Thoughts of Raymond Carver this afternoon

(Carver's grave inscription)


LATE FRAGMENT
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.




©L'uragana

BRB

Too many things going on--exciting, breathtaking things--cannot stop for a moment to breathe let alone blog.

Be back soon....

©L'uragana

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day to

. . . all the "legitimate" dads

. . . godfathers

. . . brothers & cousins who serve as dads

. . . good male friends who act dad-like

. . . mothers who carry the burden of both mom and dad

. . . stepdads who rock

. . . men who spew unsolicited wisdom to strangers in moments of random dadness

We love you. And love what you do.

©L'uragana

Foolish

I tried to outrun the storm tonight, silly girl that I am. I sent my car catapulting down I-88 as if sprung from a giant rubber band. I laughed at the bony fingers of crackling lightening just behind me.

The storm laughed last. Catching up with me. Sending planes of rain pummeling and shaking my puny car. Throwing downed tree bodies in my path.

I tried to outrun the storm tonight, silly girl that I am. And it showed me that my strength is only a curled baby's fist hammering against a 60-foot wall of muscle feeling the movement on its thigh tickle, but nothing more.

©L'uragana

Isn't it romantic?

She: I wanna try that new phone plan they're offering. They've got unlimited text and phone at a really inexpensive rate.

He: Well, um. I was wondering. . . maybe if it's not too soon. . . I could see about adding you to my plan? If its not too soon or anything. . .



©L'uragana

What are you looking for?

"What are you looking for?" He asked insistent, not really expecting an answer.

"I'm looking. . . for home. I'm looking for he that when we're together. . . it's like home. Home. Like the place you go to when the world kicks you in the gut relentlessly. That soft place to land. I don't know how else to explain it. Home, you know what I mean?" She said urgent for him to understand, yet certain he wouldn't.

"Yeah. I. Do."

They both looked away knowing it was over.



©L'uragana

Music should be heard

I was invited to my cousin's youngest son's wedding. I made a choice not to go. This of course, sent my mother into a tailspin. How dare I have the audacity to check "no" on the frilly cream-colored card stock. No matter that I've dutifully attended every wedding of every cousin and every wedding of all their children--even attending some second weddings!--this to my mother, was the height of rudeness. For you see, it somehow makes her look bad.

She grinded and grinded until she finally realized my no meant no.

The wedding was Saturday night. I spoke with her Sunday morning to be polite, to check in. Of course I had to hear about how every one had such an amazing time, how the food was exceptional, how my siblings had such a brilliant time. Funny, that never seemed to happen at any of the weddings I attended, but I listened with half an ear as she droned on.

"Vicky asked about you," my mother said, Vicky being my cousin's wife. "Well, what did you say?" I asked foolishly.

"Well, what was I supposed to say? I said you couldn't make the wedding." Vicky is not the mother of the groom. She is just one of my cousin's wives and I was able to assist her in getting an event promoted in my coverage area through work.

Hmm, yes mother what could you say? Oh, I don't know maybe that your youngest daughter is quite accomplished, that she has an amazing son, that she's won state awards on radio copy competing with the likes of the City of Chicago, the Field Museum and the Art Institute--all on her own. Maybe you might have shared I sit on a state board of marketing professionals--that I was hand-picked to do so. That I've been quoted in The New York Times as an expert in my field. That I'm strong, smart, talented and funny as hell. Maybe you might have told her that I'm amazing and that you're lucky to call me daughter.

But then again, I'm not married anymore so I guess I don't really count much in the scheme of things. And I'm not a perfect size 6 anymore. For these are the things that really matter in my mother's world.

Thank you readers for allowing me to toot my own horn quite loudly. Please forgive me for doing so; often those beautiful well-crafted notes seem to fall to waste on tone-deaf ears.

©L'uragana

Easy as 1-2-3. . .NOT

Camping. i.e., tent set up, continued to be a thorn in my side this weekend. Even though I specifically purchased the Easy 1-2-3 Pop-up tent. Their words not mine.

After about 45 minutes of mind-numbing insanity in an attempt to set it up 1-2-3, mind you, I gave up and we headed to the Town Pool. Where the gods chose to punish me for my impatience and high level of profanity thrown about when attempting to put together said easy tent by causing me to receive a third-degree sun burn. My son, the better of us two, was spared.

I called in an expert. A man with a twenty-year history of camping and tent set-up the next day. More profanity ensued. And not one, but two trips to the cursed store who sold me the damned "easy" tent. So now we're three tents into this, and eureka we had it. But although the tent went up fairly easy, it decided to show its spunk when taking it down.

The trademarked coiled mechanism that was to make my life so much easier by popping up to set up and pop down to dismantle broke under the experts agile hands into about 300 plastic shards all about my living room -- evidence of its Made in China finest.

Eventually, we hit another store (one that did not even carry the Easy Pop-up tent, thank you very much) and I chose one that looked fairly simple since the store clerk said even she could put it up on her own. "You know, these tents today--they aren't like our old men's tents, you know." Side note: Now that, that would be one brilliant marketing tagline, I think.

In any case, I had a good feeling about this one. So it went home with us.

Finally, at about 6 p.m. Saturday night with very little fuss the blue and gray tent, which did not make any false claims about it's easiness, it's convenience, stood proudly on our back lawn. I felt like we had just taken the first steps on the moon.

My son and I had our first camp out Saturday night under a slight rising moon on a clear night. In our very own back yard. We watched movies on DVD, snuggled in our sleeping bags staving off the chilly night air. We cracked pistachio nuts and chomped on chips.

We definitely had our adventure this weekend, it just wasn't the one we had planned on.

Oh a camping we will go

I decided my son and I should go camping. Just us. I haven't camped in 20 years. Even back then, we didn't put up our own tent. My girlfriend and I just looked pathetic by the ruins until some dude walked by and feeling sorry for us hooked us up.

But I learned my lesson.

I bought a tent manageable in three steps. Fool-proof, the box says. Bought a cooler, too. One with wheels since carrying one around seems too . . . laborious. Oh and an ice pack. And chips. Lots of chips, although I don't need a cooler for that. But we'll be drinking lots of drinks so. . . a cooler makes all the sense in the world.

Where we going? Don't know. When we leaving? Oh, some time tomorrow. Will we cook out or eat out? Not sure. Yet. We'll fill in the details later. We always do.








©L'uragana

I'm streakin'

3,654 words have shot from my fingertips with the ease of running water from a turned faucet.

I do not know to what I owe this productivity, this flow of words, of inspiration, but Madam Muse, I thank you. Oh, I thank you. For when this happens - and it hasn't for a long time now - I am who I should be, where I should be.

Well, if it makes you happy, that's great -- someone recently said to me in response to my sharing of this great breakthrough.

No, it does not. Writing doesn't make me "happy" or "content" or any other synonym in that vein. Writing for me, is Moby Dick, Daniel's lion, the Kraken. It is a worthy opponent to wraggle with, wage war with. I bare scars thick and thin from battling words, thoughts.

For me, it is like shedding skin.

I need it. Like air. When I don't have it, when it's not really there --- my skin takes on a gray overlay from lack of oxygen. No it doesn't make me "happy;" it is what I need to survive. Real writing. Meaty, terse writing. Blogging is often a detterant, a distraction to what I really need. It fills the pinhole craving but can't begin to sate the cavernous hunger.

Can you understand that?

©L'uragana

The last few days

In the last few days/nights. . .

. . . I have been buzzed/toasted/wasted five out of six nights.
. . . my muse has returned and I've fired out some 2,000 words of inspired story-telling as if I chewing gum.
. . . have discovered the Fire Dept. and I now have an understanding regarding my inefficient ways to extinguish roaring logs in my backyard firepit. The understanding being: they come and douse it with my hose after being called on by a neighbor, while I sleep off the remnants of my drunkeness!
. . . that passionate kissing IS indeed all it's cracked up to be.
. . . that drive-ins still hold an allure.
. . . that I still have a mean tennis serve.
. . . Pinor Noir is indeed my wine of choice -- even if it's red.
. . .that rescuing a dog (with a friend) who you find running across a busy street -- is quite filling for the soul.
. . . discovering that said friend claims he only carries out these rescue missions (we've been on a few) because it's important to me.
. . .realizing that my life is blessedly, commonly, beautifully and completely normal -- and revelling in that normalacy.

Phew.



©L'uragana

They're Gonna Put Me in the Movies

Sitting on my white wooden garden bench sipping Italian sparkling water from a wine glass as big as a globe, my sandals dangled from my painted seashell toenails, my flouncy blouse playing in the wind, I felt just like . . . some '70s movie divorcee: hip, cool and free. My hair as wild and wavy as any movie heroine, my white jeans tight and flared big at the end like a tuba. My black-and-white bustier bearing resemblance to it's older sister, the tube top. I draped my leg casually over his and he cradled it as we sang Beatle's song after song. The morning doves, sparrows, seagulls dipped above us clamoring for more. We complied.

I've always wanted to be "the girl" of the old romantic songs I love: Angel and Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix; the woman lost in a blizzard in Wildfire by Michael Martin Murphy; the girl who lived on Love Street by the Doors; the muse of Norwegian Wood; Sweet Amber Rose of Van Morrison's Caravan and the like. These girls were boundless, mystical -- the embodiment of freedom.

The more I craved to be she; the more elusive the concept became. Until only recently, I declared that as much as I painted myself that way -- it wasn't reality. I am tethered, bound and heavy; I drag thousands of pounds of proverbial chains about me. I am water-logged and heart-heavy. I'm not elusive nor enchanting; rather clingy and nagging.

Having just returned from a hearty breakfast, I urged J to sit with me on my bench. That the view closest to the garden looking out at the lawn toward the house created a new mini-world. Come see it, I urged, my two hands wrapped around his bicep. "I've always loved your garden, your yard. I admire it so," his words sounding like a boy's wish.

We settled into the strawberry cushion and although you might initially dismiss the white bench as uncomfortable, it surprises. I asked him to look from this view, to look over the dense grass past the concrete patio up to my back door. "See how different it looks?"

Being in the heart of the garden also lends a fresh perspective. The tangerine tiger lilies, purple liatris, saffron heliopsises straining for sky wave and rustle just behind us. The hostas as big as cabbages spreading leaf out about.

The grey sky acted as mystical canopy as we sang out as if no one was listening, as if all were listening. If you had walked by my house on Sunday about 1:30 p.m. you would have heard our versions of:

Oh Girl
Norwegian Wood
You're Gonna Lose that Girl
In My Life
Yellow Submarine
Run For Your Life
USSR
Act Naturally
I Should Have Known Better
Yesterday
Maybe, I'm Amazed

Also,

Billy Don't Be a Hero
Candida
Knock Three Times
Annie's Song

The canopy sky reflected an upcoming storm. The kind of rain I love, I crave. The afternoon held promise. I knew that as I laid bare feet to the grass, the concrete walking J back to his car.

Somewhere between his car and that bench, something had shifted for me. I feel light and free, boundless and ethereal.

I can recognize Norwegian wood, I do live on Love Street. I will turn up the radio, just enough so it's got soul. Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah



©L'uragana

Navigating the waters. . .

Is this how it starts, I asked into the wind. Why yes, this is exactly how it starts, I answered myself.

B is a nice kid. A good kid. He's my kid's best friend. B.'s the smart one. We've been told, uh em, known that since he was in preschool at our school. Now my son, J., didn't go to preschool here -- he came from a school now closed in Kindergarten.

But somewhere between preschool and K, B has been stamped, packaged and labeled The Smart One. Even the kids would tell you back in First Grade that B is the smartest in class. His female counterpart, C. We ALL know how smart they are. Because the legend's begun . . .


They are entering fourth grade now. The school hosts these "award" ceremonies in which each child is regaled with a certificate on what the teacher deems their accomplishments. B and C walked up there to receive certificates that deemed these children were accomplished in everything. Every subject. Everything.

Appropriate "ohhhh's" and "ahhhh's" waved through the parents.

Except my son received equally good grades (mostly A's, rest B's) and in fact, he scored higher than B. on their recent standardized test scores. B.'s mom took the week off work to prep her son while my son stated he wanted no assistance. So between J and I we decided that the test would be an organic reflection on his knowledge and test-taking capabilities.

And he scored higher than B. The smartest boy in the class.

Am I bitter? Slightly.Bitter because my son isn't getting the recognition he deserves. Bitter because it's a microcosm of life and it's frail, unbalanced findings. Of people who label others and do not deviate from that perception even when the child cries, "the emperor is naked." I assume that as teachers talk at lunch, at break they share their experiences, their thoughts, their assessments of students as they pass along grades on paper.

As if their perceptions are real. Solid. Undeniable.

I had to switch gears from angry bristling to one of parent telling my child how the world(unfortunately at time) works and how he has to know his accomplishments matter. How he must acknowledge himself because so many times the world and its flawed inhabitants do not. To instill in him a sense that it doesn't matter what they think; it matters what he knows.

Sometimes I think God made sure I had a child so I could be subjected to all the lessons all over again that I've found so difficult to navigate the first time. Truly.


©L'uragana