Adventure, Joan Didon, and Reclaiming Alice

“Maria drove the freeway. She dressed every morning with a greater sense of purpose than she had felt in some time, a cotton skirt, a jersey, sandals she could kick off when she wanted the touch of the accelerator, and she dressed very fast, running a brush through her hair once or twice and tying it back with a ribbon, for it was essential (to pause was to throw herself into unspeakable peril) that she be on the freeway by ten o’clock. 

“Not somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard, not on her way to the freeway, but actually on the freeway. If she was not she lost the day’s rhythm, its precariously imposed momentum. Once she was on the freeway and had maneuvered her way to a fast lane she turned on the radio at high volume and she drove. She drove the San Diego to the Harbor, the Harbor up to the Hollywood, the Hollywood to the Golden State, the Santa Monica the Santa Ana, the Pasadena, the Ventura. She drove it as a riverman runs a river, every day more attuned to its currents, its deceptions…”

This is an excerpt from one of my favorite novels, written by the author who, from a distance, taught me how to write in the English language, Joan Didion. The book is Play It as It Lays, her 1972 novel. 

“Everything Maria could think to do in the town she had already done. She had checked into the motel, she had eaten a crab at the marina. At three in the afternoon she had been the only customer in the marina restaurant and it had been a dispiriting thirty or forty minutes, sliced beets staining the crab legs and a couple of waitresses arguing listlessly and a piped medley from Showboat. After that she had walked on the gravelly sand and she had driven aimlessly to Port Hueneme and back to Oxnard and now she sat on a bench in the downtown plaza, watching some boys in ragged Levi jackets and dark goggles who sat on the grass near her car.”

Last week, I drove north on the Ventura Freeway; on my way to Ojai, I passed Oxnard and Port Hueneme, and once again, I thought about Maria. 

I thought about Didion’s book, where I was when I read it, and where I am today remembering it. 

I say ‘once again’ because, in 2013, I mentioned Maria and Didion in a blog post. It was shortly after my interview with former Hells Angeles George Christie, and the story had taken so much out of me that I didn’t know whether I could ever find something so powerful to write about. As it turns out, I would.

I didn’t stop in Port Hueneme, I was headed to the elegant Ojai Valley Inn, so my circumstances were very different from Maria’s, but every time that I find myself alone on the freeway I think of her, of me. 

I needed to be alone on the freeway. I needed to drive alone; I needed to head somewhere alone. 

It wasn’t much of an adventure, rather a solo chic gateway, but the drive had all the characteristics of one. It made me think about the many meanings of that word, adventure, and of why I needed to be on this one in particular.

It was the first time going somewhere by myself since marrying Ben. 

When I married him, for reasons I can’t understand, I built around me a safe, familiar and comfortable nest that quickly became a labyrinth, one that lured me into forgetting who I was before saying “I do,” on February 19th of 2017. In that maze, I found myself being inexplicably terrified of being alone, of being raped, attacked, of something bad happening to me. So I caved in deeper and deeper. I concealed my sexual identity under different and expensive clothing styles in search of an image that seemed safe for me to take on.

In the safest of all my life circumstances (maybe you have read my novel, The Sex Girl), being a woman didn’t feel safe. I don’ know why. 

That morning, on my way to Ojai, I had no make-up on, I wore a vintage navy Burberry sweater, jeans, and my old grey Ugg boots. I felt like a real woman, grown up, free. It was pleasantly chilly.

I am not sure what ‘real’ woman means, but that’s what I wrote on my notepad that day, so that was the feeling I wanted to honor. 

I listened to music I wouldn’t normally choose for a road trip, and played the Frank Sinatra channel on satellite radio; Petula Clark sang Wind of Change, Rod McKuen told incredible stories about Frank, and I drifted in a novel of my own.  

As I drove, I saw all the colors of California in the few miles that separated me from the resort: lush green, desert landscapes, green again, this time in a different shade, the flashy, distracting and numbing colors of the outlets in Camarillo, and finally the ocean, before exiting right toward Ojai. It may have been a short drive, but it looked to me as if I had traveled a thousand miles. 

I noticed a tension headache approaching: I was scared of being with myself (not by myself). 

I arrived right in time for sunset; the view from my room was breathtaking, and I felt all sorts of emotions as the sun disappeared behind the mountains: I was excited, worried, sad, anxious, tired, alert, confused.

I had just scratched the surface of my discomfort, and I realized I was, indeed, on an adventure. 

I chose to talk about this in the November newsletter because I am learning that, often, events and emotions that are negative or unwanted, are necessary for their passing. My discomfort, fear, confusion, and clumsiness in being alone were necessary for me to understand what had happened and I what had to be done: 

Let me tell you what I learned in Ojai:

– First of all, the gateway was absolutely beautiful, I ate good food (in my room), left the phone behind, started reading Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep that had been on my nightstand for months, and walked in nature without the constraints of time;

– I didn’t talk much and loved it (can you believe it?);

– I didn’t work out (and survived it);

– I slept;

– I discovered the Great British Baking Show (I know, it’s shocking it took me so long); 

But most importantly, I made the first step toward reclaiming myself as Alice. I made the first step toward reclaiming myself not as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend, an abiding and involved citizen, a healthy person who works out and doesn’t eat meat, a hard worker. Only Alice, pronounced A-li-che (just like Didion’s Maria is pronounced Ma-rye-a). 

Losing myself in the maze of marital safety has affected my wellbeing, my creativity, my marriage, my desires, and my instincts. But at this point, I am not interested in why it happened; I am very much into understanding how to change it, or, I guess, into the adventure of it. 

Now, my two cents on the elections: 

Nythia Raman won: she will be representing District 4 in the Los Angeles City Council. This is a great step forward, and Los Angeles has proven to be a progressive bubble I am blessed to be in. I don’t like bubbles though, and it’s terrifying to acknowledge that 70 millions Americans have voted for a criminal, a racist, an ignorant, misogynist and dangerous evil man (several of them, actually). But I choose to look at the fact that the majority of us has voted for the first step toward change. I don’t think Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are the final destination, but now we can go on an adventure for the pursuit of accountability, of hope, of equality, of progress, of radical change, or perhaps, simply of happiness.

***

Please, don’t gather on Thanksgiving. We will be celebrating outside with three people we love and trust; we will be 6 feet apart, we will be wearing masks, and we will keep each other safe. Please, reach out if you feel or are alone: my instagram is @alicecarbonetench and I would love to hear from you and be part of your holiday.  

Love, always,

Alice 

ps. This is what I wrote about Maria in the old blog post, in 2013:

I noticed distances indicated in kilometers, white on the bright green of the street signs on the 101 North.  I liked the sense of conversance, the familiarity of how 40 Km echoed like 45 minutes to my Italian ear.  I am still working on the American system of distance, weight and temperature.  I was a little early but that is what I wanted, while feeling the freedom of the freeway and dreaming the zen of a Harley Davidson, the roar and the metal, the rubber of the tires on the concrete of the street.  Nothing but the road.  I did not realize that I had almost hit 90 mph while picturing myself on a damn motorcycle. So I slowed down.  I am glad I spent the money to fix my brakes a month ago.

I liked the sound of Port Hueneme, its spelling as I imagined Maria (Mar-eye-a) Wyeth in Play As It Lays, driving fast through the desert, heading to Las Vegas to visit her ex-husband on set.  His name was Carter Lang.  I am always fascinated by the choice of names and characters in the novels I read.  I love the science behind the construction of a character.  I think I write novels because I like my characters more than I like myself.  I am not a huge fan of myself.  I occasionally flirt with Alice, but we have an ON and OFF relationship.  For we are both heavy and quite complicated.