The Canadian

I’m supposed to be studying Spanish but jerjonji – See her post (I think it’s the third one down) about using friends as material – made me remember I wanted to do a character sketch of the Canadian while I still can.  Or care to.  I missed dancing with him, as he is traveling this week, so this should favor him.

He’s about my height, slightly taller, but he stands straighter with his chest out.  He wears new, fashionable glasses but looks younger without them.  I mentioned this but he must prefer to look cool or my age — He takes them off to read the menu.

I’m partial to hair and he still has his.  Not a whole lot in front but enough that there’s the illusion of hair there.

His clothes are fairly nondescript but he pointed out the brand name on the bottom of the sleeve.  Red flag for me.

Compact, with very large quads, he has big knees and a small ass.  He’s a cyclist.

When I admired his good shoes he was quick to mention the designer.  Woops.

When he tells a story nothing moves save for a slight inflection.  No hand gestures, (he once made a comment about mine.  As you might imagine I gesture a lot) he has no body language.

My daughter says he reminds her of Jack Nicholson.  That surprised him.  Unpleasantly, I gathered.  I see the likeness in the stance and in the sort of sly reserve but the Canadian is a gentle, unassuming sort who gets things done behind the scene.

He appears to be a gentle soul but he can cut you to the quick I fear.  I thought I saw that, initially, but not since.  He changes his behavior accordingly.  More about that later.

His mouth is his most telling and intriguing feature, with a full bottom lip that tends to protrude slightly but only sometimes.  His smile is amused, his humor quick and dry.  It’s the eyes that show the depth of his quiet intelligence. 

Upon entering a room he is somewhat cautious while taking it all in, his senses on overdrive.  He gets acclimated slowly, seeing everything around him without showing it.  Except now that he knows I see, too, we share it all with nudges of the knee, under the table, or darts of the eye in the direction of interest.

I like the way he is is in the world, confident and comfortable.  He said I’m easy to be with but he’s the one who seems to glide through whatever space we’re in.  I think it’s because of all the time he spends in places that are not his.  He makes his own way, usually alone, like me.

I remembered the other person.  And I won’t say her absence was my biggest loss but I felt the most anxious about it.  She was my first bellydance teacher, Orientale (as opposed to tribal), and someone I saw every week for four years and traveled with.  I was one of the few people she trusted in the dance world.  She is an extremely private person and her inner circle very small so the loss was more hers. 

I thought it stemmed from the excerpt I sent her from my memoir, the part about her.  I never heard back.  Granted, she was traveling all over the world by then, finally making the big time.  But last year, when I was in a writers’ group and I’d decided to switch over from the novel, I wanted to see what it was she objected to so I called her best friend, a dancer in Seattle who I knew well enough to ask. 

She hadn’t heard one word about it and took it upon herself to call and find out.  As it turned out my teacher was on her way to Portland to teach a workshop and do a show.  She said she LOVED what I’d written and just forgot to get back to me.  That was it.  And I’m pretty sure I wrote about this but after my initial relief I was pissed.  Our mutual friend urged me to forgive her and go to the show but I didn’t.  People fawn over her and I imagine it’s gotten much worse.  She owed me a big apology and I didn’t feel like making the effort to get it.  Let her come to me.

Well, I got an invitation to the wedding.  She’s coming home to marry her longtime boyfriend.  I know her parents and all her family and would not miss this for anything.  But I am nervous about seeing her. 

Something strange is going on.  The universe is returning people from my past.  Last week I had coffee with the woman I’ve written about who grew up across the street from me, the one who couldn’t sell my house and didn’t speak to me for …I don’t know we’ve been estranged since October 2004, aside from two or three attempts at coffee which didn’t go well.  By then I was the one who didn’t want to communicate.  But out of the blue she called last week and we had a wonderful meeting on Thursday. 

Tonight I went to a BBQ with my last boyfriend.  I broke up with him and he never spoke to me again.  Until he emailed a couple weeks ago wanting to get together for a drink.  During the last four years I have become close with his best friend’s wife, unbeknownced to W, until she was forced to tell him after he called me to make a date.  We’ve met for drinks and then last week went to dinner and now tonight we were a foursome again and I can’t begin to describe how good it felt to be part of that group again.  I think W enjoyed it too, even though there were a couple times I wondered if maybe he resented my being more up-to-date with her than he was.

On Monday a boy from my high school contacted me saying he’d never stopped loving me all these years and wanted to reconnect, now that I am single.  He is still married so I said no.  I certainly don’t need another married man.

Henry’s secretary, back in 1978, a woman who became one of his best friends and who wanted to stay in my life after I left but was such a downer that I discouraged it sent me a lovely card with a picture she’d cut out from a magazine.  The note said I used to look just like this back when she first met me.  I don’t know what to do about her. 

There’s one more but I can’t think who right now.  When people come back you feel like you’ve come full circle.  I just wonder why now and why so many.  Like what’s the message.

Shit.  I fussed with this and changed enough that I reposted it but forgot about losing your wonderful comments.  My hugest apologies, though it’s more my loss.  Especially yours, Brenda.

The Recital

The dog is quivering at my feet, and the cat just shot in through the dog door after lightening struck.  There are two big skylights in this main room which really amplify the sound of rain, and it’s pounding down hard.  Good thing I mowed the neighbor’s strip this afternoon.  We share it and they are fussy.  I even got the scissors out and edged their side.

I just got back from a concert.  My voice teacher held a recital for 12 of her students.  Plus, she taught an all-day workshop which she asked me to attend.  I was able to come to the morning portion, and I’m so glad I did because it gave me a chance to get to know these people and what they were singing.  Half the songs were either in German or Italian and she asked each student to explain why their piece resonated with them. 

The thrust of the morning workshop was about opening your heart to your audience, giving them the gift of your song.  She had each person practice standing up to tell the audience what their song was about and once they started singing, if they could, looking us in the eye.  She urged them to express emotion so we knew what the song felt like.  Some of these singers moved me to tears.  A very sad man who sang bass in German just left me raw.  A 13-year-old sang in German about being jilted, and you could tell her tender, young heart had been broken recently.

The teacher talked about getting into character.  The singers were supposed to collect themselves and breathe, looking down for a few seconds while they settled into the mood of the song.  Slowly raising their eyes to meet ours, they would then turn to nod for the piano to start.  And they were supposed to stay in character until that last note was played and the audience began to clap.   I found this interesting because when you are performing as a bellydancer it is a MUST that you be in character.  It is why everyone has stage names.

I also found it interesting about opening your heart.  The reason my bellydance teacher won all the contests was because audiences loved her.  In real life she was not that emotionally available but you put her on stage in a costume and her smile reached the back of the room. 

We began the workshop having to do this silly exercise which I knew was orchestrated in order that we learn each other’s name and what we were like.  The sad man and the young girl were the two most emotionally exposed people in the room and I’m inclined to avoid that type of person.  But it was that very thing which allowed the music to shine.  Their voices were the most compelling.

I was surprised to find that several of the singers had worse voices than I.  One man with a good strong voice could not keep the rhythm straight (it was a trio) and was reluctant to open his mouth (he’s a psychiatrist) in a way that would afford the best sound.  His wife had a very mediocre voice which was weak like mine but she was able to hold her lips out and her mouth open so the quality of sound was pleasing.  Even though his voice was good he clenched up his throat so the sound grated on you. 

The voice teacher was smart to have everyone there all day, getting comfortable with each other and the place.  It was in our church so I felt right at home.  Had I agreed to sing this time I would have been fine.  I’m used to being in front of an audience so it wouldn’t have been such a big deal after all.  Maybe next year.

The phone hasn’t rung since 5:00.  No phone calls, no footprints.  I don’t recall ever doing that before, actually noticing what time my last call was.  I got on Xanga, feeling out of touch with the world — Xanga’s always good when you either have no life or don’t want anything to do with the life you have — but nobody’s posted and nobody’s been by. 

I’ve checked all my stocks a jillion times so I can’t do that.  I enjoyed the run up early this morning but by the time I got home the market was down, and I had lost most of the gains after a sudden sell-off.  Sandisk reported a slowdown and bam!  It’s normal for the whole tech sector to suffer, even though it’s just one company with bad earnings or guidance, but the whole market went down.  That’s what I’ve heard happened.  I had to leave for recorder. 

We were a trio today, as the married couple are on vacation.  I got to play the top line, which was not planned by the hostess. It was hard music and wonderful and she had practiced that line.  It was my buddy who said toward the end, “Why don’t you let Prudy play soprano.” 

“Yeaaah!” I said, putting the tenor down.  I had been having to play an alto line with some notes I’d never seen.  Well, I’ve seen them I just haven’t had to know what they were.  But that’s fun, too.  I just guessed and played them down an octave.  That was marginally successful.

I dance with the Canadian every Sun night, and by Monday morning I’m itching to play some music of my own.  I much prefer the top line and I have better air control or whatever you call it so I don’t sound as shrill and overblown as the hostess.  What she does have is a lot of style.  I like the arrogance – It’s not arrogant, it’s enthusiastic with slight exaggeration.  Which makes it fun for us and certainly more interesting to play.   

She surprised us with iced tea, instead of the usual hot.  Ten o’clock and it was already hot out.  It made me drool, though.  You have to alternately suck and blow because the accumulation of spit will mess up the sound.  I refused to do it at first, preferring to blow it out the bottom.  When I realized that was rude I began blowing over my pants.  Still, they thought I was uncouth and a heathen.  Not really, but sort of I bet.  Anyway, iced tea, or at least her favorite Trader Joes’, doesn’t work.  We were all drooling.

I’m supposed to be at a Spanish party right about now.  You might wonder why, if I’m looking to see who hasn’t called or written, why I’m not there.  It’s the annual, end-of-the-year party which is held at a student’s house, or should I say horse ranch.  Great deck, great people, but my buddy had to have emergency surgery, and I didn’t feel like going alone for some reason.  Odd, I go lots of places alone.  These people aren’t in my class, though, so I would only remember them from the party last year.  Also, I had to make something Spanish and I didn’t feel like it, even though I did the shopping for it on my way home from recorder.  I was around people all weekend, maybe I want to be alone.  But it’s so boring.

This is my first summer with AC and I am in heaven.  I didn’t even miss going to Florida because we had the same weather here.  And instead of having to stay up late airing the house out, with all the doors open, I sauntered upstairs at a reasonable hour, pulled the covers up, and tried to pretend there was an ocean breeze in the background. 

Tonight I baked salmon with lemon slices and made mashed potatoes.  They, of course, turned out great and I thought it was too bad the Canadian didn’t get the real thing the other day.  I had salad left over with avocado, purple cabbage, carrot, cucumber, bok choy and red pepper.  I’ve taken to chopping the lettuce in ribbons rather than tearing it.  It’s a shame to drizzle Catalina dressing over the top of such a beautiful salad, instead of making my own, but in the summer I like it and it’s so easy.  

It’s been a busy weekend.  Some time ago I decided that whenever someone invited me to do something I’d say yes.  Even if it wasn’t something I would have signed up for on my own.  Like yesterday I agreed to spend the afternoon going to the Art Walk on Alberta.  It’s in a part of town I know little about.  I used to be afraid to drive there at night but now it’s all the rage.  It was too hot to be outside but people were in band uniforms, marching.  I thought I was going to pass out.  We ended up inside a restaurant where we could still see the parade so we didn’t miss the fleet of men in dresses riding by on their bikes.  We have a bumper sticker that’s popular here:  Keep Portland Weird.

To tell you the truth I would rather have been in my house listening to the beautiful sound of forced air.

My voice lesson went really well today.  I managed to hit high D and low E very comfortably, which was a first, and I am becoming more proficient with the different scales.  At choir practice when we had to sight read our way through a new piece, instead of the usual weak, quavery voice I made solid sounds that did not embarrass me.

Also, good things are happening in the back of my throat.  Energetically, I mean.  Those sound waves, are bouncing around in there in a healing fashion.  Wait, sound waves could only exist outside the body, right?  Whatever that vibration is, it’s doing good things.  Also, she makes me keep my head back, chin down, stand tall and use my abs.  That’s how I got that high note.  And that’s why my posture is improving. 

I find myself singing whatever we sang in church for a couple days after and then what I’m practicing for my lesson, before and after, so pretty much I am singing all the time.  It’s a lot like meditating in that I am communing with all that is Holy.  Especially with those Italian love songs.

This is a day I have always dreaded, in spite of my three lovely girls. Now I fear I have tarnished it for them.  They grew up hearing me say all kinds of disparaging things about my mother and how I didn’t want to see her.  The middle daughter just phoned, saying she woke up thinking oh, God, it’s Mother’s Day, just like she used to hear me say.  She had an obligation that she had put off involving her boyfriend’s sister, who is the mother of two kids my daughter takes care of.

For a long time my oldest had serious issues with me.  The middle one went to school in San Francisco, and I would take the youngest with me to Florida every Mother’s day.  Now the youngest is going to school in S.F., the oldest always gets me a present and is happy to see me, and the middle one and I are celebrating tomorrow because we meet every Mon for lunch. 

Previous to my mother getting sick, I was having the usual feelings, which I addressed in my letter to her.  It is a couple posts down and I made it private because I was embarrassed by it.  But in response to SR’s comment about honesty I have made it public.  The tone still shames me but it’s the truth.  Now that I have felt true concern for my mother’s health and let her know it, in other words now that I am a better daughter I can better afford what reads like hatred.

The sermon today was about parenting.  Our minister is a lesbian and she spent last week in the south taking care of her dying mother.  You could tell they had issues and the thrust of the sermon was about focusing on what your mother taught you more than how well she loved you.  Well, hell, my mother taught me — I learned the art of debate.  I learned not to trust people.  I learned how to be strong.  I learned to love clothes.  I learned to take the lead.  I learned all kinds of useful things.  Even her not loving me taught me to love myself.

I have always thought of Mother Earth as my true mother, and as I gathered flowers from my yard yesterday I celebrated that love.  She is always there for me and I am always grateful for her.  Happy Mother’s Day!

I took the fuschia over to my mother and was able to sincerely express my concern for her health.  My brother went over on Friday because he was going to be away windsurfing this weekend, and she was so sick she wouldn’t let him in the house.  His girlfriend called me last night, saying she thought we should go over and check on her; that she wasn’t answering her phone.  I wanted to wait another day, figuring either she’d be better or worse enough to let us take her to the hospital.  Thank God she was better.  I dreaded the idea of trying to get her into my car.  She probably only weighs 100 lbs and she’s 5’6, but I try to avoid physical contact, and it would have been hard to convince her to go.

I think we were both pleased with my heartfelt plea that she take good care of herself and get well soon.  I even asked her what she’d eaten today.  Instead of resenting some imagined inference like I know more about nutrition, which I do, she appreciated my concern.  New territory for us.

My house smells like lilac.  After I mowed part of the front I made a giant bouquet with those and three kinds of rhodies.  The oldest and her boyfriend came over and we went to lunch, then came back and watched the dogs chase around the backyard.  Bridget is exhausted.

Dear Mom,

That was weird to write since we all call you Lois.  Because I am the oldest and the biggest recipient of Dad’s precious little time at home, one might think I fared the best.  Most everyone agrees on that, including your other offspring.  The day he left was the scariest day of my life, up to that point.  I’ve had worse now so that day served me well. 

I talked to you the other day, as someone I went to high school with mentioned having been to our house; that you hosted an orientation for the University of Oregon before my freshman year.  Having no recollection of that, I phoned.  It was like talking to some new woman, some benign version of you. 

I made it sound like I was in on the agreement that I got off easy.  Nah.  You and I both know  I had to fight you every day of my life from the time I was eight.  But they still think I’m lucky to have been able to put up the fight.  What happened?  What made you so mean?  Was it dad’s affair?  I know that was the first of many, but what did that have to do with me?  

When you still had three children you were at least good to your only son.  And because your youngest was the weirdest kid on the block you babied her.  Then she was the smartest kid in the class and the most creative so you drove her to all her special plays and orchestras while I did all the dishes.  That’s fine.  But the fact that you never expected anything more from me than to find a good husband made me not have expectations for myself. 

Your oldest grandchild, my firstborn (I would never send this but if I did I would use her name) said the other day that of your four I was probably the favorite.  I looked incredulous but she explained that you would be the most proud of me, that you would identify the most with me.  I was shocked to see the sense in that, as ironic as it seems. 

Of all the ways you hurt me over the years I have come to realize that by not showing me any love, ever, that I may spend the rest of my life needing it.  Mother’s day is this weekend and I will bring over the usual hanging basket.  I know better than to make last year’s mistake and send flowers (I heard from my brother that she was pissed I didn’t sign the card with love). 

My three girls know how much I love them.  It’s the only way I know to make things right. 

I’m glad to get this off my chest.  You know how badly I felt about pretending with Dad when he died.  It was clever of you to wait until he was on his deathbed to tell us the awful truth about him so that in the end all we had was you.  That amounts to nothing, as far as I’m concerned.

Prudy