And then there were two (too)

Anyone who has lived in New York City for fifty years or more must recall at least one of several sets of twins who appeared in tandem on the streets, always dressed identically the way their mothers must have done when they were infants. They all seemed a bit theatrical and bizarre, like a living Arbus tableau, and they were known and well photographed. Before the phone era, street 'theatre' and even just dressing up, had a different meaning-- it was a kind of art, a kind of living performance that has grown a little cheap in this Tik-Tok/instagram age. I've heard there are these extreme sisters on a TLC television channel-- girls who insist on having their teeth pulled simultaneously, even though only one has an abscess.  

When my son was in a pre-school playgroup, there was a set of identical triplets-- girls-- who seemed to signal one another mysteriously and then perform the exact same movement or mischief like crashing someone's block tower.  Their mother seemed to age years every week. It was kind of a supernatural thing and actually fascinating.

I've been reading Miss MacIntosh, My Darling,  again... I often pick it up after a hiatus and am always intrigued by the two Mr. Spitzers-- one dead, one living as the attentive but always-denied suitor-- identical twins who may or may not be aspects of the same person. It occurred to me that my last read, Solenoid, was narrated by a man who claimed to be the sole surviving twin whose brother had died shortly after birth. The concept of original twins-- like Yin and Yang, is archetypal. One wonders if the human state of longing is the result of losing something at birth-- of separation or the sense of missing, as though we all once had a twin in utero.. a little companion-cell-- and yet we are born alone.

My first husband was a twin; very prematurely delivered, he'd been left for dead in a shoebox with his tiny brother and moved just enough to be discovered living before burial.  He became a musician, among the chain of men I've been close to who were often searching for something elusive which they either mistakenly or not (temporarily) discovered in me.

More than ever, despite divorce rates, despite the diminished significance of mandatory marriage rituals, this culture is obsessed with coupling.  The overwhelming numbers of dating sites, matchmakers... the barrage of television shows seeking mates in various ways, all bolster this obsession.  Tonight, I noticed, there's a Bachelorette version for seniors.  In the arts, I've been to several recent gallery exhibits which present 'pairings'-- some of which are feasible and others of which are far-fetched and almost silly.  I've been to restaurant dinners which feature meal pairings, course by course, of wine and food; these generally make more sense.

There are almost no Wikipedia entries that don't list, with vital statistics and data, one's spouse or partner.  This interests us, as though it explains something about the person-- that they are loved, or that their wife was beautiful, or their intelligent scientist husband thought enough of them to procreate or simply cohabitate. If there is no spouse or companion listed in an obituary, we pity that person... or we wonder. There is simply this inherent 'quest' one has for an 'other'-- someone to whom we can roll our eyes and know that they will understand precisely what irks us.

The trouble is-- the act of coupling is not neutralized by uncoupling which is complex and not simple.  I used to watch Thomas the Tank Engine with my little boy; the uncouplings were routine and mechanical... but in our lives, these are rarely amicable.  Still, we pursue this like a career 'calling'.  Many of my son's generation have chosen to freeze their eggs and wait to have children... yet the biology of conception doesn't seem to affect their desire to have a partner. So many of us have tried on marriages which do not fit, or which we outgrow like old fashion or clothing. Some of us find our significant other has coupled with more than one simultaneously. While a pregnant woman cannot get pregnant until she delivers again,  there is no biological law that discourages or prevents her having sex with several partners. 

It's not really a comforting thing-- the way a twin is 'for life'-- unless one dies, that is, and this must feel like a kind of death for the other. To be born together, and yet to die alone seems somehow odd, although it is fairy-tale stuff to have simultaneous deaths.  

I read recently a literary piece on the language of Shakespeare which pointed out his extraordinary and deliberate use of the word 'and' to join disparate ideas or things... we expect the two sides of the conjunction to be equal and yet they are not.  Of course Shakespeare's exquisite command of the language is beyond reproach but many of the contemporary 'pairings' I've recently encountered require a huge step to digest any valid relationship.  There was a Calder and Klee show which was spectacular but in a way unsettling and opportunistic.  Certainly the Hammershoi paintings coupled with Anni Albers or Robert Mangold at another gallery seemed at best uncomfortable. And odd couples are a thing-- opposites attract, etc. Oxymorons and paradoxes abound in our daily speech.

My very good friend who was sort of an acquired twin to me for decades... turned out to be coupled with some 'else'.  He'd hidden this-- not just from me, but from everyone... it was only happenstance that brought me to the knowledge of it.  He is miserable-- badly paired and unable somehow to remove the attachment.  In fact they barely see one another-- ever... but they have a legal bind.  While I have uncoupled, somehow there are jagged edges, or tiny pieces that adhered and are hard to delete.  It's like a human virus, I suppose.  So while the theoretical plan is to find 'the one' and go through life arm in arm, hand in hand, this is a rarity. And the fact is, despite all the dating and mating sites, the even-numbered rituals and pas-de-deux, perhaps these are only our attempts to subvert the harsh reality that we all do die alone.  

Sleepers

Most of my friends complain about interrupted sleep.  As one ages it becomes less straightforward-- the biology of it, I suppose. And for those of us in New York City apartments, waking, we often hear our neighbors above-- more often now that they are aging, and sleep no doubt in separate rooms.. one walks around, whatever... we invent narratives.

When I was small I thought love meant you slept together in a bed; I'd imagine the scenario-- it was chaste and romantic. I was one of those children who tucked myself in at night with a menagerie of stuffed animals... giraffes and lions and Yogi Bears and Pinocchios-- Raggedy Anne and other squishy creatures with sad eyes.  Recently there was a piece in the Times about adults and their stuffed sleep companions. Not that I pass judgment. In fact the whole issue has become a major industry-- the way food is so complicated-- now it's customized mattresses and the science of blankets and temperatures-- sound machines and gourmet sheets.  It's a lot, as they say on television.

Many of my friends no longer sleep with their significant other. Together they toss and turn and worry; they blame their partner for insomnia.  Whenever I've had a long-term relationship, sleeping together was essential.  Break-ups meant re-acclimating to sleeping separately; this alone was difficult and occasionally the habit lingered and we'd 'cheat' and spend an occasional night together.  It was confusing and reassuring at once.  But it wasn't just sex, it was the intimacy of sleep.  Even the old one night stands... sometimes I longed to stand staring out of a hotel window, anticipating the strangeness of someone under sheets.  One night on the road I crawled in bed with one of the roadies and he told me things no one had ever told me.  It was like we enacted some scene from a play that had been written just for us; it felt significant and deeply affecting.  Neither of us discussed it afterward.  

Now that these things are mostly in my past, I rummage through them occasionally, to remember who I have been, where and with whom.  Sometimes I have these dreams, although I am generally sleeping with a book these days... and I awake listening to my neighbors who are sleeping alone in a common space, who live separate lives now, as many of us do.  My own father used to fall asleep with the television on; in those days the programming ended at a certain point.  If I were awake I'd hear the national anthem, and if I peeked in, the screen would show those horrid stripes until dawn. No one dared turn it off.

Being awake in the 21st century and checking programming in overnight hours, there are myriad reruns of old sitcoms and TV dramas.  Sex and the City repeats endlessly.  It occurs to me that this is calming for adults-- the way our kids would watch Thomas the Tank Engine videos hundreds of times... over and over. Stressed out people anesthetize themselves with familiar old shows-- memories, visions of New York when they were happier or younger.  Maybe this helps them sleep.

This afternoon, in the rain, I passed the new uptown Barnes and Noble store; the window is filled with pretty much the same childhood classics I read over and over at bedtime: The Hungry Caterpillar, Thomas the Tank Engine... there were dolls and stuffed animals of these same familiar characters-- Elmo, whose name my son pronounced with this very southern accent... the Wild Things, soft train cars with happy faces. Standing beside me was a young British woman from Manchester, with a little girl who was-- yes, holding out her arms to me.  I was surprised-- it was raining-- they were wet, as I was. English people are more accustomed to these drizzles and don't always bother with an umbrella. But children are not so friendly these days-- nor are mothers post-pandemic anxious for strangers to touch their babies.  This child-- maybe 18 months-- was smiling in the most extravagant way at me, and insisting I take her-- me with my terrible arm, I was unable to really lift her properly. She's friendly, her Mom explained, but not like this.  It was as though she recognized me-- there was this absolutely palpable connection and a kind of love I hadn't felt in so long, it brought me to tears-- this lovely little Irish face with sparkling eyes... too young to care about material things.. and there we were:  me, tearing up in the rain, feeling so connected to this child and my lost  days of baby-rearing. The mother, too-- she started to cry... maybe her Mom was overseas or had died... I thought of possibilities... and we looked in the window, and we repeated the names of the characters... as though we were family... and the child-- not quite up to speech, was just happily holding her arms out and trying hard to hug and kiss me as much as I could manage.

It was clear the baby did not want to stop this game with me... and finally I made an awkward excuse and left.  The entire window display imprinted in my visual mind, I went down toward the East River. On the way, I passed St. Monica's church which seemed to beckon; the glass doors were open and the music seeping out. It was the six o'clock mass... and I stood in the back while the priest read the daily passage and proclaimed that God is love.. and it made sense to me, having been lessoned by the little Irish girl.  This is it... the whole church singing and proclaiming, yes... Hallelujah, etc... all of us sleepers in various rooms, underneath the same celestial ceiling... receiving a kind of reprieve, a kind of love.