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Greek to Me
Fire and Ice
© 2009 by Michael Raysses
I’ve always been keenly aware of my ancient Greek forebears. I imagined that I was a direct descendant of one of the great philosophers. And it needn’t have been Plato or Socrates—I would’ve settled for Empedocles. He identified the four essential elements as earth, air, fire, and water. But the closest I ever got to Empedocles was my Uncle Tasso, an uncut diamond in the philosophical rough.
Tasso’s four elements were ouzo, feta cheese, olives, and bread. The one place where both philosophies intersected was that they each recognized the impact of life’s two great energies, Love and Strife, upon the four elements. Regardless of whose model I use to understand my own elemental makeup, love and strife have played prominent roles.
Living in the Midwest, there’s an irresistible force you must come to grips with—winter. Relentless and bleak, it wreaks havoc on the sturdiest of minds and the heartiest of souls, both of which are in short supply when you’re a 14 year-old boy.
One night in the dead of winter, some friends of mine and I decided to spend the evening bombing cars with snowballs. A bank of trees that abutted a schoolyard gave us appropriate cover, and with that, we let fly. At one point we could tell we’d scored a direct hit by the thud of our missiles finding their target. A few minutes later, though, a very angry man emerged from seemingly out of nowhere, chasing us blindly all at once.
We scattered like cockroaches in bright light, and as I sliced my way through the darkness I heard one of my friends cry out—he’d been apprehended—and we were being called back by his captor. We all returned, unsure of what awaited us. There stood this guy, clutching my friend’s shoulder, fury distorting his features. He wanted to know who had struck his car. Hearing no discernible response, he pointed to the largest of us, John. Though technically only 14, John was so developed that he could’ve passed for an adult. The man then said that he was going to hit John with a snowball the way he’d been hit. John protested, and as the man cupped snow into his hands, we silently encircled him. He launched the snowball directly at John, who reflexively deflected it. As it shattered, we descended on him like a pack of young wolves.
With not a word spoken or a glance shared, seven boys metastasized into a malignant mass of adolescent rage, raining punches and kicks to the man’s head and body. As quickly as it started, it ended. With the same mute understanding, we scattered again, each finding his way home to ponder the unimaginable wrong we had just committed.
Thirty years later, I indirectly reconnected with one of the great loves of my life, a woman I’d lost track of after an abrupt split. One night, I wrote her a letter. A week later, she called me, insisting we discuss “the letter.” When I asked her which letter she meant, she was astounded—the letter. Her tone dissolved my confusion, though I had to confess that I’d just thought of it as a letter. In any case, here it is.
4:51 a.m.
Heidi,
I’m speeding down the 405. I’m cruising along at 80, the moon peeks out from behind a mountain, making the Getty Center look inconsequential, and my car becomes a rocket. A magic carpet. And the speed makes me want to drive to your house, to glide soundlessly into your driveway, through the window in your bedroom, until all I can discern is the rhythm of your breath. As I hear it faintly, I can see you on your bed—you’re lying on your stomach, and you look to me as you described Gracie to me in a recent letter. There’s a peace, a solitude about you that is physical, it’s so present. And I can see you now, watch you slumber. Which is all I want to do right now—watch you sleep, hear you breathe. Until that part of me that always asks about the next step, the “more” of a scenario. And no sooner is that thought born than you turn over on your back, your arms outstretched, the completeness of the picture now cut in half. And for a second, I can’t hear you breathe anymore. So I perch myself above you, cocking my ear to regain your rhythm. And as I lower myself down onto you, it’s only then that I realize that you were one half of a puzzle to which I am the remaining piece. And as I lay my head on your stomach, my body between your legs, I hear my breath. And it is yours.
Me
P.S. This is sent in the spirit of “if I think it, if I write it, I send it.” This letter may not have been conceivable had it not been for the time of night it is. There is such an exhilarating sense that attends not only being awake at strange hours, but being stimulated, aroused, because at five in the morning, there is no appropriate thought or activity. There is just what you feel, exposed in the blinding light of a moon in its death throes.
So, if it comforts you, I’m standing behind you right now, arms around your waist, humming softly, in need of a shave.
Oh, and I’ve kissed the lake goodnight...
For better or worse, this is how I have come to know my elemental self—by existential sonar. Maybe it’s the same for you. You live moments of such profound sharpness that they overwhelm you, at best leaving you to make sense of them at some point down the road. And if you’re lucky, when you try to reconcile the fire in your life with the ice that you’ve known, the inevitable steam that’s created lifts, leaving you with a clearer picture of who you are. Though I can’t speak for Empedocles, I bet Uncle Tasso would understand.
Michael Raysses is a writer/actor/National Public Radio commentator living in Los Angeles. E-mail him at MichaelRaysses@hotmail.com.