The Miracle in July

The violets explode inside me
when I meet your eyes
Then I'm spinning and I'm diving
Like a cloud of starlings
Darling is this love?

[Starlings] by [Elbow]

Forever we are embroiled in attempts to find that elusive optimal level of arousal. We drink caffeine to break through a malaise, and take drugs to mellow out life's ire. We seek thrills when we are bored, and vacations when we are exhausted. Yes, [everything we do] in life is part of an unconscious search for that pleasant equilibrium, that sweet, transcendental passage between blinding joy and necessary evil. It is a temporary time in space where an irrationally pure delight transforms the certainly impossible into something beyond possible, something to accept as fact and fate.

It's so easy to let this kind of joy intoxicate me as I read through the pages of my lover's words again, feeling once more the boundless happiness he brought me, seeing again our new world focusing itself on love's horizon. Time's transit has not diminished its potency. Just handling the pages makes me drunk with love. And I wonder: Am I still in love with Daniel? Why else would I be here, alone in cold and rainy Denmark? Why am I here, and not visiting my son in Germany, where he lives as a student? I imagine myself standing beside him in the photos he sends to me. Each photo pings my heartstrings. Becca's emails tell me life in Portland is bright and fun, without me. Jake calls to ask if I'll be back before his wedding a month from now, and I can't bring myself to make any promises. And why, after all that I know (or think I know), does the thought of ripping open the past fill me with both a terrible dread and a salivating fascination? Most depressing is the idea that I could discover at the end of this probing into my past that Daniel still means everything to me. And that, in the end, it won't change a thing.

I [feel like going home], back to Portland. This twinge of desire to hop on the first plane home happens more than I would like to admit, but it has never been this strong. I know what is yet to come in this story and I wonder if I can endure the isolation. It's just me and the starlings, and they're more critical about my being here than I am. I push through the doubts and focus on why I came here in the first place. The original purpose of my journey —  to exhume the corpse of my great love, to examine every slice in its skin and every heart-shaped bruise, and then burn the body into black smoke carried away by the cleansing Nordic wind — is that really what I'm doing? Now, as I read for the first time in ages another of the erotic stories which I wrote to Daniel so long ago — before we'd met in person, during that exhilarating early stage when lust was subtly transforming itself into an unexpected love — now, as I read these words again, it's hard to think of our great love as a dead creature to be exhumed. Because today it still feels so painfully alive.

I look over the story now, so many years later. I note how phrases like "kissing me like you love me" have begun to slip themselves in to my erotic narratives. I remember how, during the time when I was writing the story, Daniel and I were talking every day, whenever we could. We had been since the day he first invited me into that fateful online elevator. He was not working full-time, only auditioning for parts in movies and BMW commercials. He spent his days manipulating digital images, talking to and writing for me, and working with his filmmaking partner Søren to develop a comedy about a kindly Danish ambassador who masturbates and daydreams compulsively.

We stopped using quotation marks when talking about our dates. We promised our fidelity to each other, becoming an exclusive, monogamous couple. It was so tantalizing to know that at 3am, instead of kicking at my sheets to adjust them against insomnia, I could give up the fight for sleep, click on my computer, and most likely find Daniel's smiling avatar waiting for me. And I knew that Daniel was experiencing the same thing, because he told me. He was always wanting to tell me things, to share the mundane and the exciting. He was always telling me I was his sunshine, that I brought him energy and courage, and that I was beautiful, a talented writer. That he admired my strengths and my weaknesses. There were always excuses to just to say hello, to ask how the weather was on the other side of the world, to write "I read your blog last night, did you see my comment?", or to say "lover, [tell me what you see] when you dream. Am I there with you?"

Daniel: You're on my mind almost constantly.
Me: I feel the same
Daniel: we might be perfect together
from what we know of each other now
but it's not that much I gather...
Me: I can what you mean
Daniel: definitely connecting in a badass way
*I can what you mean* wtf
Me: do I offend?
Daniel: no I don't understand that sentence - I'M A FOREIGNER
geesh
Me: you intend to use that excuse a lot, don't you?
Daniel: yes
the only one I got
Me: I'll allow it
Daniel: so what does it mean
Me: what I'm "hearing" is that it appears we have a special, rare connection, only its based on little information compared to the amount of feelings we have for each other...right?
Daniel: completely right
Me: =)
so what does that mean?
Daniel: It means you are getting under my skin darling
Me: purrrrrrrrrrrr
Daniel: I love that
three letters
p-u-r

I'd begun to learn that there was more to Daniel than his large libido surrounded by darkness. I learned that he was not good at accepting compliments because he believed that they kept him from getting better at anything. "[Janteloven] is bred into us during growing up, and all it states is to be humble and not to think you're better than anyone else – it's a curse, and I rejected it long ago, but it keeps coming up," he said. "And if I start believing in compliments, I'll be satisfied and leave it at that."

He was not ashamed to be moved to tears. He said he wanted to learn to be a better man, a man more than the sum of his past and his consuming sex drive. He had grown up watching the Muppets, like me, and he especially loved the Swedish Chef and Beaker -- also like me. He enjoyed many tall glasses of gin and lemonade and carbonated beer. His favorite bar was the appropriately-named [Hollywood]. Our musical tastes complimented each other: electronica, indie, blues, rock, and covers tracks. I loved the nuanced melodies that came from the Scandinavian countries, and enjoyed amazing Daniel with bands from his homeland he'd never heard of.

He looked like [Mikael Simpson], and if he had to fuck another man it would be Morten Harket or Chris Isaak. I liked to tease him about fulfilling my fantasy of having two men at once, and he would quote Radiohead lyrics to me and say "don't get any big ideas, they're not going to happen." He frequented the disco with Søren and came home tipsy to tell me stories about the propositions from gay fans who recognized him from his brief appearance on a popular Danish police drama, or to complain how boring all the women were, how snooty and closed off, compared to sweet and sexy American me.

He was dead-pan funny and full of pointed snark. He was secretly anti-social, quick to fall into a routine of drinking alone into the night, smoking cigarette after cigarette, tweaking words and images to expel some of the darkness inside. He didn't take care of his health as well as I liked. Like the majority of Danes, he drank a lot, but that liquor was necessary to loosen up the culturally-bred reserved stoicism. And he wanted to achieve immortality by creating stories. Writing them, telling them, teaching them, and acting them out. He lived in the city of [Århus] on the Jutland peninsula, the second biggest city in Denmark, where he was already a well-known actor usually given whatever role he auditioned for. But in Copenhagen, the largest city located about three hours of bus and boat travel away, he was still an up-and-coming [starman].

"I love faces," Daniel wrote. "They tell you everything if you know how to decipher them."

"You are empathetic, too," I sent back.

"Yes, very much — and humble and arrogant — a contradiction — I'm a voyeur."

"I could have written the same sentence," I said. We had much in common, we both agreed, but what difference did it make? He was in Denmark, and I was not.

Then I received the long, [brutally frank email] which Daniel had promised to send me after we'd declared that our relationship had reached the next step. I learned things that gave me pause, revealed clues about his amorous lifestyle, and tipped me into the the sea of no return.

Around this time, Daniel also told me that he had to move out of the apartment which he had shared with his ex-girlfriend. This meant that he would have to scale back his acting gigs and get a full-time teaching position. And because Daniel would not be available to talk via chat (our preferred method of canoodling) during my daytime-time, this new job would change things for us. We would have to depend, instead, on the less-intimate text message or email to carry our words. This could lead to the end of our romantic dalliance.

Also during this period a pretty young British girl calling herself Monkey Sex contacted me:

Daniel: Uh oh
ahm
Me: what??
Daniel: There's this English girl
I met her on deviantART, she had lost inspiration and I wanted to help her
she's got issues
Me: monkey sex just sent me an email
Daniel: thats her
she's in love with me
Me: its okay, I'm cool if you have a stalker. I've had two so far this year...both ex's of my Jake. Kinda proud of it. Sorta. But not really. =)
Daniel: just got a text from her
and she's not taking no for an answer
what's she writing you
Me: hold, lemee see
it says "what is your 'relationship' with daniel? i wonna know what he's up to. i know his history with women. please could you reply. sorry to bother you."
Daniel: she asked Lily the same thing
Me: Yes, I remember. About a year ago? Freaked Lily out.
I just checked my relationship "status" and it says "divorced" but yesterday it said "in a relationship" so is that upsetting her? I know she did. She is fucked up.
but very, very young too
Daniel: very much, but a dear child too, very confused
only 19
what are you going to reply?
Me: I have no problem not ever responding
Daniel: she's depressed and had a shitty childhood, insecure and sometimes suicidal
Me: so was I...and I dont feel sorry for her. that victim shit is bs
but I would never say that to her
Daniel: course not you're a good girl
Me: with a low tolerance for fucked up behavior, I'm sorry to say
even if there's a "reason"
am I too hard?
Daniel: no
Me: she doesn't need to know I'm your girlfriend
but if you want me to say something I will, proudly and kindly
Daniel: tell her we discuss music or something - I told her about you already - not that your my gf tho - that'd probably send her of the edge
Me: you are feeding her fire
Daniel: sorry?
Me: um...hmm...
girls in a "dark place" do not respond well to learning the truth after it's been withheld from them. it makes them do crazy shit. she's already off the edge. I'm curious, what kind of relationship does she think she has with you?
Daniel: She has a boyfriend and loves me more because I've helped her realise things about herself.
Her boyfriend is a jerk
basically I kicked her ass
Me: so, why am I not telling her you have a gf?
Daniel: and in the process I apparently swept her off her feet. Because I told her I didn't have one some time ago.
Me: and she's so fragile she cant know the truth? listen, I would prefer to ignore her, but girls like this don't just go away. TRUST ME
Daniel: I know, she wants to call me now. No she's fragile alright and I don't wanna hurt her. You can ignore her too - that'd probably be the best.
Me: Then I will ignore her, darling. You're a big boy and I trust you.
Daniel: tu
Me: of course, you're worth it

He was worth it, and I did trust him. In the background was always the truth to reconcile: Daniel loved women, and women loved Daniel. There was never any denial of that on my part. He was very lovable, and I found the fact that Monkey Sex had the nerve to pry for information flattering. I didn't need her to know the extent of our relationship, and I didn't care if there were more little girls in the wings, watching for signs that [this love] affair might bloom into epic colors or burst into a colorless dust. As I look over our wandering, wondering exchanges from that period, it is clear to me that Daniel was mine, already.  I was his girl, and I loved to be. I was falling in love with this libidinous, highly intelligent, hauntingly beautiful Viking, consequences be damned. And by all appearances, he was falling in love with me, as well. We were on very dangerous, untamed ground. But monumental obstacles are insignificant to lovers who are following their bliss.

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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.