Sunday reading...

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There really are few things I enjoy more than a slow, sunny Sunday afternoon and the chance to read for hours and finish an entire pot of coffee.

Yesterday I took my Christmas money to Target and bought some new sheets, blankets, and pillows for my bed. Sleeping in this morning felt like another sort of gift. If it wasn't so nice out I would have been tempted to stay there all day.

I've been running all week, working hard and taking the train. Maybe it's the unusually warm weather but everywhere I go the people are in such good spirits. It's like the entire city is buzzing with resolutions and new plans, the excitement that comes with starting over.

I've got about fifty-billion things I'd like to do this year and so much I should be doing.

But it's Sunday afternoon and the sun is at that angle that I love--far enough down that everything it touches turns gold--and I can just make out the sparkling tops of the buildings downtown from my window. My muscles are tired and sore from the run I went on this morning, my mind is buzzing from my coffee, my cat is lying on the concrete in the middle of my appartment's parking area, rolling in the sun like he owns the damn place. And I'm at my window--watching it all in between the pages of my book.

I do love Sundays.

My Grandma B.

I was thinking about my Grandma B. today. I don't know why. Maybe because she was my secret Santa. Or maybe just because.

She's my mom's mom. I've always called her Grandma B. She hates her first name which is Phyllis. My grandfather calls her Phyll. My mom and my aunt still call her mommy. My uncle calls her mom. 

When I was young she scared me and made me uncomfortable. She was never that mean to me but she was never warm or friendly in the ways grandmothers were in movies and on TV. She didn't bake my brother and I cookies when she came over or hug us to death or sneak us candies.But I remember her being proud of us when we got good grades and clapping her hands and saying "Ooooooooh," when I showed her pictures I drew or things I had made.

I didn't realize why I felt this uneasiness until I got older and she told me that she didn't like children. I can't remember why she didn't like them but judging by how she is with other kids I think it may be that they're loud. And really, my grandma is smart and kids aren't at an intellectual level to be really interesting to her. I get the impression that they just aren't who she'd like to spend her time with.

As I got older and developed the ability to form coherent thoughts and sentences we could talk some more and our relationship progressed. Like I was with a lot of people, I was always trying to please her and make her think highly of me. (A common enough affliction.) I tried to figure out what she wanted me to say, and I would say some pretty ridiculous things just to get her to nod her head and say, "Yes, you're exactly right." Sometimes I would listen to her talk on the phone. (She was always on this high stool in the kitchen, smoking with one hand and holding the phone with its long curly cord in the other.) I would hear her express and explain her opinions on things and then later I'd bring the topic up and say I felt the same way. This probably seems like some kind of devious subterfuge and maybe it was. But I was young and, looking back, I'm sure it was all completely transparent anyway. Like I said, my grandmother was smart. She was also an economics major. When your six-year old granddaughter who thinks piggy banks are for playing Farm says she thinks it's a bad market for selling or that the economy is headed for a downturn you know it isn't something she came up with on her own. But Grandma always nodded her head at me and said she completely agreed. "You're a smart kid." "You're smarter than most." Or maybe just, "You're right." And she really was pleased. At the time I thought it was because I had found the right thing to say, that I had made her think her and I were on this same page, but now I think she was probably just pleased I was repeating her words. That I was being so young and silly but at the same time so obviously soaking up something of her knowledge and opinions.

But once in a while I'd hit on something without even having to play my little game. Sometimes I'd say just the right thing to completely please her. I remember when Ross Perot was running for president I said that I liked him until he quit and then changed his mind and decided to run again. We were watching TV together and they were talking about how someone was going to release some pictures and ruin his daughters wedding. I said I thought a wedding was a dumb reason to give up running for president. And I remember grandma looking at me like she was so proud and saying something like, "You are exactly right."

She has a dark lovely sense of humor. When she laughs it sounds a little wicked. I love this about her. It makes me think she was wild for a while. And maybe she still is.

She loves dogs. More than anyone I've ever known. Just the mention of them make her smile. She loves the Cubs. She loooooooooooves the Cubs. But she hates them too. She gets so bitter sometimes. 

She likes to drink. Or she used to. But pretty much everyone in my family likes to drink so this doesn't mean much.

She once bought a house at a party. She was on the deck having a great time and told the host that she loved his house and loved the deck they were on. He told her it was for sale and she bought it right there. On the way home from the party she asked my grandpa if he liked the house they were at. "Sure," he said. "Good because I just bought it."

She crocheted forever. She was good at it too. She'd make great blankets and for a while she supplied the whole family with beautiful throws for our living rooms. As a kid I absolutely loved these blankets. No matter how many times you washed them they'd always smell like dogs. I loved this. Dog smell--not dirt but that dog skin, fur, paw, warm smell--will always be a comfort to me.

She also made sweaters and stockings. (I talked about this a few posts ago.)

She didn't like cooking much (none of the woman in my family really love cooking except my aunt) but she did it and was good at it. We have a lot of recipes that come from Grandma. Spaghetti sauce. Cookies. Enchiladas. Lamb stew. (Which I hate actually.) 

She always wears turtle necks with things on them--small Christmas trees, small flowers, or small diamond shapes--so you didn't really notice what the things are, you just think it's a pattern, until you get close. 

Her hands always look like they hurt to me. They shake a lot. She can't buckle her own seatbelt. 

She loves chocolates. Boxes of them.

She was the one who would remember everyone's birthday and age. Everyone. Other families would call her to remember their uncle's birthday, or their neighbor's, or their cousin's. She would remember baseball stats, dates, historical events, and family events and history the same way. 

She loves the 49ers. She and my Grandma Murray used to call each other after every game.

The smell of certain soaps remind me of her. There is this jar of decorative soaps in the front bathroom of my grandparent's house that is filled with these soaps that are butterflies and seashells and different pastel colors. They smell very distinct and they remind me of her and the pink bathroom.

She sighs. She has a sigh. It's long and drawn out and it expresses her displeasure at the world. She doesn't do this as often anymore but it's there.

She wishes she used her education more and got a job. She regrets not having a career. 

She used to volunteer for political campaigns. She's a republican. 

When the family lived in Alabama she had a maid who was black and she'd drive her home from work every day. She went to her wedding and brought my aunt and my mom. These are small things. They seem like nothing and maybe they are--just normal things you do for and with anyone who is an acquaintance of yours. But at that time it was a big deal to a lot of people. 

She hated Alabama. She still does.

She thinks golf is pretty silly. I don't remember her ever really expressing any huge interest in a movie or a book. 

She likes to sing. I've heard her sing her fight song from college many many times. She used to like puzzles but not so much anymore. She used to have books and books of word puzzles. She likes the comics. She loves Chicago. She loves Disneyland.

She likes ice cream. She sneaks spoonfuls from the carton sometimes.

She uses one of the big spoons not the little ones.

Her soul swooned slowly as she heard the snow falling faintly through the universe

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It's 11:35 and those of us that are still awake are watching a documentary on some of my favorite music (right now Bonnie Rait is talking about Jackson Brown), I can hear the fire crackling, the dogs are sleeping and sighing curled up into themselves. Now that my mom's done bustling around the kitchen (she's had a hard time sitting still this trip) she's pouring herself a glass of wine and singing along with Carole King. Outside it's snowing soft and quiet. 

There's something about snow, the way it covers everything, that makes you feel like it's falling everywhere. 

Which reminds me of the end of story I haven't read in a while... 

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, father westward, sofly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

 

 

And the actual and the ideal gradually came closer together

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I finished Moon Palace tonight (the title of this post was a line that stood out to me) while sitting on the couch and talking with family. It was a great read and I liked that the end felt more like a beginning. Sometimes it's annoying when novels do this but if it's done right it can be wonderful. And really, I'm in the mood for new beginnings, it being so close to New Year's and all, so the timing is right.

It's been a fun day, I slept in, visited with the family, got a haircut, checked out the new (well, newer, since it's only been open for a year or so) independent bookstore here in Sunriver and picked up two new books 1Q84 and Death and the Penguin. The two owners there were lovely and I had fun chatting it up with them a bit before checking out the other shops in the village and heading over to the lodge for a glass of wine. After that I met my aunt and my mom then came back to the house to sit and read with dogs and family. That's pretty much how it goes around here. 

It's raining now and the rest of the house is asleep so it's quiet except for the sounds of the rain coming down harder and harder outside. I like being the last one awake in a big full house. There's a weird dichotomy to it. I always feel this comfortable responsibility--as if I'm the one watching over everyone. And yet, there's this safeness too. Because I know if something happens and I'm the one that needs watching over that everyone is already here.

I dunno, maybe that's just what family feels like. Whatever it is, it's nice. 

Merry Christmas!

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Fun times in Bend with the family, Wallace and Davis, and the Hayne's sisters. I've been sickly the past couple of days so I haven't done much but eat a lot and fall asleep on the couch with the dogs, which I suspect I might have done anyway. But because of my cold the last couple of days have pasted in a odd Christmas daze--I feel happy and grateful, but also flushed and confused somehow. I keep thinking there's something I should be doing, or some job left undone, but I can't remember what it is I need to do.

Ha, I pretty much always feel that way though.  

Luckily I'm feeling better today. It's like I'm finally getting my consciousness back. I can think more clearly, read my book without falling asleep, and practice my critical thinking and comprehension skills without feeling too muddled. Now I plan to dive into my normal holiday routine of marathon-reading and overly-reflective bouts of writing.

I will also be walking dogs, riding bikes, laughing and giggling over tables, and finding more Sunriver adventures to get into. We already went on a great hike. I'd like to go into Bend later. Apparently, there's a new independent bookstore in the village that's supposed to be wonderful. If it would only snow I could go test out my new snow shoes. 

After finishing Girl in Landscape (it was not very good), I've started reading Paul Auster's Moon Palace and so far it's delightful. I like this description of one of the characters.

Victor knew that he lacked ambition, but he also knew that there were other things in the world besides music. So many things, in fact, that he was often overwhelmed by them. Being the sort of person who always dreams of doing something else while occupied, he could not sit down to practice a piece without pausing to work out a chess problem in his head, could not play chess without thinking about the failures of the Chicago Cubs, could not go to the ballpark without considering some minor character in Shakespeare, and then, when he finally got home, could not sit down with his book for more than twenty minutes without feeling the urge to play his clarinet. Wherever he was, then, and wherever he went, he left behind a cluttered trail of bad chess moves, of unfishined box scores, and half-read books.

It's how I feel sometimes. But then, I think it's how a lot of us feel. There's that lyric from a country song, I can't remember which one, that goes, "You've got to stand for something, or you'll fall for anything." And I always fear that I'm one of those people that falls for anything, and that falls in love with anything. Or that just can't really fall too hard or too deep into anything because I get distracted by all the other anythings out there and pull myself back and go tripping and falling and stumbling into anything and everything. I dunno, I'm being silly, and having fun with words instead of trying to make sense. (Hmm... maybe my fever isn't quite gone.)

But it is overwhelming. (And by it I, of course, mean life.) There is simply too much at times. It's like my favorite Kerouac quote...

I like too many things and get all confused and hung up running from one falling star to another until I drop. This is the night. What it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody but my own confusion.

I should try and grow up and stop loving Kerouac like I do but I can't help it. 

Anyways, there's one overly-reflective bout of writing out of the way. :)-

Home in Gresham

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I don't really think of Gresham as home anymore but then it's hard to call it anything else. After a long day in the car with good friends Eric and Gisu I made it in at about 10:30. Had a beer and some laughs (as they would say in White Christmas) with my mom then woke up this morning in the guest room filled with all my old art.

Funny how much of myself got left behind here. Now I'm in my old room, sitting on a blow up bed, and staring at the old picture of Starry Night I painted on the wall as a teenager.

Some things change...

And some stay exactly the same. Ha, there's a comfort in that.

Picking up Grandma then moving on to Sunriver today. The holiday is a go

Ready for vacation

So I'm super bummed because I had this lame post last night about how I was feeling sick. Ha, and I thought it sent from my phone right before I went to bed at 9:30ish or so, but I guess it didn't. And I was doing so well with posting every day.

Sad. 

But okay, moving on...

The bad news is the post didn't send. The good news is I feel better today. And now it's vacation and, oh man, I'm so excited for the break and family. And for a whole week to do nothing but read and play outside, and laugh over tables with wine and good food, and to go for walks with dogs and friends.

Should be a good time.

But then, it almost always is. 

My stocking...

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This is a picture of my Christmas stocking. It was made by my Grandma B. who unwittingly made a stocking that would become a family tradition and thus had to make quite a few of these things as the Bertossa/Murray family grew and multiplied as families tend to do.

My mom has the same stocking in the same design only her name and the year of her birth is on it and the colors of her stocking are more subdued...not a red but a maroon. Not a bright green but a forest green.

My brother's stocking is cut from the same pattern as mine but as long as I can remember it's been larger and longer because it's obviously been stretched out from five extra years of gifts and use. When I was young stockings were the first things we opened Christmas day.

Mom liked to put in those chocolates that look like pieces of gold but as we got older the gifts in our stocking became something else... a chance for embarrassment. I don't know why but it was in your stocking that you'd find the pairs of underwear, zit cream, and (for my brother but not me) condoms. We'd be 14 and sensitive and in front of our whole family and out we'd pull some horrible item and mom would just laugh and laugh until tears ran down her cheeks.

Is it weird that I love how horrible and cruel my family can be to each other? It's just so funny. I'll have to talk about Uncle Rob's "big game" sometime or when dad filled mom's stocking with huge serving spoons and spatulas to make a point and instead he just made her really really pissed so that any time anyone tried to actually use one of those spoons she'd get mad all over again at the memory of it. (There was always this ridiculous battle about the size of our serving spoons at our dinner table.)

One of my favorite memories from growing up is still the time when we were all eating dinner and my brother was so mad at something my dad had said he knocked his glass of milk over and it spilled across the table and onto dad's lap. We all sat in shocked silence for a moment, and I think my brother was more scared than any of us at what he'd done, but then my dad cracked up laughing and said, "You little shit, you did that on purpose." And we all completely lost it while my dad sat there soggy and wet and laughing.

It's just like the time we were coming home from some 4th of July party and my parents were having such a huge fight my mom made my dad pull over and let her out of the car. After he pulled away from the corner I sat in the back completely silent not knowing what to say or do. We were only one or two blocks away when my dad said, "Shit," and turned the car around and headed back. My mom was waiting there on the corner and when he stopped she opened the door and got in. A few seconds down the road she started laughing and looked over at my dad and he was laughing now too. "Well, we haven't done that in a while." "I'm so glad you came back. I really didn't want to walk back to the party."

Oh man, my family is so absurdly perfect sometimes. I love it. I love us. The older I get the more these silly things come back to me and the more I realize how lucky I am.

The holidays are coming up. We don't do stockings anymore but I wouldn't be at all surprised to find a pair of embarrassing underwear under the tree.

What amazingly perfect timing. It's 9:30 in San Francisco and there are carolers outside singing Silver Bells.

It’s Christmastime in the city.

Running outside now...

 

Invisible Friends, a selection

Revisiting old stories tonight. I had forgotten how much work I put into this one. I might have to pick it up again, but I'm not sure if I'm in the mood for invisible, melancholy friends when it's so nice outside and the city is so full of so many different things I don't know yet.  

 

When you’re invisible you become close to the wind. Because you’re unseen you feel a connection to other unseen things and the wind, as loud and obvious as it is, is one of the most important. You can feel the wind. The wind makes noise. Nobody knows what the wind looks like but everyone knows it’s there. When you’re invisible the wind becomes like a brother or a sister. You are almost the same thing. Sometimes, when you are lonely, you imagine yourself as a part of it. Sometimes you try to move with it. You make the wind’s movements your movements so that you drift through your days feeling like you are part of something larger than yourself. Sometimes, you can even trick yourself into thinking that you really are the wind. That maybe the wind is simply a collection of other invisible people like yourself, trying to move together and become something they aren’t.

 The wind is funny though. It isn’t solid. You can walk through it. If the wind is a collection of beings, they would have to be ghosts. And though you have thought of this many many times, and tested this possibility many many times, you are not a ghost. Nothing can move through you. You cannot walk through walls. You hit things. You feel things. You get hurt and bleed on occasion. Your blood is invisible but it is wet to the touch and tastes sweet. You can drift, it’s true, but only in the way that all people, even visible people, drift from time to time.

You are not a ghost and you are not the wind. Sometimes though, sometimes you wish you were.