While his principal interest was sex, Obern toyed with the idea of becoming a professional skier, a tennis pro, an actor. Glamor attracted him, but the limelight had no love for him. His body failed him. Obern was not a natural athlete, and had no desire to achieve success by “working harder” than the competition. Obern lacked the voice and good looks necessary to achieve what was achievable as an actor with connections, but little talent or perseverance.
Having failed at these ambitions, Obern sought other ways of occupying his time when not on a date or at The Club. He tried fencing, pottery, the oboe; all with equal failure. Obern kept trying, dabbling at various arts, crafts, and activities, until he found something he thought he could do well at, or, at least, do no worse than others. This is how he stumbled on poetry.
Obern had one area of ongoing success. This was women, his first love and principal area of focus. Thomas Obern’s introduction of his son to The Club, the secrets he learned there, his passable appearance, and his sizable inheritance, provided Paul Obern with a steady flow of companions. It was this pursuit of bodily pleasure that led Obern to the pleasure of mind and soul found in poetry.
One of the women who came into his life was a college student majoring in English Literature, with minors in French and Philosophy. Obern bumped into her in an art gallery at Temple University. He was twenty-six at the time, or so he later recalled. Obern had found that art galleries at universities were nice places for bumping into the type of woman he found most attractive: young, intelligent, and rebellious, preferably with an athletic build. With time Obern forgot her name, or at least he could no longer be sure of it. Sometimes he recalled it as being Rebecca, other times as Elizabeth, Betsy, or even Brenda. Such details were unimportant, especially with the passage of time. That was what biographers are for, or should be (according to Obern); to research or make up those petty details that so fascinate readers in the popular press. Rebecca or Betsy or Brenda was a student. She had an on-campus job with security. She had been assigned to the art gallery. The assignment was considered by some to be a plum; to others it was agony. It depended on the exhibit and who it brought in. Spending a day looking at bad art was annoying, but having to spend a day looking at bad art while answering stupid questions was insufferable.
The art in this particular exhibit was bad, but not as bad as most. It was the Masters exhibit of two artists from the university’s Masters of Fine Arts’ program. One painter specialized in sketches of people making love while surrounded by grapes. The grapes were of various sizes and colors. Some of the grapes filled entire canvases so that only the legs (and, on one occasion, the toes) of the lovers were visible, if obscure. The paintings reminded Obern of posters for a bad movie, or, worse, the movie itself. While the first artist, the painter, filled Obern with sour grapes, the second student artist, a photographer, filled him with a sense of disdain. The photographer’s exhibit consisted of three-foot square enlargements, in black and white, of various human body parts. The photographer seemed fascinated by hair. One photo was of an ear lobe with a few fuzzy hairs sticking out. Another was of a pair of eyebrows, another of hairy calves. The artist’s most daring photographs were of a man and woman’s pubic hair, seen from the edges, absent of the surrounding details of navels, legs, or genitalia. Obern felt as if he were a mosquito or a flea, but had no urge to bite. He thought, “I can do better than this.”
Perhaps he could. Obern had found some old drawings from his childhood in a box in his father’s closet after the funeral. Obern was surprised his father had kept such things. He had never thought of his father as sentimental. Yet, this box was filled with trinkets from the younger Obern’s childhood: drawings, report cards, spelling tests with “A+.” Obern had gone through the contents of the box, trying to recall each item and place it in the context of time and memory. The pieces that he liked best were the drawings and paintings he had made while his mother was still alive. He had kept these and thrown away the rest. The papers he kept were yellowed and crinkled. Those same yellowed relics are now part of the National Art Gallery collection. The paint had faded, but there was meaning there. Obern’s favorite was a family portrait. He must have drawn it when he was three. There is a stick-like figure with breasts. Obern identified this as his mother. Inside her belly is drawn another figure, smaller, smiling. This is Obern. His father appears in the family portraits as a strange figure with skeletal hands growing from the side of the picture. His father is reaching towards Obern’s mother and him. The circle and line face appears to smile, but the curve is not perfect. This imperfection allows the smile to be ambiguous, to speak of frustration, longing as well as happiness. His father reaches towards his mother, the mother with the baby in her belly. Thomas Obern reaches, but he cannot touch. The figure is frozen in the effort. The figure representing Norma Obern smiles her own twisted smile, as does the baby in her belly.
Obern enjoyed this simple child’s drawing, drawn in innocence and imperfection, but subject to endless interpretation and misinterpretation. Perhaps he had always had an interest in art. Perhaps he had a talent for it. If he could only find the right way of expressing his talent.
Obern thought of this in the art gallery, as reported in his Autobiography. While Obern was in thought, as if by accident, he fell into conversation with the young woman who was sitting at the security desk. She did not look like a security guard. The woman was dressed up, either to go out after work, or to compete with the artwork on the walls. She was wearing a black silk blouse with a silver chain laced with turquoise or a suitable imitation. Her hair was black, straight, and came to just below her shoulders. She was wearing slacks that matched her blouse. A thick belt with a silver buckle cinched her waist. She had a notebook open in front of her, and appeared to be studying. It was near exam time, and Obern knew it was probably rude of him to distract her, but he asked a stupid question anyway.
Obern commented that the artists had left copies of resumes with their home addresses and phone numbers on the information table. He thought this foolish. What if someone should break into their homes to rob them of their work? If Obern had thought about it a moment longer, he would not have asked that question. He would have asked a different one instead.
The answer was obvious. It was even obvious to Brenda or Rebecca or whatever. She answered, “Who would want to? Starving artists do not own anything worth stealing.”
Paul thought he saw annoyance in her eyes and heard it in her voice. He probably did. But those eyes. Once having looked into her eyes, Obern wanted to continue doing so. He asked another question, another foolish one, the kind he was sure she’d roll her eyes at, but he did it anyway. She answered. He kept asking questions, getting answers, occasionally interjecting a comment, a compliment, a tidbit about himself. Time passed. Paul Obern was in no hurry. He had no need to go anywhere, and there was no mad rush of art hounds to vie for her attention. Something in him must have suited her, at least in passing, for the moment. Obern left with her name, phone number, and a promise of a date.
Paul called Brenda or Becky that evening. She remembered him. To his surprise, Brenda or Rebecca was still willing to go out with him. Paul made it a habit of asking out a lot of women, several each day if possible. Yet, he was always pleasantly thrilled when someone followed up on his lead.
Obern took Brenda/Rebecca out for sushi and a drink. The fact that she was underage bothered neither him, her, nor the bartender. They went dancing. He took her home. He was quite the gentleman, leaving her only with a kiss and a hug. He waved good-bye, promised to call her, drove off in his sports car, and went straight to The Club.
The next day, Obern called Rebecca/Brandy. They went out again that evening, and again the next night. By the end of the week Obern had coaxed her back to his house to drink wine out of warm glasses. There were kisses. Idle conversation about her wants and dreams. After this came the bedroom, the slow peeling off of clothes. Obern never lost his awe for the curve of a woman’s hip, the shadow he
r breasts made against her abdomen, the sweet dip of her navel, the luxurious softness of her legs, the feel of her belly against his. And so, they were together for a while.
One night Rebecca or Betsy asked Paul to go to a poetry reading with her. It was some event organized by the university’s English department. Some big-name poet. Huddled English majors sat in the theater oohing and aahing the poet’s name. A pot-bellied man in middle age or older came out on the stage. He had a tweed jacket and a ponytail. The man read excerpts from a series of books. The verse had a conversational tone. The images were dreamlike. Some lines were memorable.
Obern felt he was listening to his stereo with the speakers shifted way over, the bass and treble gone haywire. The music was muted, but the words still came out. Whatever music remained was inherent in the rhythm of language. For a time, Obern felt he was in church, and, as with most of the time he had spent in church as a child, he was bored. He went away with mixed feelings about the event and poetry in general. Rebecca/Betsy, however, was glowing.
“Wasn’t he fantastic!” she told him over drinks. “His imagery, choice of wording. I was fascinated by the dark undertones of sexuality and his relationship with his parents. There’s a lot going on there.”
Paul nodded his head and sipped his beer. He thought, “This is the last time I go to a poetry reading.” (Autobiography, page 121.)
But that night Rebecca or Betsy was wild in bed, the wildest she had ever been, more willing to experiment and “expand her poetic horizons.” The following week, Betsy mentioned that another poet she wanted to hear was coming to town. Obern was eager to go.
This second poet was much different than the first. For one thing, she was a woman. In the second place, she was relatively young. In the third place, she was beautiful. These qualities immediately got Paul’s attention. When she spoke, he listened, attentive to every word. Her poems, like those of the poet the week before, were filled with dark overtones, but there was also joy. There was a praising of life and fertility, and a particular exultation of sex. Obern found her words sticking in his head. The evening with Brenda or Rebecca went as expected, but that night and the following day Obern found himself thinking more about the poet than of Brenda/Becky.
Obern purchased all of the poet’s books that he could find. He read them diligently, fervently. He dreamed of how he might meet her one day and act out some of her more sensual images, like rubbing a lime on her breasts, watching the juice run down her body, or the fantasies with chains and leather. In the meantime, Obern had Brenda/Rebecca to practice with.
Brenda/Beatrice and Obern went to more readings together. When Brenda admitted to writing poetry herself, and showed some of her work to him, Paul held back the laughter he felt, and complimented her on her imagery and use of consonants. Paul told her he wrote poetry, too. In fact he did not. He had never written a poem before. But, when Betty/Bertha asked to see some of his work, Obern had to come up with something. Fortunately, they were not at his home when the question was raised. That night he had suggested, on a whim, that they drive to the ocean to watch the waves. Belinda/Rebecca had agreed. It seemed a romantic thing to do. It seemed a poetic thing to do. It seemed a way to delay her learning the truth. They spent the night in a luxury suite in a casino in Atlantic City.
While Brenda slept, Obern got up and peered through the curtains, past the neon, at the gray night sand and the blackness of the ocean. He took some paper and a pen from the nightstand, and tried to write a poem. He scrawled a few lines with great difficulty. Brenda stirred and asked him what he was doing.
“Writing a poem,” he said.
“Really! Can I see it?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he replied. “It isn’t ready.” (See Carla Thompson’s biography of Obern, page 148.)
As Rebecca or Becky or Betsy sat up in bed, the sheet slipped from her. The moon was large, but not yet full. Still, the light of the sun reflected from it entered the room, falling on the exposed breast of the woman in his bed. Obern studied that breast, its shape in light and shadow, the hardness of its nipple. He knew the feel of that breast, and had kneaded it in his hands. He knew the taste of that flesh, of the nipple. He knew the beauty of the veins that speckled the texture of the breast. He became aroused. More importantly, he became inspired.
Obern walked over towards Brenda/Belinda carrying the paper and pen with him. He climbed into bed and began kissing her. His lips covered her, face, forehead, shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He kissed her buttocks, he kissed her calves, he kissed the soles of her feet. Somewhere on this journey, Brenda had begun kissing him. Their limbs became increasingly entwined. Obern had dropped the paper and pen on the bed. Words were forming in his head. He had felt these feelings before, often, but he had never put them into words. Now the words were there. Obern saw the pen. He saw the paper. He was in an awkward position, but he stretched himself. Obern got hold of the pen and paper, and began to write. Doggerel flowed with an air of brilliance.
Obern shifted positions and had Brenda change as well, both for variety and to get something to lean on. He read through what he had written. He was not satisfied. He pumped violently, and scratched out lines, and made revisions. Obern ran out of room on the paper. The blotches were too great to read with ease. He needed to rewrite it, recopy it while the mood was still on him, while the idea was still in his head, while his head was still in Brenda/Betsy.
Obern could hear Brenda breathing rhythmically. She was taking increasingly short gasps of air. Her lips were open, her eyes closed. He envisioned the muscles of her abdomen, tightening and relaxing, growing ever tighter, as he had witnessed so many times before with her and with other women. Obern felt pressure building inside himself, but he still felt the need to write.
There was no more paper within reach. However, Brenda’s skin stretched out before him, like a fresh scroll of the finest parchment. Obern took the ballpoint, thinking a quill would be more appropriate, and began to write out the revised lines on the smooth beauty of her skin. For a moment, Brenda/Rebecca glanced up, but relaxed when she saw what he was doing. She closed her eyes and retreated into her dream as Obern was carried away with his.
Afterwards, Brenda tried to read in a mirror the lines scrawled on her buttocks and lower back. “What does it say?” she asked. She twisted and pulled at her body, but this only further distorted the words that appeared reversed in the mirror.
Paul laughed, “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Yes, please.”
He didn’t mind. He was proud of this poem, the first one he had written. He read it to her.
“Not bad,” she said, smiling. “You had better copy this onto something else before I take my shower.” (Autobiography, page 125.)
Obern did so, but while he wrote he thought how much better the lines looked and read where they were on her scented flesh.
During the drive back to the city, Brenda/Rebecca commented, “You know they have open poetry readings at Bacchanal and at the City Book Store. Open mic. We could go sometime. I could read my poems. You could read yours.”
As he was still feeling good about the night and the poem, Paul agreed. Betsy named a date. He agreed to this also. Later, Obern realized that he had only this one poem. He would need more. Brenda/Rebecca would expect more.
Obern spent a few fruitless mornings trying to write. He had no success. The lines that he was able to scribble meant nothing to him. If they meant nothing to him, he concluded that they would mean nothing to anyone else. Obern tried to think of a way to recreate the setting that had led to his writing that first poem. He thought about it. What elements were required? What had brought the mood upon him? He brooded on this for some time.
Obern decided to call some old girlfriends. Some of the numbers had changed. He left messages for a few. Of those who answered, most hung up. One was interested, mildly, in seeing him again, but her timetable did not suit his. Obern had three days to go until the open poetry
reading. He called some of the new numbers he had accumulated in recent days. There were some prospects there, but timing was a problem. Obern made some dates, just to keep his options open for the future, but the real problem remained. He decided to visit The Club.
The woman who answered the door was the manager. That was her role now, but she had once had a different one. She remembered Obern both from the time before, when they were both younger, and from more recent visits. She greeted him like an old friend, for, in fact, that was what he was. When Paul was seventeen, this same manager had been one of his favorites. He had spent many a lazy Sunday afternoon, when business was slow, relaxing in her arms and talking. The woman currently went by the name of “Randi,” but in younger days she had used the working name “Patrice.” This was Randi “Patrice” Lee, later to become Lee-Smythe, my stepmother.
Although Randi and Obern were nearly the same age, Obern viewed her almost as a mother figure, partially because of the role she now played for the other women, and partially in honor of the long talks he had had with her in his youth. To some degree, Randi also felt maternal towards Obern, although, as she explained to me, at the time she still thought of him primarily as a regular customer, whom she trusted a bit, and of whom she had some pleasant memories based on past shared experiences. Obern was just one of many men for whom she had similar feelings. Their true friendship would develop later as both realized how dependent they were upon each other.
As was his custom when he saw Randi, Paul made time to have a cup of coffee with her, and talk briefly about her health, her daughter, and times gone by. Obern kept a list of all the girls he knew from The Club, and sent all of them gifts at Christmas, and sometimes on other holidays, depending upon how he felt about them at the time. After his exchange with Randi it was his custom to hold her hand for a while, give her a kiss, and maybe pat her on the rear for old time’s sake, all out of sight of customers and the other girls of course. Even The Club had a sense of decorum.
Dadaoism (An Anthology) Page 17
