12/13 - 12/14 1999
When I left Minneapolis last Monday, it was very early in the
morning, and by the time I got to the airport from the car, to
the international terminal by shuttles, onto the plane, over the
country, off the plane in SF, unto another shuttle, and to the
town where I met Will, I was -- needless to say -- a bit worn.
Nonetheless, I was happy. Will, in case I haven't described him
well before, shot for Reuters for over 40 years, is in his sixties,
originally from Ireland, and has a treasure trove of stories about
shooting decades of our history. He has stories about Bunny Yeager,
Bettie Page, Sophia Loren, Golda Meir: they never end, and I never
tire of hearing any of them. I'm such a talker, that it can sometimes
take someone like Will with an incredibly long and rich history
to get me to shut the hell up and listen (and "Shut the hell up and listen," verbatim, tended to be said
to me by Will rather often when he and I talked on the phone over
the last few years. He may well have been the only person I never
smacked for saying that.).
He loves me deeply, and never fails to mention it, and I'm a big
sucker for those who express their feelings openly and often.
So, we hit a pub right on when I finally arrived, I had a coffee
with whiskey, and we set out for the rural retreat of the mountains
of Olema, a tiny town northeast of Marin County in California.
When we got there, I was so touched by the place he'd found. It
was his idea to get me away, just for a couple days, to a place
with no computers, screens, phones or people, and he truly did
find the perfect spot. To his chagrin, it also had a fireplace,
which I am sure he cursed himself for since I really didn't move
more than two feet from the thing for the entire time (In fact, he would tell everyone we knew for years later that
he took this hot babe out to the wilds for a romantic weekend,
and all she did was get loaded and sit in front of the fire in
some big, old, ugly pink sweater).
I am hypnotized by fire. It may well be one of the only things
in the world that can allow me to meditate deeply, quietly, and
without bouncing or rocking my normally hyperactive body, and
I hadn't been around one for a spell of time since I had one at
an apartment in Chicago in 1997.
The first evening, never one to acclimate well to time changes,
I woke up in the middle of the night. I'm not one who can wake
and go back asleep. Sleeping and waking for me are two very distinct
states of being. When I am asleep, I sleep like the dead, and
when I'm awake, even if I'm absolutely exhausted, you'd be hard
pressed to get me to even close my eyes for a moment. It's one
or the other, and even as I ready for sleeping or waking, I don't
stay in between for long. I have wondered now and then if I am
a person or a wind-up toy.
When I woke, it was still completely dark, ad I bundled up and
went outside. Two deer were on the porch, and clearly docile from
being in an area where they didn't feel threatened, instead of
bolting, they simply looked at me as if I had come to an appointment
they had already scheduled before me. We made a compromise...I
got the chair on the porch, and they could have the grass. Rather,
they let me have the chair. It was quite gracious.
I laid back, looked up, and felt the breath move right out of
me. You truly could see every single star in the sky. Moments
like those -- the entire ceiling of the world illuminated, mountain
air bracing, and my totem animals near me -- simply leave me in
awe, feeling beautifully small and inconsequential; a smaller
speck in the face of everything than even the dimmest, tiniest
star in a sky full of millions of diamonds.
I have always loved looking at stars. They are such a simple and
poignant illustration of how all of the world is. Millions of
them blink and glow and glitter, all different and yet the same
at the same time, and yet they create constellations and patterns
together that are even more lovely, and do so effortlessly, without
even trying. One has to wonder if each star knows it isn't really
alone, but is a greater part of something that is simply hard
to see unless you are -- as those of us below are -- standing
far apart from the whole thing and watching in quiet; separate.
So, I sat outside until almost dawn, then went back to the fire.
In less than one day there, I already felt a peace in my soul
I hadn't felt in quite some time, and I am very grateful for it.
Later in the trip, Jane mentioned that I didn't seem as frenetic
and exhausting as I had at our last meeting, and I do think I
have the mountains, the stars, two deer and a charming old Gael
to thank for it.
photo: © Will McNurney |
That day, we did a shoot (Will was very old school when he was shooting -- he'd just blurt
out "Hey, rouge up those nipples, would you?" or "I want to see
some more tit there, woman."), I was still digesting the wonderful dinner Will had made for
me the evening before, and we chatted it up a lot, relaxed, even
napped (During that weekend, Will was also a great snuggler, who spooned
the bloody hell out of me, and tossed in a few gropes just to
be cute. or just to be him, perhaps.), and I dealt with a touch of a flu I'd caught from B before I
left Monday. We had another wonderful dinner (and a helluva a lot of Black Bush, which he brought a fucking
case of, not a bottle), and by the time I left Wednesday morning, I was ready to go,
having made a small peace or two with myself, and remembered the
things that are so important to me, but that I seem to forget
too often for my own good.
Liam (Will) McNurney passed on in 2003. He will be greatly missed.
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