{"id":3574,"date":"2015-07-06T17:48:20","date_gmt":"2015-07-06T17:48:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/margaretharrell.flywheelsites.com\/?page_id=3574"},"modified":"2017-06-06T19:05:51","modified_gmt":"2017-06-06T23:05:51","slug":"keep-this-quiet-memoir-series-volume-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/margaretharrell.com\/2015\/07\/keep-this-quiet-memoir-series-volume-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Keep This Quiet! Vol. 2 – Jan Mensaert"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Jan Mensaert entered the Keep This Quiet!<\/em> series in vol. I. I\u00a0first met him in Casablanca, Morocco, on a trip. And immediately traveled by bus back with him to Larache, where he was teaching French. A Belgian from Flemish Brabant, he spoke French fluently. Likewise English. Four years passed, and\u00a0we did not meet.\u00a0 But\u00a0in those\u00a0few intense days in Morocco,\u00a0I was knocked overboard by my impression of him as a true artist. It wasn’t even a romance\u00a0at the time. And what might have been two ships passing in the night had\u00a0blossomed through letters. The jaw-dropping one below hurried me into a decision to fly to Belgium and revisit. My initial intent, however, was to use him to inspire a character in my next novel. He was too unusual, too unique, I thought, for my novelistic self not to see him at least once more. This letter set up that meeting. Instead of deterring me, it lured me on. I was at MacDowell Colony for artists, finishing up my first book (I thought), when it arrived. The excerpt below is from Keep This Quiet!<\/em><\/p>\n

I began like this: ”\u00a0A very dramatic letter slid in, like a baseball player putting his foot onto the plate. It was from Jean-Marie. It fulfilled his role of inevitably, touchingly\u2014with the right balance of art and reality\u2014providing something so extreme it sounded like fiction.” Strangely, December 27, twenty-two years later, would be the day of Jan’s suicide:<\/p>\n

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27 December, 1968\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My best wishes for a merry Christmas, a happy New Year with plenty of American astronauts on the moon and food in Biafra and a meeting between the two of us . . . I\u2019ve actually started thinking of those Spanish dances . . . I am thinking so well that I\u2019ve got six of them all clear in my mind and a little more confusedly in my fingers. The left hand is pretty rough. But it\u2019s hell to write them down. I\u2019ve started with the simplest one and my eyes are dazzling with little black spots and bars and keys and stars of inspiration. I\u2019m afraid it will go with my ol\u00e9-ol\u00e9 music the way it went with . . . It may sound like something made by an Eskimo on a six month\u2019s night after reading the Alhambra Tales . . .<\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The Spanish Dances<\/a> survived 30 risky years in my storage.\u00a0In 2001, the old reel was delicately put into modern CD format. They are now\u00a0uploaded in YouTube music clips. Just click to listen. But back to the serious part of the letter. Immediately he begins to catch me up, being an invariable storyteller:<\/p>\n

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And now for the wild story of my last adventure . . . when I took the train to Athens the intention wasn\u2019t to pray on the moonlit Acropolis but to get to Santorini and have a very good time\u2014lived with six Swiss air hostesses whom I happened to get acquainted with and which were spending their holiday there in a wonderful house built with so many terraces on the caldeira\u2014and then, when money and air-hostesses were about to be going, committed suicide, or at least tried very hard to. It was very well planned; drank a gallon and a pint of ouzo, hid with a couple of spiders in a dark corner and cut a couple of veins and nerves of my upper arm.<\/p>\n

Blood came spouting and I felt very happy. And then something happened which I still can\u2019t explain. I wasn\u2019t suffering, I wasn\u2019t afraid of dying\u2014that\u2019s what the ouzo was for\u2014I was lying there and felt very comfortable and satisfied with the things being, went on drinking and singing and thinking of Thailand and Morocco and Margaret of the good olden days which would never return and then suddenly I got up and ran for the nearest-by place. Not for help. I realize now that I was only looking for human companionship, that I didn\u2019t want to die with only spiders for company. Got to a caf\u00e9\u2014this thrilling story takes place in a spooky little hamlet high up on the warm and misty cliffs of an exploded volcano, where Hephaistos dwells and Orpheus sings his songs of woe\u2014and was a sensation. I enjoyed it. The owner ran for the Swiss girls and they came and hugged me and kissed me and spilt their sweet tears on my face and took off their stockings to bind off my arm and never succeeded, while all around me people were quarreling about what had and hadn\u2019t to be done. I forget what happened next. Didn\u2019t faint, it was the effect of the ouzo. When I sobered up. I was lying on an improvised operation table and still bleeding.<\/p>\n

I confess it most humbly, I panicked. Inwardly, that is. I was sure now I was going to die and the sensation isn\u2019t an agreeable one when one (hm!) isn\u2019t drunk. The blood kept spouting and filling the back of my trousers and everybody was trying to stop it and touched the cut nerves and it was like having your 32 teeth extracted at the same time while my heart was hurting like hell. Then finally when I was hearing the angels singing and the bells tolling and a Swiss girl asking for a glass of brandy something very much like a doctor came and said abracadabra while burning herbs unknown to me and stopped the bleeding. It was morning by then and I was to be flown to Athens but somehow nobody knew where the helicopter who was to do the job was. So I was carried down the 600 and so many steps to the port, was put on a ship where everybody thought they were bringing a corpse. Because of the sun they had completely covered me with a blanket. In the Piraeus hospital nobody seemed to know narcotics had been invented some years ago and so, while they were sewing up my nerves, I swore I would never try to commit suicide again and die as an antique dealer. Stayed in the hospital for about a week and then decided to go to Prague . . .<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

It didn’t end there:<\/p>\n

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Had a rotten Christmas, though a white one. Slept. True to my oath I\u2019ve become an antique dealer. . . . Never met so much vanity in my life . . . The shop has been open for not even four weeks and I\u2019ve sold for 3.000 dollars worth, representing 2.000 dollars benefit. I would never have expected it . . .<\/p>\n

Going on with my life story and resuming it, flew from Athens to Prague and got there one day before the Russians did, fell in love with the Czechs, an admirable lot, came back to Belgium, after having been thrown out by the Russians, and am busy having my arm reeducated. This seems to be a failure, it\u2019s lamer than it ever was. Even my fingers, of which I still had control one month ago, are giving it up. Yesterday I\u2019ve tried to record your Spanish dances in a simplified version. It was laughable. Am smoking tar-filled cigarettes now hoping for a lung cancer which, I am told, is the less painful species of cancer being . . .
Burned my last novel, which may have been good, my last poems, which were excellent, I know, would burn my paintings but they weren\u2019t worth the trouble. A Gotterdammerung mood.\u00a0 It\u2019s rotten to have an artist\u2019s sensibility and desires and ups and downs and not to be one.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Instead of wringing my hands, I remembered the playful, twenty-eight-year-old\u00a0at his home (above) in Larache. And was intrigued and of course frightened. Clicking here, you<\/a> can experience him playing\u00a0a honkeytonk tune he wrote. Playing it in high speed.\u00a0(Likewise miraculously salvaged on the tape in 2001.) I marveled that “this letter was a little treasure: How could the experience that should have accented pain accent humor; that should have accented transformation instead accent close observation?” It was “the artistic personality,” at its most visible, I concluded.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n

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I saw this lifestyle inside \u201cthe artistic personality\u201d\u2014though\u00a0I was huddled down, secretive, throwing my black coat over my manuscript pages on the floor if Milton came to the door unexpectedly. No one could even see the sheets of paper.
At Columbia University I had loved a passage in Henry James\u2019s The Ambassadors\u2014in my paraphrase: \u201cLive, live, live, it\u2019s a mistake not to!\u201d More recently Milton had mentioned\u2014in joking warning\u2014\u201cthe lineaments of unlived lines.\u201d
In my book I played up his self-portrait as a \u201cteabag steeped in life\u201d (or that he had a \u201cface like a creekbed\u201d). I named the character Robert\u2014not for (but in that way like) Robert Penn Warren, who one day walked past my office, his craggy wrinkles in full display. <\/p>\n

Alternately, I very much thrived\u2014and still do\u2014on ideas. Milton noted the \u201cmetaphysics of your structure.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Keep THIS Quiet Too!<\/em> changes continents and cultures. From sophisticated New York City and\u00a0hip Greenwich Village,\u00a0reuniting with\u00a0Belgian poet Jan Mensaert\u00a0 in Germany – captivated\u00a0 by his eternal-youth\u00a0charm and poet maudit<\/em> artistic potential –\u00a0I rejected all advice to the contrary and married. Then moved\u00a0with him to Larache.<\/p>\n

\"Jan<\/a>
Jan in Beidemeier Chair<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Jan got there by way of many travels prior to meeting me. Many of the photographic shots in his archives show narrow entrances and exits. Below is a stairs with a narrow shadow.<\/p>\n

Jan’s apartment in Larache, when I first met him, was a big surprise; it had\u00a0 a Western record\u00a0 player and\u00a0piles of LPs, including lots of classical; also a collection of brass and copper knickknacks. But the kitchen was typically Moroccan, with\u00a0fresh local food cooked on charcoal. (No refrigerator.) I kept up the tradition when I moved in there.<\/p>\n

At the bottom of this page is one of many drawings Jan made, sitting at his desk, waiting to start writing. Though\u00a0freehand doodles, they are strikingly detailed. He said, “My first ambition was to be an architect.” This one is a cathedral.\u00a0Others were witty and humorous. I bought the whole package of art. If only he’d be a bit more stable. I tried. He resisted. We had fun; both wrote. But eventually this bohemian life,\u00a0I was sure, on my part,\u00a0had to end. Anyway, it did. Not, though, without a lot of\u00a0stories. And\u00a0many cultures broadening my vista. I hope everyone gets the chance to see how people live around the world. No education is finer.<\/p>\n

Giving me advice about Jan throughout, with depth visible in the directness and sometimes shock value, was Milton Klonsky, whom – after marriage – I saw one day a year. As introduced in volume one, he’s in the series to stay. Whenever I traveled back to the U.S., I stopped in New York City just to\u00a0get his take on my life, the trials I’d, sometimes farcically, been through since we last met. No wisdom keeper could have heard me out better. I copied down his phrases like little finely cut diamonds,\u00a0which you’ll find in KTQ Too! <\/em><\/p>\n

For instance, one of the most dramatic bits of very serious advice said was\u00a0regarding Jan’s self-destructiveness: <\/em><\/p>\n

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Give him something to rise to. Don’t sink with him. Or<\/strong>\u00a0sink with him. And then kill yourself. But don’t be a bystander while this man commits suicide<\/span>.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

That may be the boldest, bluntest\u00a0thing\u00a0anyone ever said to me.\u00a0It was way out of left field. But it fit the circumstances. He was worried about me. He gave me\u00a0 a stern warning.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u00a0\u00a0Naturally, Hunter Thompson is on the scene as well. Or off stage. Sometimes on. Sometimes only with letters. In the end of KTQ Too!,<\/em> he’s there in person at his ranch for an attempt to get the romance actually in “the history books.” Well, it worked up to a point.<\/p>\n

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A passionately written memoir that doesn\u2019t sit around being fit and proper and straight laced. . . . As a key to the lives of these three writers it is idiosyncratic and in age where blandness is the norm, it is a pleasure to go on her journey and find out a little about what made these men tick and what drove her to them\u2014Eric Jacobs, Beat Scene (UK)<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

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At times adventurous, at times sensual, Keep THIS Quiet Too! hinges upon the complexities of human relationships, especially the challenges posed by the heart-wrenching feelings of love that may or may not be fully requited. Highly recommended\u2014<\/strong>Midwest Book Review<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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