The Dolphin Of My Heart's Desire.

I talked to a friend yesterday. We were best buddies in high school, during grades eight to ten. We did everything together, all the time. There wasn’t one weekend when we didn’t sleep over at each other’s houses, not one day when we didn’t spend hours on the phone after school, no lunch break we didn’t hang out together.

We had the same hobbies, shared the same passions…well, almost.

Carol always loved horses and dogs, and I’m scared of horses (they are so HUGE!) and I’m more of a cat person. 

She preferred rock music, while I was (in the early 70s) more of a Neil Diamond, Albert Hammond and Simon & Garfunkel girl, with some Joan Baez and Janis Ian thrown in. There may or may not have been a Barbra Streisand album or two thrown in.

I remember learning some English words from Neil Diamond that were definitely not in my text books, like “transcend” and “overhear”. It must have been around that time when I decided I wanted to know every English word there was.

Carol and I wrote stories. 

Like most teenage girls, we had our secret loves, TV stars, pop stars, and we made up stories about them. Well, Carol made up the stories. I designed the “covers” and came up with the titles. And I watched her write.

I helped her make up the plots, and I did write a bit myself, but generally I was too lazy.

I didn’t see myself as a writer. Carol was the writer. She was the one soaring in her imagination. She was the one who brought wonderful sentences to paper.

Her novels had a plot, they had a beginning, a middle, and an ending, there were characters in them that seemed alive and real. Normal, living people, while the heroes I made up were always some kind of celebrities, famous, rich, and carefree.

You see, there was enough dreariness in my real life to want to keep it out of my dream world. I wanted to escape to nicer, happier places, like California with its eternal sunshine. The music business, creativity, those were my subjects, while Carol wrote about a family living on a ranch, with horses and dogs.

My people had to struggle with their creativity, with their loves, but never with money, and certainly not with animals. They didn’t even have time for a potted plant, let alone a pet, they were that busy creating and loving.

I lost Carol when we were in 11th grade.

She drifted off into the drug scene, and I went to Canada for the summer. When I got back, she was in a clinic, and I changed schools.

We met once more, about ten years later. I was married by then, my first son in pre-school. My husband and I stopped for a brief visit with her.

She was married too, had three babies, and was living in an apartment overlooking a factory yard, as far away from that ranch and the horses as you can imagine.

We never reconnected after that, until yesterday. She had found me on Facebook.

I called her on the phone, and we talked.

She told me she is a widow now, her husband died of a brain tumor six years ago. There were four kids, she had to raise them on her own, and it wasn’t easy.

The family lives out in the country, in an old farm house, with horses and dogs and cats. Carol doesn’t have a lot of money, but, she told me, she’s happy.

When she asked me about my life, I told her about my just published book, about the new contract I’ve just signed with Buddhapuss Ink, about last year’s book tour, and the one coming up next year.

“I’ll be going to New Yoek,” I told her, “And Salt Lake City."

There was a long pause.

“Wow,” Carol said, “I’ve never left my home town. We went on vacation once, but that’s it. I’m still here.”

She could hardly believe my life. She could hardly believe it when I told her I was a published author now, and my book was selling and getting good reviews.

“You lived our dream,” she said, “You’re going to all those places we were dreaming about, you are a published author! How did you do it? Where did you get the spark?"

The spark?

There was no spark. There was only a lingering dream, a constant, soft pull I had ignored for most of my life.

It almost felt like the dolphin of my heart’s desire playing in the ocean of my life, sometimes breaking through the surface, but never long enough to make much of an impact.

I don’t know what changed.

All I know is that, on a gloomy day in November of 2008, I woke up and knew the time had come. Suddenly, with every fiber of my soul, I knew I had to write that book.

My hubby bought me a laptop, and I sank into The Distant Shore, forgetting everything else. Often enough, there was no lunch for the family, and no ironed shirts for my husband.

I was too busy writing.

And I didn’t stop until the book was finished. I had left the surface, and I was dancing with the dolphin. The moment I put that first sentence on paper was like jumping from a cliff into that ocean where the dolphins were waiting, and I was free.

I’m still down there, frolicking in the freedom of the sun-dappled water.

And I’m never coming back.

.

Talking To Jon Stone

                                                                                    (Painting: Eric G. Thompson)








There is nothing incidental about an interview with Jon Stone, songwriter and performer. Even the room where I get to meet him seems carefully set up, the chairs placed in just the right angle to catch the light, allow my illustrious guest to stay in command. His manager enters before him. Sal Rosenberg has been working with Mr. Stone for more than twenty-five years now, from the beginnings of his career here in New York all the way to world fame. He greets me with a friendly shake of his hand, offers coffee, and then stands aside to make way for the star.


Surprisingly, Jon Stone does not look diminished close up like so many others. There is less glamor, it's true, but he still seems larger than life, imposing, in control, and he is one handsome man. At forty-six, he is one of those guys who would make you turn your head and bump into doors if you met them somewhere on the street, tall, dark, and with a smile to fry your brain.
He also makes it very easy to start a conversation by chatting about the weather and the coffee, about the restaurant he and his band visited the night before.


"Our last thing together for a while," Jon says. "The tour is over, now we get to relax."
Very neatly, with one statement, he has completely unraveled my well-laid interview plans. His legs stretched out, coffee cup balanced on his knee, he waits for me to speak. There's an amused twinkle in his dark eyes, and I swear  I can see the corners of his mouth twitching.


"There is a rumor that this was your last tour."


A moment's thought, then a nod. "Yes, I think that's so. It has been a fun ride, but it's time to move on. I want to do something totally different, find out if I can do more than just write songs and perform them. Last year my wife and I wrote a movie soundtrack, and now we're going to stage the musical we created. Right here in New York, too. The auditions start in two months."


"You will do the auditions yourself?"


Again, that mischievous grin. "Oh yes, I'd not want to miss that for the world. My wife, she can't wait. She's really excited about working on the show."
He watches while I take my notes, patiently sipping his coffee. Sal is visibly bored, he's pushing sugar cubes around on the saucer of his cup.


"You have reached nearly every pinnacle in the music world," I begin, and stop again.
That man has the audacity to SMIRK at me!
"Yes?" Drawled out, full of laughter, as if he knows exactly that I'm about to wilt.
"And now you're going to stage your own musical, too. What is it that is driving you? You could well stop working and enjoy your success and wealth and lead a pleasant life."


Very suddenly, every trace of humor is gone.
"Driving me, " Jon repeats softly, "Driving me. There is something driving me, it's true." He sits up straight and puts down his coffee cup. "When I signed my first record deal I was delirious with joy. I couldn't believe my luck. For two days, I walked on clouds. And then..." A glance passes between him and Sal. "And then I felt it was not enough. I hired a vocal coach, a fitness trainer. Sal and I started looking for a band, and I wanted people who would be good to work with for a long time, who would walk this path with me. Friends, a musical family. But it was not enough."
This is startling.
"Not enough?" I ask.
"No." Jon stretches out his hand, and Sal puts a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in it. "It was a step in the right direction, but it was not where I wanted to stop." The smoke drifts between us, bluish and obscuring.
"I got my first gold record, my first platinum, and still there was this drive to prove something, to prove to myself that I was worthy of something." He pauses. "I've often wondered if this is something all creative people feel, the need to be more than just a normal human, leave a mark on this world, do something that makes a difference."
His gaze wanders toward the door and he falls silent.
"So this new project..." I prompt him, and he shakes himself out of his reverie. Again I get one of these dazzling smiles. No wonder he has so many female fans all over the world.
"Yeah, I can't wait! Working with my wife is the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's writing a book now, a novel, would you believe it." His voice grows soft talking about her, dark and velvety like molten chocolate. Listening to him gives me shivers. He isn't Jon Stone for nothing.
"She is so talented, a real artist, a wonderful poet."
Oh, now that makes me want to snicker. Here is the famous rock star, and he's raving about his wife like a teenager. Not sure his fans would like that.
Sal taps his watch, and Jon nods. "Time for me to go. My wife is waiting, I promised to take her out for lunch today. One more question."
"Your wife." Uh oh, this may be the wrong  direction. His brows draw together. "She is the heiress to the Carlsson Hotel emporium, right?"
His hand comes up to stop me. "Yes, yes, but she has decided not to work in the family business." With a sigh, Jon rises from the couch. "She is my wife, and she's my writer. There's no time for all that, and I'd hate for her to be away that much." The chin comes up. "We have many plans, and they don't include the Carlsson estate. We'll end this now."
Suddenly, the air in the room seems a lot cooler. I know I've hit a wall, and the interview is over. They leave, Sal and Jon, talking to each other, their minds already somewhere else, somewhere in their own world, and I'm left behind with cold coffee and an untouched plate of cake.