender again and again to what I can’t exorcise or lay to rest.
