Living with Uncertainty

I am trying to figure out the reason why her telling me that she was pregnant came as a surprise. Not an overwhelming or incapacitating one; but, certainly, unexpected news. News that was anomalous against the moire pattern of the day, the matrix of inter-connections and associations that makes up one's conscious world. There can be no question but that it has nothing to do with her, or her choices, decisions, or expectations. Rather, faced with this juxtaposition, a dissonance, I need to delve more deeply into my feelings about her, our relationship, and my own assumptions.

"Love has no aim." I accidentally discovered there's this funny thing you can do with e-mail, and that is, you type in a letter, and then the computer will complete the phrase on the "subject" line. So my daughter uses my computer at home a lot, and this was the topic of one of her communiqués. No, I didn't get to see the message, but I did reflect on the pertinence of her observation.

I can't help it that I came to love her. It wasn't an act of choice, or free will. Rather, I was beguiled into it; I just found it happening to me, it was as if I was compelled or magnetically drawn into some kind of a weird tractor-beam. Like Alice, rappelling down the rabbit hole, but in a warm, wonderful way. She has many qualities that without doubt would appeal to anybody, not the least of which are that she's the best combination of pretty and smart, ever. You can find pretty girls who are stupid, and smart girls who aren't pretty, and there are a lot who are a little bit of both, but to find them both maximized truly is rare. And sometimes those are the people who remind you most of replicants, like in "Bladerunner" – ultimately, it's their lack of affect, their imperfectly-designed human-simulating responses, that give them away. Anyway, neither pretty nor smart is a necessary or a sufficient condition for something as complex, refined, and distilled, as love.

It has something to do with her attitude, and outlook; she seems wise to me, and more than a little bit cynical, which suits my temperament. Cynical, but not jaded; she has seen a lot of scenes, but not let it get to her, she's fresh with energy and enthusiasm. She has a certain savoir-faire, a je ne sais quoi; a sense of deference, or discretion. The way she'll look at you out of the corner of her eye, eyebrows raised, a slight smile of skepticism on her lips. She is adaptable, almost to the point of being chameleon-like; I feel as though I could introduce her into whatever environment I might imagine, and she would discern a way to thrive. But she also is terribly sophisticated, and elegant; with her, I feel incapable of doing anything half-assed. We match. Whatever the combination of qualities or ingredients, she hit me just right, at the moments in space and time that now comprise my life.

I don't think this has much to do with her. If you were to ask her what effort (if any) she put into this initiative, she would look at you bemusedly, as if puzzled. I think her existential modus operandi simply is to be present, and let the billiard balls of romance carom off her like cannonballs against the Merrimack. For sure, she has guys falling in love with her all of the time. She will smile encouragingly. Meanwhile, it's up to the guy to decide if he just has some kind of a puppy-love crush on her, or if he's ready to swim towards deeper waters. So much of being in love is the invention of the lover, as opposed to the beloved! From time to time she will glance appraisingly at the rogue's gallery of applicants, as if taking inventory. I don't know what happens next. I know she's been in love; indeed, she told me so. But that was ever so long ago, and there has been so much water over the dam, or under the bridge, or wherever it is that the water goes. Hard to say what being in love for her would be like, now, what combination of feelings would "count as" being in love. Of course she is capable of amusing herself with a man (or a woman ...) – but that almost seems like more of a diversion, than an undertaking involving any kind of emotion beyond friendship, or lust, or maybe it's just curiosity. As a connoisseur of experiences, she surely embodies Kierkegaard's paradox of a surfeit of possibility.

Given this background, it might surprise you to learn that we have not seen each other more than a dozen times, and those encounters always have involved sex. We exchange infrequent e-mails, and speak every now and then by telephone, but I would be hard-pressed to characterize those exchanges as anything other than staying-in-touch, superficial, really. I know that I am not her boyfriend. I know that she has other lovers. I don't know who they are, nor do I have any desire to find out; in the context of our relationship, it simply doesn't matter. While I don't have a private jet, I believe I'm a credible contender in her world (not in the sense of there being a competition; rather, I know that I can function at the level she considers appropriate, all things considered).

I don't think it would be inaccurate to characterize me as a late-comer to her life; she's already set on a trajectory, for that matter, well along it, and nothing I could do, say or think would change it, even if I wanted to, which I don't. Primarily for this reason, I hardly would characterize the inside of her head, the thoughts she thinks, as a level playing field. Who knows what's in there, what amalgam of influences and forces have shaped and molded her. I can generalize, maybe with a fair degree of accuracy, but in the end, it's just speculation. Not knowing anything about the other contestants in the demolition derby of her life, I'm not able to assess their relative strengths (or weaknesses). I don't know who else is there, what they have to offer, what they entail. It is entropy to the max. She needs for there to be no inter-connections, or web of associations, and to keep things up in the air, in order to function practically. Who knows what kind of nuclear reactions might occur, if the sparking electrical wire-ends ever got connected. One of her greatest skills (in my opinion) is that she can keep everything compartmentalized in her head. Because when I'm with her, I feel her total focus and attention, as though I was the only guy in the world – her world. And that I'm the one living in it, for however long I'm there.

This conjures forth an amusing vision, which is that of her making a choice. OK, so she wants to have a child, which is a perfectly reasonable project for her to want to undertake. Incidentally, please note that she is under no requirement to ask my permission, or advice, or to consult with me, or even apprise me. She was, and is, free to present, or not, anything she wants to, in a neatly-wrapped parcel, as a fait accompli. That being so, did she make a list of potential fathers, weighing their respective merits and demerits? What were the criteria for his selection, or were there any? Was this the dénouement of a long romance, or an opportunity that was auctioned off, kind of like in "Pretty Baby"? If there was a competition, I'm sure it was well-organized, because that would be just like her; maybe that sensation of disconcertment, then, comes from not having been invited to submit a resume, for her to consider. It's a little bit like seeing an announcement for a play, and then wondering why you weren't asked to audition. But what if – gasp – she is in love? If so, then how do I fit into her life?

I think I know what the problem is, and it has to do with sex. I have become conditioned, or acculturated, to think that there is a connection between sex and love. I think I know where this came from, the short answer is from reading too much romantic poetry; there's a long answer, albeit somewhat more involved. Or, if sex does not ultimately require love, then at least it results in a feeling of closeness, and intimacy; a feeling of caring, and concern for one's counterpart. I would not be good at sexqua sex; rather, I somehow have come to believe there is more to it, and thus have imported other qualities, or characteristics, into our relationship. Was this a result of ignorance, or inadvertence, on my part; or, was I compelled to do so by a congeries of feelings that, for lack of something better to call them, count for me, as love?

This has a reciprocal, too. I think everybody has a tendency to think, until proven to the contrary, that other people will tend to act more or less like oneself, in any given set of circumstances. Surely, we all receive the same analog impressions from the world – irradiations on the retina, vibrations in the auditory canal. Our physiology is identical, as are (in broad strokes) the vast preponderance of sociological and environmental factors that comprise us. Therefore, I strive to try and see the world through her eyes, primarily, to imagine how she has derived a conclusion, or a behavior, from a set of premises, or beliefs, about that world. Soon, she will succumb to the raging hormones of being pregnant. Will this make her want to bond with the father – to nest, to couple, and to create an integral family unit? Which I surely would do in her shoes, and which also, I should note, would be wholly natural, as a function of mammalian instinct and genetics. She necessarily will be involved with this man, the father of her child, for the rest of her life. It's all well and good to "love" a half-dozen or so people abstractly, but this is having a child, which is (ahem) in the nature of a permanent commitment.

Leading to the great cry of the self-absorbed (such as myself) throughout history – "What about me!?!" How do/will I (not to mention her other lovers) fit, if at all, into the scheme of things? Have I been rejected; should I take this as a hint; or, in thinking that, am I simply falling into the very syllogism that got me here in the first place, in effect by imagining that she constructs reality using the same building-blocks as I do, when the evidence preponderates, if not conclusively establishes, that this is not the case?

Let me put this more pointedly. Is it wrong for me to be in love with a woman who is pregnant by another man? And, is it wrong for her to love me back? When I say "wrong," I don't mean in terms of social convention, or ethics, or morality. Rather, are we controverting something more fundamental, elemental, and almost primeval, such as a law of nature?

I don't particularly mind, for example, if she thinks of one of her other lovers when she and I make love; it's equally likely that she'd think of me, when she was making love with one of them. It strikes me, though, that the epistemology of making love with her, while she was pregnant with another man's child, is somewhat different. She has embraced him, he has come deep inside of her, he has fertilized her, they have coupled, and she is creating life. They will designate that child to the world with a proper name (though, from the chronology she related, it will be a Pisces – like myself!). It might not be all that different forme, in the first instance; for example, if she hadn't told me she was pregnant, for a while, at least, I would have continued to make love with her, and not have known about it one way or the other, indeed, it wouldn't even have come up. Rather, the real issue is withher: would she be able to commit herself passionately to sex, as she does, with partner A – knowing that she was pregnant by partner B? Even if she were, would that be good for her? – not physically, as in "was that good for you," but rather, in the sense of her over-all well-being and emotional outlook?

And, of course (because I come from the school of thought where sex is mental, and have difficulty regarding sexqua sex, as per above), all of this would have a corresponding effect on me. For while I would merrily be able to have sex with her, either knowing or not knowing that she was pregnant, I'm not so sure I could, if I thought that her knowledge, or her knowledge of my knowledge, or some hodge-podge combination of both, had the potential to impairher, either vis-à-vis me, or vis-à-vis herself (including within this penumbra her child and the child's father); that's where the equation starts getting complicated. I don't want just to fuck her; I want her to push back, and like it, too, and, hopefully, feel the same way about me, as I do, about her.

She once mentioned to me that, although she's appeared in a ton of films, she didn't think she was much of an actress. I have come to discern that's not the case, because – if we view her life as a work of performance art – she truly is sans pariel. In the cocoon that is she and I together, she has created an environment of unparalleled intimacy; and, if it isn't true intimacy, it's the best illusion of intimacy I've ever seen. I no more could create the simulacrum of a feeling, if it wasn't premised on something true and genuine, than fly to the moon. I so don't want pretense, artifice, or fakery; I'd rather just dispense with the whole enterprise. And I don't want to put her in a position where she needs to feel as though she has to conjure forth something artificial, in order to meet my expectations, or for that matter, hers.

On balance, I must admit that the situation is novel. I've never been in a place like this, before. I knew that aspects of our relationship would be challenging, when I started realizing how I felt about her. But I eagerly embraced her then, as now; indeed, my overwhelming emotion at this point is one of tenderness, and caring, and wanting to make sure that she (and her forthcoming child) are OK. If and to the extent she doesn't know where her interests lie, then I sure do. If I was her, I might have done things differently, but I'm not, and that's good, n'est-ce pas? At least two reasons why: if she made decisions like me, then she probably wouldn't have essential qualities that made me love her, to begin with; and, if I love her, as I do, then it'd be pointless to try and re-mix the mélange of qualities that make her who she is, because then, more likely than not, I'd end up with something that I no longer loved.

Do I care any less for her as a result of this contretemps? Absolutely not! I certainly don't mind being in love with her if she has a child. Indeed, once I was in love with a woman who had not one but two; it didn't matter if she had them before or after I knew her, in fact, it had nothing to do with the way I felt.

All of this being so, I'd like to find a way to become more persistent, a part of her normal life; to burrow my way into her head; to become, if you will, more mundane. I want to be her friend, and have her be my friend. I want her to confide in me, and be able to confide in her. I want to be close to her, close enough to feel her breath on my neck. That's the thing about intentionality, it's like the warning on the passenger-side mirror, "objects may be closer than they appear." When I concentrate on her, it's like she's right next to me, even though she might be miles away. And no, thank you for asking, I'm not going crazy!

To this point, while not exactly scripted, our encounters have been, shall we say, structured; there aren't loose ends, or rough edges. Maybe she thinks that I wouldn't like her in any other context, which simply is not true. Or, maybe this is what we were meant to be? If so, I need an expectation recalibration. I need to figure out what she would have me think, and do. I'm open to any number of different alternatives, I just need to discern what they are, and then achieve a meeting of the minds with her, as to how to proceed. I desperately don't want to reach impasse with her – why is this the fate of so many relationships? Among other reasons why, in addition to being crazy for her, it would be difficult to specify a different feature set, a different collection of attributive predicates, that would be more desirable, much less to actually find those, in somebody else. If one of the premises of this brave new world is that one should not be hesitant to inquire, or to answer the query, then this is the course of action I must resolve to adopt.