Things come to me in the shower.  This morning it was that I could read some of the stuff I’ve written.  Instead of Congressional Record or jury charge or Q and A (depositions with two voices, one the atty and one the person being deposed) I could, for example, bring the short story.  I have scads of stuff I could bring them.  Shoot, I could start writing again! 

The work I’m doing brings me such pleasure and on many levels.  I’m teaching the way I would have loved to learn.  It’s a small enough class that I am getting to know how each of them thinks; how they hear and write what I read.  And I am marking some of my own material so they have something wonderful to think about to boot. 

You know how people say they are surprised by the sound of their voice if they hear it recorded?  I listened to a tape I’d made the other day, in order to grade a test.  I read two tests each day, one at 80 words a minute and then one at 60.  That’s slow.  So you have to elongate the words, pause here and there, use inflection to tip them off about punctuation and for the most part jazz up a sentence.  It is such fun and I have to say I was pleased with the result.  Which was a relief as there is a woman who grades all the tests and listens to my voice over and over.  I was also relieved to hear my rhythm was steady.  She’s probably not using her stopwatch to time me anymore but you can bet she was at first.

The best part about this work is teaching them my briefs.  At first some of the students were resistant, wanting purely to write to sound.  Their theory teacher is against the idea of briefs.  But as they move up in speed it becomes such a timesaver to learn this form of shorthand  called briefing.  I was the queen of briefs in school and somehow, ten years later, I still remember them.  To be able to pass on many of these I made up myself is such a joy.

The director took me in her office last night (I replaced the gal who trained me and she moved to days) and asked if I’d be willing to work Tues and Thurs morning with some of the theory teacher’s students, teaching them briefs.  It would mean driving there twice a day, two times a week, but I said yes. I don’t imagine that will go over well with the theory teacher but it will be the best thing for the school.

The next day I called him.  I wanted to know what he was thinking about in the car, whether it was about the gallery or about her.  I left a message posing the questions I pondered in the last post, regarding his work.  That was Friday. 

He finally called today, saying he’d been busy.  I know he enjoys talking to me (he never wants to hang up)  but he doesn’t call unless he has a reason.  We talked about his feelings after seeing the galleries and it was just as I suspected.  He was sparse with his feelings so I likened it to the experience of going back after my inopportune exile from the dance community.  In the middle of drawing parallels he cut me off, able then to voice his frustration and resentment.  But after he was done I finished my story so he would know I knew what it felt like. 

Walking to the restaurant he told me pointedly that this might be his last trip to Portland until next spring.  I didn’t believe him so I kind of ignored it.  But he brought it up again, saying he doesn’t make the trip in winter.  I told him on the phone I’d gotten an email last night from my realtor — he still has my earnest money so I guess he’s still my realtor– telling me about another house for sale in my price range.  I told him (the painter) I might be coming down next week to look at it.  He said to let him know when but then made noises about being locked in the studio.  I said, “Don’t worry I won’t bother you,” to which he backtracked about not being too busy.  I cut him off and changed the subject.  Before we got back to it he got a call and I left for Spanish. 

So Mia was right about him.  Part of that I think is his not having children, never loving someone more than himself.  And part of it is his lack of interest in people.  I noticed that at the restaurant the first night I met him.  It seemed a plus then, his inner world so much more interesting than what was going on around him.

I think OBL was right, too.  “Focused” was the word I think she used.  When I didn’t hear back from him I started wondering if the date had even had anything to do with me.  I have enough reservations about him, some of which I haven’t gone into here, that for now I am happy to watch it play out.  He’s certainly more interesting than anyone else I know.   

He arrived wearing an expensive corduroy jacket and gaberdine slacks with a wine-colored denim/cotton-type shirt.  Sadly, I was underdressed, not wanting to make a big deal or seem wanna-be artistic.  Who knew people dressed for 1st Thursday. 

Parking was an unexpected breeze.  He heads first thing to what turns out to be the gallery which represents him.  He plows through there with me trailing behind trying to get a glimpse of the art, having no idea he is looking for something of his.  When he doesn’t see it on two of the walls, we leave. 

“Wait,” I say, as he heads for the door.  “We didn’t see everything.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, remembering me.  “This is the gallery where I have my work but it’s not up.”

“Oh,” I say, seeing his disappointment.  “Well, okay.  Let’s go.”

“No, it’s all right.”  And with that we head back in to the left front of the building to see what we missed.. 

The way he talked I was going to learn all about art but really he just wanted to see what was selling, what people were asking, and move onto the next gallery.  We ran into a teacher of his at the second place and that made him happy.  And in the third one we ran into a group of gay men, two of them members of his church.  We discovered we all were going to the same restaurant afterwards.

We made it there first and were told it would be a 30-minute wait.  Out of nowhere comes a young woman who says she can seat us.  We order and I can tell he intends to pay, something I decide is okay.   

I suspect if he hadn’t had those boosts to his ego (the friends) it would have been a different kind of night.  Even on the way back to my house I could tell something was on his mind.  The next morning I wondered if it bothered him that so many of the paintings were outdoor scenes.  Not exactly what he used to do but similar.  He says he took a lot of heat back then for it was not en vogue.  People were either selling modern art or impressionistic stuff.  Definitely not these woodsy scenes that were everywhere we went. 

He probably saw lost opportunity.  He probably was envious of the people who sold paintings he could have done better.  But maybe he sees a chance to get back in the game, now that the kind of work he does is being shown. 

He’s spent the last year trying to get his wife back which was a complete waste of time as near as I can tell.  She’d called him the day before he drove up here and he, for the first time, didn’t respond.  He told me he’d wanted to talk to her all week and then she calls. 

He held me tight at the door and I felt the soft, freshly-cut hair on the back of his neck.  He smelled good. 

I wonder what we’re doing with each other.

A couple days ago I got stung on the insole of my left foot.  It wasn’t a problem until this morning at 3:30 when I woke up to go to the bathroom.  I was just drifting off to sleep, as I do easily, when the bottom of my foot started itching. 

It was a hard enough itch to get at that soon I was wide awake.  I did my usual sit-ups and leg lifts that I always do in bed and decided I would just get up early, thinking shoes would feel good.  After some coffee I feel wide awake.  I actually like getting up this early, getting a jump on the day.

I have been beating myself up for the annual procrastination I practice every year at this time.  Right before the rain comes I quit watering.  Then I quit mowing.  This year I’ve paid the neighbor kid because it was just so hot I didn’t want to do it so it’s even easier to distance myself from all the outdoor chores. 

The back deck and front porch need sweeping.  The roof and gutters need cleaning and much debris in my little forest needs to be removed.  I need to get that chain saw out but I am afraid to use it or get on the roof when I am here alone.  What I will probably end up doing is hiring somebody but who?  I miss the Mexican father and son who used to do all that.

This is an opportunity to step up.  But I can’t even get my nerve up to have a fire in my woods because the neighbor got me so freaked out about setting all our woods on fire. 

I am so scared about termites, now that I see what they did to my mother’s house.  The tree I had cut down is still piled up on the porch and deck, waiting for me to decide how and where to store it.  When the snow destroyed the carport I lost the perfect place for my woodpile.

Knowing I had all this work piling up, knowing the rain was coming, I would lay out in the sun, soaking up the last of its rays.  I even had a week off from work as the school takes a vacation and for some reason I spent that time inside cleaning when I prefer working outside. 

It’s the procrastination/perfectionism that I might as well put on the calendar for the end of September.  Maybe I should give myself a birthday present next year:  yard service.

Oct 1 is First Thursday in The Pearl, a section of town where most of the galleries are located.  I’ve probably been twice and it’s been going on most of my adult life.  Nothing about it appeals to me but I don’t mind going with someone who enjoys that sort of thing because then they can explain art to me.  Mostly, I don’t get it.

Music, literature, food, film, design, be it clothing or furniture; I could go on.  All these things I have an opinion on that I can back up.  I know what I like and why.  But walking by most gallery windows leaves me nonplussed.  Rarely does anything appeal to me and even when it does I don’t feel confident about my choice.  The one exception was something I bought on a cruise.  It was a good enough deal I didn’t question it.  I bid on it and it was mine.  I loved the colors and the tongue-in-cheek seductivity and even though the frame was garish I was happy to have it.

My new friend the painter is coming up from the beach to take me to First Thursday and dinner.  I’d almost rather eat here in order to avoid the issue of who pays.  We’ve gone out for a meal four times now and I have always paid for myself.  The first and last time he tried to.  It seems to be tied to his level of interest; that is, the two middle times he was happy not to pay was when his ex-wife was acting like she wanted him back. 

Once again she is living with her boyfriend and this time he says he’s done.  We’ll see.  I’m still not sure how I feel about him so I’d just as soon continue to pay my own way.  But I don’t want to deter him by sending the message that I’m not interested.  Because I am. 

Sunday is my mother’s memorial, something I wasn’t in favor of but will attend.  I have not participated in its production, which they may hold against me.  My brother’s girlfriend encouraged me in my stand.  She was Lois’s favorite, of us girls.

I invited my childhood best friend, the realtor, who grew up across the street and knows firsthand what my mother was like.  My mother couldn’t stand my friend because she was fun, she had imagination, she was devious, and she was daring.  She, too, had a horrible mother, so we made the most of our time away from the house.

Her mother, who drove into a tree at high noon on the 4th of July, is buried at the mortuary where our little production is to be held.  She is bringing along her husband I’ve never met.  They married during the years we weren’t speaking, after the fiasco over her not selling my house.  You may remember me saying I actually know all about him.  My youngest was best friends with his youngest, at one time.  I know ALL his dirt. 

But she is happy.  My mother is dead.  My siblings will feel holy.  All is well.

There was a message on my machine yesterday (Mon) from a guy I swing dance with.  He’s probably the best dancer in Portland and the surrounding areas, in terms of his ability to lead and move left to right (ambidextrous with his moves).  But he, on many occasions, has consumed something that makes him obnoxious, and for this reason I shy away from him. 

He also has a band.  Whether it was the unappealing band name or the hard-to-get-to venue or just bad timing, I have managed to miss the many, previous invitations to come hear him play.  Until tonight. 

It was on my way home from the hospital.  It was at a farmer’s market and I love going to those so I thought I would be a good person and drop by.  I could hear his voice the minute I got out of the car.  He sounded good.  And whoever was playing slide guitar was fantastic. 

I found the stage and after a while he saw me and said, “Hello, Prudence” into the mic.  I got a table outside, close to the band, and ordered some food.  Song after song was well-chosen and well-orchestrated, even without two of their band members.  His singing style was constrained yet strong, not sharp nor flat but he knew how to use the edges. 

A young woman from another band dropped by to sing a couple songs and while she was singing he came over to my table.  Formally, this guy has struck me as kind of a dweeb.  I always avoid sitting with him because conversation is uncomfortable, either because of his weird personality or his aggressive behavior when he is under the influence. 

Tonight he was in his element and he was proud.  I told him how impressed I was, twice, while I shook his hand.  I see him differently now.

Robi…took me to dinner for my birthday, which is tomorrow (Tues).  I picked her up from my mother’s house where she had been cleaning and sorting.  I stood at the door saying I’d rather not come in when she said she would just be a few minutes; that she wanted to use the bathroom.

I wanted to wait in the car because my throat still is raw and I am coughing up stuff, just from having worked there two hours.  Robi… gets in the front seat and I can smell the alcohol.  I thought you weren’t supposed to be able to smell vodka.  Nothing like a reformed drinker — I am hearing myself sound like one.

We get to the restaurant up the street where we’d gone the other night and she orders her usual:  double vodka.  She likes it neat but the waitress, who probably remembered her, urged:  “you mean on the rocks.”  Robi.. thought for a second and said, “okay, yeah.”

Actually, it went pretty well.  I only got nervous at the end when her voice started going all falsetto and threatened to break into the kind of laugh you can’t stop.  Apparently our younger sister urged her to get help.  Personally, I don’t think she’s in that bad a place. 

What I like about her is that she sees the humor in all situations.  She was making fun of the scissor collection, in particular the three pairs of children’s scissors she found in the bottom drawer by my mother’s bed.  Robi… suspects some sort of fetish. 

I had to tell her, “With the exception of the living room, I, too, have scissors in every room.”  Just not 13 pairs.

Back from the beach and the blues.  Felt a little blue last night.  But I had an insight.  Maybe the longing I always feel when I drive away each year is a recurring theme. 

My mother couldn’t love me.  My husband couldn’t love me.  I mean they did in their own way but they kept it a secret from me.  I think I must gravitate to men or situations that perpetuate the longing to be loved. 

So that’s alarming. 

Another thing occurred to me.  I have spent the last three weekends overlooking bodies of water.  First the moon, now with the water.  I’m much more connected to this earth than I ever realized.