I should’ve let him name the cat Baudelaire.
At the time, I didn’t even know who Baudelaire was, so when my then boyfriend suggested we name our new, surly, majestically handsome cat Baudelaire, I dismissed the suggestion immediately. My boyfriend was himself, a poet at heart, and one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known. I however, grew up in the middle of nowhere (according to him, anyway) and had no exposure to “real” culture until I’d moved to San Francisco.
This wasn’t completely untrue. While growing up in rural Montana afforded me the luxury of after-school skiing and seemingly endless open spaces, clean air and the nicest people on earth, it was not the easiest place to become immersed in popular culture, or counter-culture for that matter. At least, not for me.
My parents were on the strict side, which meant I had a curfew for every major event a teenager could look forward to—prom, homecoming and graduation just to name a few—which meant I missed out on 90% of the collective teen-angst my fellow classmates undoubtedly experienced, leaving me at home, trying to get a good signal from my FM radio for a small taste of the outside world.
In college, I was able to unwind a bit when I moved to the dorms. But by then, the years of forced seclusion had turned me into somewhat of an introvert, and a whole lot of a homebody. Yet all the while, I still knew something was brewing. Although my beginnings may not have been representative of the typical teen, I still possessed a deep appreciation for the beauty and pain of daily existence. I suppose, this is when I first recognized my love for writing and literature.
I fell in love with Plath, Faulkner, Nabokov and many others. I discovered the therapeutic power of journaling. I took an acting class. I began to appreciate independent movies and began my love affair with the absurd through the likes of David Lynch. My world was suddenly opening up, yet I had no idea this was just the start of a lifelong journey.
When I moved to San Francisco, I was just getting warmed up to a hunger my soon- to-be boyfriend had been feeding for over 20 years. He grew up in an ethnically diverse, and culturally rich environment, and he had the brooding poet-writer thing down.
To this day, I think part of what attracted him to me was the opportunity to share that wonder of exploration. While he’d been loving Talking Heads for years, he now had the chance to re-discover them again through me. He could sift out all his favorite experiences—movies, food, music—and re-play each for me, sure I’d like them as much.
For the most part, he was right. While we ended up not working out in the long term, I’ll always believe we are soul mates on some level. Sometimes it took me a while to pick up the meaning of a song, or catch on the subtle sub-context of a movie, but when I got there, I understood him in a way I now realize is rare.
Now, years after we parted ways, I still maintain my love for the things I discovered through him. In fact, I’ve expanded on some of them, and delighted in the winding paths to which each new discovery has steered me.
Each step of the way has been guided by a deeply passionate appreciation for, well, appreciation. Although I know I would’ve reached a similar destination had I never met him, I can’t help but be grateful for the discoveries that relationship encouraged.
Now, as I try to move on to the next phase in my life (and no, I don’t know what that is—yet), I keep coming back to Baudelaire. I’m not great with poetry, but when I can dedicate the emotional headspace to commit to it, its beauty and sadness can induce fits of joy and tears of anguish, all in one sitting. It’s only now that I truly understand how giving the namesake of a gifted poet, one my boyfriend so admired, was representative of all the things I soon would come to value in life.
And, while I feel a pang of guilt for not acquiescing to the naming so many years ago, it gives me great comfort to know the lesson was learned, and the spirit of a kindred soul still lingers within me.
Extract the eternal from the ephemeral.
— Charles Baudelaire
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