by Neil Peart
I think . . .
Great to have called her from Grand Coulee Dam too. A place to remember.
I hope . . .
Never mind these doubts and fears. Trust that voice inside.
Unfortunately, the day went downhill from there. Bad stomach, bad weather. I-90 increasingly cold and rainy, trucks roaring by, blinding and treacherous. Fear of ice.
Once again, cheated death and made it.
Talked to Deb, but just said I was heading back south, and might see my “new friends” in L.A. We’ll see how things go before I tell her — hope she understands. She’s the only one who might take it weird, and I’d hate that.
We are links for each other.
May 14 Vancouver
Hey Razor Willie!
Here I am, back at you — from my rather cramped guest quarters, at Danny and Janette’s house. Only one bathroom too. I keep telling them we need a bigger place here, especially as they, the landlords, keep collecting more dogs and babies and stuff. But they’re too busy.
However, I’ve been making the best of it, as one does. Down on the floor playing cars with my pal Max, walking Tara and “Barfy” through the woods with Janette (seriously pregnant, in her petite way, but no less active in work or fast walking), and hiking with Danny up the Capilano River to the Cleveland Dam (named after Vancouver’s first water commissioner; wonder what kind of a character he was?). Later today, Danny’s proposed either a bike ride or a swim in a local pool, and tomorrow he’s booked rowing boats for us to take out in the Burrard Inlet, like we did during my visit last September. It was very cool to be out there among the freighters, huge steel marker buoys, sea birds, seals bobbing to the surface, and all around us the splendid view of city, Stanley Park, Lion’s Gate Bridge, and the mountains above, green with snowy tops. They keep me busy here.
This morning I left a message with your “service,” so I’m hoping to hear from you by tomorrow. Your most excellent letter to “Pancho” was here when I arrived, and I thank you for some of the nice things you had to say. It matters, brother o’ mine.
For now, I’ll close this off, and we’ll no doubt talk about the rest of recent events “on the wire.”
Carry on, major El Romancero
Other than Brutus, the only person I told about my plans was my Mom. She knew better than anyone what I had been through for nearly two years by that time, and she and Jackie had also been fairly close, so I knew her response would be a fair one. I needed someone to tell me that what I was doing was okay, and when I called my Mom and said I was headed for Vancouver, then back to Los Angeles because I had “a date with a girl,” she was ecstatic for me — so excited that I was taking this big step back into life. That made me feel a little better about my rash decision.
When I arrived in Vancouver and told the whole story to Danny and Janette, their feelings must have been mixed, partly concerned and partly amused at my “infatuation,” but they were supportive all the same. While my motorcycle was in the local BMW shop for servicing, Danny took me shopping for some nicer “dress-up” clothes, and three days later I picked up the bike and headed south again — this time by the “express route,” the Interstate, through the rain and wind and cold of Washington and Oregon.
The first night, in Salem, Oregon, I tried to put all my feelings in a letter to Deb, telling her what I was doing — what I felt I had to do — then faxed it to her, asking her to call me in Los Angeles and, “laugh at me — so I’ll know everything is okay between us.”
For myself, even though I had made the big decision to go back there and see Gabrielle, I was far from comfortable with the idea. In my imaginary presentation of the case to my ever-present “ghost jury,” Jackie and Selena, I eventually decided that if I told Selena I had a date with a glamorous beauty queen, she would probably say, “All right Dad!” Jackie, on the other hand, would hardly be excited, but I could picture her rolling her eyes to Selena and saying in her dry way, “Well, I guess we have to let your father have his fun . . .”
The second day carried me 994 kilometres [621 miles], from Salem, Oregon, to Stockton, California, riding through the magnificent scenery around the Oregon/California border, past the gleaming white peak of Mount Shasta and the blue expanse of Lake Shasta. That day I passed from cold rain to hot sun, from Douglas firs to California live oaks to palm trees.
That evening, as I walked back to the inevitable Best Western from a Carrow’s restaurant, I passed under the Interstate and noticed the on-ramp I would be taking the following morning. Looking at the “I-5 South” sign, I felt a strange sense of disbelief, and realized that it was a reflection of my inner distrust of anything in life. I had no faith in the future, even as far as getting on the highway again the next morning.
But of course I did, facing another cold morning, clear and bright, through the irrigated farms and ranches of the Central Valley, and what I called “those tawny, wrinkled, ‘Shar-pei’ hills.” The Tejon Pass, at 4,000 feet, was cold and hazy, and it stayed like that all the way into Hollywood, and back to the Sunset Marquis.
The previous night I had called my brother-in-law, Steven, and told him “the news.” He was cautiously supportive, but typically, he had his concerns about me. “I’m only worried about you getting hurt.”
I wrote in my journal, “Me too, but . . . you can’t tell yourself how to feel.”
Unfortunately, Deb couldn’t hold back her feelings either. As I had asked her to do, she called me at the hotel, and I knew right away she wasn’t going to be “laughing” at me. She was obviously in tears, her voice breaking as she said, “I’ve got some problems with this.” Oh dear.
She was very upset, and sobbed, “I didn’t think you had any interest in dating right now.” I began to feel pangs of guilt, and an ache of doubt as I told her that I hadn’t thought so either, but it had just happened — I was sorry she was so upset about it. I told her I would call her later in the week, hoping that she would get a little “used to” the idea. Or maybe this “experiment” would just fizzle out on its own, and become a non-issue.
In any case, my own chaotic emotions were stirred up even more by this conversation, and later that day I stood in the shower and was suddenly overcome by a helpless attack of weeping, sobbing my own heart out — about everything.
But in my characteristic, obsessive way I threw myself into this fresh adventure, throwing caution to the proverbial winds and romancing that girl, in a nervously determined (not to say desperate) sort of way. Renting a sleek Porsche Boxster, I first escorted Gabrielle on a double-date with Andrew and his friend, Rich, and later back to my hotel for drinks, where we stayed up all night talking about our lives and past heartaches.
As a man who hadn’t done anything that could be called “dating” in more than 20 years, I was surprised how well I slipped into this new role, but once again, I seemed to have evolved a new “adaptive persona” for this mission, a new mask (without armor, alas) called “Ellwood, the Hollywood party boy.” During those heady days Andrew and I had even begun to talk about renting a house together in the Hollywood Hills, so that I could spend more time there, and it’s certain “the fool I used to be” would simply have laughed at that idea.
But somehow it didn’t seem so crazy now — to Ellwood, at least, as he dressed himself up and squired Gabrielle to the new Getty museum, to dinner at the Bel Air Hotel, on a couple of shopping expeditions, and to dinner at a restaurant on the ocean in Malibu with a full moon rising through the palms, then driving back to Hollywood with the top down in the cool, fragrant night. I drove her and Andrew in his SUV to Death Valley, so he could scout some photo locations, and showed them around some of my favorite places there.
One afternoon, Gabrielle and I strolled beneath the California fan palms that line the beachfront in Venice, taking in the surreal stage set (or movie set, really) of souvenir shops, sidewalk vendors, fortune tellers, street musicians, and the passing parade of strange-looking individuals. There were several tarot-c
ard readers, and I was a little curious about that. Though I’ve always been a card-carrying rational-scientific-skeptic, I try to remain open to all possibilities (the difference between a cynic and a skeptic, I like to think, is one is dismissive, the other only doubtful), so I thought it would be entertaining to have my first tarot reading. The graphics of the tarot cards had always seemed romantic and mystical to me, and the few names I knew were also intriguing: The Tower, The Hanged Man, The Lovers, The Fool.
From among the sidewalk readers I chose the one who wasn’t dressed in gypsy garb, a spare, fit-looking man of about 60 years with a weathered face. As I sat at the folding card table beside him, his expression was calm and intent. (Later I learned he was a Vietnam veteran, and a practical, down-to-earth sort of man.) His well-worn deck of cards was spread before us, face down and cut into separate stacks that were bound with elastic bands. Without asking any questions or trying to gather any “clues,” he fanned one of the stacks toward me and told me to choose five. I plucked them out in a way I felt was random, and he placed them on the table, face up.
Death, Wisdom, The Tower, Wheel of Fortune, High Priestess.
After a few seconds of silence, he shook his head and said, “This is most unusual.” Then he gave me his interpretation, which so galvanized me that I was compelled to ask him to write it down for me.
“After great tragedy and tribulation you are trying to rebuild yourself and your life. Pain from separation is causing you unhappiness, and you’re dwelling on past conflicts, travelling with regrets. You work in the performing arts of some kind — actor? musician? — and your job offers you abundance, but this has deteriorated as you’ve been moving in a different direction. Now you are travelling far from home, trying to begin a new cycle, but you’re not ready. You need more insight.”
Then he had me choose five cards from the next stack, and carried on. “After a time of difficulty, of unhappiness and financial problems, you will find a new beginning with a relationship, and a time of superabundance. This person will not only provide you with affection, but will help you straighten out your money problems as well. She will be a true partner to you.”
My jaw dropped, and it’s still dropping. That little oration was so true in every respect, then and now, that, as I said at the time, “It rocked my world.” It was so far beyond the possibility of guesswork or generality, and subsequent events and future readings only reinforced that experience, gave me the “empirical evidence” of repeatability.
For days after that reading I walked around shaking my head. One part of my brain was seeking in vain for a rational explanation, while another part was trying hard to find a way to incorporate this understanding into my world-view. How does a rational-scientific-skeptic find a place in his orderly philosophy for that? (Though I could say the same thing about death.)
As for the progress of Ellwood’s efforts at romancing, everything seemed to be going very well, but Gabrielle held her feelings close. I couldn’t tell if we were just having some fun together, or starting something. Ellwood was happy just to be playing the “romantic superhero,” but the rest of “us” had more serious concerns.
I tried to clarify my feelings in my journal.
With Gabrielle, it’s all getting complicated, both feelings and realities. This fool is definitely falling hard, but can’t tell if it’s reciprocal. My need is rather pathetically desperate, but again, you can’t tell yourself how to feel. She’s got “powers,” no question. I’m so stirred up inside, agitated, and alternately miserable and ecstatic. I don’t think I’m strong enough to be facing this right now, but again — it wasn’t a choice.
In the heartbreaking words of Grace Bailey from “Wind at My Back,” “Don’t let me lose again.”
These are dangerous times, and I fear the future — for the first time in 11 months and 5 days [since Jackie’s death]. I’m afraid if this doesn’t go well it could really mess me up bad again. Still, I wouldn’t do it any differently. That would have been a bigger mistake.
But . . . Don’t let me lose again.
Look in
Look the storm in the eye
Look out
To the sea and the sky
Look around
At the sight and sound
Look in look out look around
FORCE 10, 1987
Chapter 13
SUMMERLUDE
Got to keep on moving
At the speed of love
Nothing changes faster
Than the speed of love
THE SPEED OF LOVE, 1993
After five days and nights of “extreme romancing,” several indicators seemed to tell me it was time to get riding again. Gabrielle had to return to working her usual long hours at the restaurant, when she wouldn’t have much time for me, and also, the arrival of June was calling me back to the house on the lake. It would be summer there now, green and gentle after the harsh white winter, and I was yearning to be there. Gabrielle and I agreed to meet up again soon, maybe in Canada, or maybe in San Francisco, just a short flight from Los Angeles, and we had a sweet parting at the Sunset Marquis.
It was time for me to regroup, to try to sort out the chaos of my feelings, and I knew a long cross-country ride would be just the forum for that. So, instead of my usual meandering routes, I got on the Interstate in Los Angeles and just started riding, my feverish thoughts ticking off the miles across California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Wisconsin, the upper peninsula of Michigan, Ontario, and — in only five days — back to the house by the lake.
I was so excited to be there again that I was dashing around the house, the woods, and down to the lake, trying to look at everything at once. Keith had taken his usual perfect care of the place, and the gardens were a vision of carefully tended splendor. Altogether, it was quite a different scene than the one I had left back in mid-April, a reflection of the seasonal changes as well as the changes my little baby soul had been through in the intervening time.
We also seemed to have a new member in that splintered, multifaceted soul of mine, a persona (perhaps not “adaptive” this time, but rather “developmental”) I could best describe as a 14-year-old girl, given my sudden taste for “teen-pop music,” especially the lovey-dovey songs, and my tendency to burst into tears over even the happy parts of my Sunday night TV show, “Wind at My Back” (on CBC, of course, a family drama set in the ’30s, kind of “The Waltons” of Ontario). Thinking that perhaps my little baby soul had grown into an adolescent girl, I called her “Gaia,” after a primitive goddess.
As I settled into summer, I was hoping to build myself an active routine once again, writing my therapeutic letters and getting outdoors for therapeutic exercise, alternating weeks alone with therapeutic visits from friends and family. (Yes, life was all about therapy.) I even dared to harbor a secret hope I might get started on some serious writing work, whether it meant getting back to my half-finished book about the Rush tour, or working on the Ghost Rider’s story — but I would just have to see about that.
A passage from George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss expressed the post-traumatic state I was embarking upon, and gave me a clue that I was still in for some tough times: There is something sustaining in the very agitation that accompanies the first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain is often a stimulus, and produces an excitement which is transient strength. It is in the slow, changed life that follows — in the time when sorrow has become stale, and has no longer an emotive intensity that counteracts its pain — in the time when day follows day in dull unexpectant sameness, and trial is a dreary routine; — it is then that despair threatens; it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of our existence, which shall give to endurance the nature of satisfaction.
In my early days of settling into the house on the lake, I wrote to my friend Mendelson Joe, to tell him all about everything.
June 9, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.
This is one of those times when I can’t believe it’s been so long since the last time I wrote to you — late February, according to my files. However, these days I’m often glad to notice a few months have slipped by on me. It means that I’ve been filling my days well enough to allow Time, the presumed healer, to get on with its job.
I’ve just returned from picking up my bike in Mexico City and riding it home through northern Mexico and the western U.S., via the six-week, 14,000-kilometre [8,750-mile] route. Most of that time was spent meandering around the West Coast, visiting some Canadian ex-pat friends in Los Shmengeles, and my brother and his family in San Francouver (the B.C. one). Last week, I decided it was time to get home, and took the “express route” back from L.A.
You know I prefer the back roads, the empty two-lane blacktop thrill-rides of the West, but there is still something special about a long, relentless journey, even on the “Superslab.” Brutus and I did a couple of cross-country marathons during the Rush tour (Virginia to Frisco in four days, Toronto to L.A. in five) and we got to like the way you just keep humming along, stopping only for gas and “biological breaks,” with a mental jukebox dredging up every song you ever knew and playing it back to you. Sure you get stiff and sore, and maybe cold and wet, but that’s the price of admission.
This time I made a truly epic crossing (“Five Thousand Ks in Five Days” is the pithy headline) because I just wanted to be here, and because the idea of a long ride in that “Interstate-of-mind” appealed to me.
Across the Mojave (101°F on the World’s Tallest Thermometer in Baker, California), into the high desert of the Great Basin, Nevada and Utah, and one of the best Interstate routes in all America — I-70 winding through Utah’s monumental rock formations and wide blue sky, then up and over the Colorado Rockies.