by Tom Robbins
For better or for worse, Ms. Ronstadt never did take her place at the table that evening (I didn’t allude to her absence or inquire of her whereabouts, not wishing to embarrass Lucas, with whom she possibly had quarreled), and I’ll submit that it was just as well. What would have been the point? For one thing, the notion that she might ditch a wealthy visionary film tycoon for the likes of me, might start calling me “sweetie pie,” was ludicrous. For another, I cannot be counted among the tens of millions of Americans who are so gaga over celebrities they’d exchange their soul for a rubber dog biscuit just to be cuddled by -- or better yet, seen in public on the arm of -- a popular star. Beware, folks! Many, if not most, celebrities come with a metric ton of emotional baggage, and neither their talent nor their success will rub off on you in bed.
Having said that, it would be dishonest of me to claim that not once during that very long dinner party (it was close to midnight when Joseph Campbell led the guests in singing a pagan parody of “Gimme That Ol’ Time Religion”), that not once did I look to my right and think that if I’d just put a tad more effort into my manifesting, I’d have been sitting next to sexy Linda Ronstadt instead of an empty chair and a dumb little card with her name on it.
I bring up the subject of celebrity primarily because for an offbeat fiction writer out of the North Carolina hills, who has chosen to live his life far from the centers of power and ambition, I’ve crossed paths with an extraordinary number of famous people (painters, photographers, writers, actors, directors, and rock stars), a few who’ve become cherished friends; and I know that certain of my readers will be disappointed that I haven’t written more about those figures in these pages. Sorry. To tell stories that involved them would run the risk of violating their privacy (perpetually under assault as it is), and if I haven’t good stories to tell, simply alluding to them could only be construed as an unseemly exhibition of name-dropping. I’ve tried to keep it to a minimum.
Not surprisingly, the clear majority of notables I’ve met has been on or around movie sets -- as I’ve had small speaking parts in several Alan Rudolph films, and spent two weeks on location while Gus Van Sant was shooting Even Cowgirls Get the Blues -- or else in meetings where potential screen adaptations of various other of my novels were being discussed. Some of the actors with whom I’ve interacted proved as interesting and as nice as they were gifted, but the Tinseltown individual who made the deepest emotional impact on me was a marginally successful screenwriter whose name I cannot even recall.
Like many Vietnam vets, this guy had come home from that disgraceful and wholly unnecessary war psychologically vulnerable, but he’d convalesced by writing a screenplay about his boyhood. Clint Eastwood bought the script and turned it into a decent film, and now someone else had hired the fellow to adapt Still Life With Woodpecker. Unfortunately, he wasn’t up to the challenge, but in our meetings I couldn’t help but notice that he always had a toothbrush protruding from the left breast pocket of his sports coat.
One day my curiosity got the better of me and I asked him about it, suspecting he might be suffering lingering post-traumatic doubts about where he would be spending his nights. That’s when he revealed that his girlfriend had moved out a few months before, and the only thing she’d left behind was her well-used toothbrush. Ever since, everywhere he went he carried that intimate implement of personal hygiene in his pocket next to his heart. I imagined that on particularly lonely nights he might even brush his own teeth with it, its presence in his mouth re-creating the sensation of her kisses. There’s not a romance novelist on the planet who could come up with something one-tenth as touching as this. But -- one last time -- I digress.
Aside from the opportunity to explain my general reluctance to write about celebrities, I had an additional motive for recounting my nonmeeting with Linda Ronstadt. To wit: The subject of manifestation offers a fairly smooth segue into the subject of imagination, which, after all, figures prominently in my life, not to mention the title of this tome.
Although at first glance there may appear to be a fairly thin line between them, there are significant differences between the attempt to somehow magically exert one’s will on tangible reality for one’s own benefit (manifestation), and the inspiration to imagine entirely new realities (sometimes to add color and bounce to the drab waltz of existence, sometimes to facilitate the recognition of wonder, sometimes just for the hell of it); between an attempt to mentally force fortune to alter its course for one’s personal gain (to manifest, say, a winning lottery ticket), and possessing the lightness of spirit and the freedom of mind to live as if such developments would pale in comparison to those one regularly experiences at the piano, the easel, the writing pad, or upon viewing a pattern of fallen leaves in the gutter; to live -- against all evidence -- as if advances in fortune were already here.
Arising late one morning in Washington, D.C., a stop on one of my cross-country book tours, I cleaned up and set out in search of sustenance. I’d walked not much more than a block in the quiet neighborhood around my hotel when I noticed something rather odd. There had been a downpour during the night, and a few yards ahead of me, a man was squatting on the sidewalk staring into a rain puddle. What the . . . ? It couldn’t have been a congressman because while many of them are known psychopaths, they’re seldom deranged in such an interesting way; and anyhow, this man, I saw as I drew closer, was of a Middle Eastern ethnicity.
I slowed my pace for a better view, and when he noticed my attention on him, the fellow broke into a wide -- and, I thought, conspiratorial -- grin. Pointing into the rain puddle at his feet, he said enthusiastically, “The swan!” I must have looked bewildered, because, still gesturing at the puddle, he said it again. “The swan, the swan, the black swan.”
He had a nice face, no shrill in his voice, no hint of madness in his eyes. So what could I do but squat beside him? I squatted. I stared. And I have to say that so convincing was he that I half expected (maybe fully expected) to observe a miniature swan, a waterfowl (he surely wasn’t referring to a ballerina), the size and color of a licorice drop swimming around in the puddle on the street.
To his obvious disappointment, I at first saw nothing, however, and when I regarded him quizzically, he regarded me as if I were thick. “The black swan,” he repeated. This time his tone was patient, as if speaking to a child. “The swan is dead.” Oh? The swan was dead! Maybe that was the problem: the poor swan could have been partially submerged or even floating upside down, not immediately recognizable. I gazed into the puddle again, and this time I actually could see a dark shape, a shadow in the rainwater, could see what could have been the drowned corpse of a tiny swan just below the surface. And the question that came to my mind was not what a teeny-weeny black swan was doing in a rain puddle in Washington, D.C., but what had caused it to die?
It was then that it dawned on me that at the same time the gentleman had been pointing down at the puddle with his right hand, his left had had been pointing upward at the sky. And at that moment -- bing! -- something else occurred to me. I suddenly recalled hearing on the news that there was to be a solar eclipse that day. The nice man from Lebanon or Iran or wherever, aware that looking directly at a solar eclipse could permanently damage the eyes, was cleverly watching its reflection, its dark shadow in the puddle. I’d been fooled by his accent. He’d not been saying “swan” at all, but rather, “sun”: the black sun. The sun is dead.
We were both relieved that I’d finally understood. As the moon slid on by, though, and the sun reemerged, seeming none the worse for the brief if dramatic interruption, I couldn’t help but be somewhat disappointed. There’d been moments, even after I’d become aware of the eclipse, when I’d imagined that I could actually detect a little bitty swan in that puddle. You see, such is my disposition that I could hold both eclipse and swan in my mind at the same time.
If I have been given any gift in this life, it’s my ability to live simultaneously in the rational world and the world of imagination
. I’m in my eighties now, and if there is one thing of which I am most proud, it’s that I have permitted no authority (neither civilian nor military, neither institutional nor societal) to relieve me -- by means of force, coercion, or ridicule -- of that gift. From the beginning, imagination has been my wild card, my skeleton key, my servant, my master, my bat cave, my home entertainment center, my flotation device, my syrup of wahoo; and I plan to stick with it to the end, whenever and however that end might come, and whether or not there is another act to follow.
The French say that the best part of an affair is walking up the stairs. I say that it’s probably better to imagine heaven than to go there.
author’s note
For one reason or another, some of my closest, most beloved friends are not mentioned by name in this book. To them I say, “Count your blessings.”
Mentioned, although not adequately thanked (it’s not that kind of book), are: Louis R. Guzzo, Dr. James Dilley, Luther Nichols, and Ted Solotaroff; men who innocently aided and abetted my literary advancement. To them I say, “It’s okay: You could not have foreseen the result.”
In addition to the women named herein, there are many others (ranging, alphabetically, from Libby Burke and E. Jean Carroll to Carolyn Watson and Theresa Zoro) who in one way or another have had a significant impact on my life. To them I say, “The gravy would have been damned lumpy, the champagne only dishwater without you.”
My little dog, Blini, likewise fails to appear in this tome, although I did dedicate my last novel to her, and anyway she can’t read. (I’ve no idea how she learned to recite those dramatic verses from Beowulf.)
I do wish to bow in gratitude before my insightful and certainly courageous editor, Daniel Halpern, for professing to find something flavorful, even nourishing, in these accounts of mine, and for encouraging me to keep spilling the beans.
Tom Robbins
La Conner, Washington
September 2013
also by tom robbins
Another Roadside Attraction
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
Still Life With Woodpecker
Jitterbug Perfume
Skinny Legs and All
Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates
Villa Incognito
Wild Ducks Flying Backward
B Is for Beer
copyright
TIBETAN PEACH PIE. Copyright © 2014 by Thomas E. Robbins. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Tibetan Dragon Mask by Sim Kay Seng/Shutterstock, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-06-226740-5
EPub Edition MAY 2014 ISBN 9780062267429
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