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So much for Holidailies. I guess I ran out of steam in December. Today's installment is a bunch of this and that.Department of Humor:- We were driving along the main road in our city, passing by a steakhouse. Wizard asked what the quality of the food was. Wild Thing chimed in "Is it better than Outhouse Steak House?" Bwahahaha, he meant "Outback Steak House"! How appropriate.
- Yesterday, we spent the day on the East Coast of Florida visiting my parents and WineGuy's parents. As we drove through my in-laws' senior citizens community, we got "stuck in traffic" (you should pardon the expression). On the minimally-trafficked side road that leads to their condo, we got stuck behind a geezer on a tricycle, riding slower than a Galapagos tortoise down the middle of the road. He had oversized mirrors on each side of the bike and was wearing glasses. Somehow, he failed to see or hear my full-size minivan behind him. Once we stopped howling, I politely asked him to pull over so I could pass him. My MIL informed me he's a close friend of theirs. OMG.
Department of Health:- We visited my parents yesterday. My dad doesn't look so good. He's more decrepit than when we saw him in rehab in September. I don't think he's eating well enough or getting nearly enough exercise. However, he was sharp as a tack when discussing my new birthday necklace with me. [NB: WineGuy was baffled at the high-level jewelry talk. My parents had their own jewelry store for many years. My mother's father and great-uncle were in the business. When I ran my parents' stores, I was 4th-generation in the business.]
- I finally sat down with WineGuy last night. We had a frank discussion about his health and the Thanksgiving drama. We straightened things out between us, and the world is right again. We talked about what happened, how he would have preferred I handle things. I laid out my fears, and we agreed to learn and move forward. BTW, he's feeling much better, and he looks great. He's trying very hard to lead a healthy lifestyle, and he wishes I would, too. One of these days....
Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to my dear friend, Calvin. She is a fellow attorney with her own practice. Her boys are the almost the same ages as Wild Thing and Moose. I called her at the last minute on Friday night to see if she could go to the movies. Calvin jumped at the chance, and we went to see "The Holiday" with Kate Winslet, Jude Law, and Jack Black. It was a real chick-flick, a romantic comedy, and just what we needed. The price of admission alone was worth it to look at Jude Law for 2 hours. Afterward, we went out for a late supper. We had a deep and meaningful conversation about forgiveness and understanding. We enjoyed a vicious little discussion about a nasty case she took on this week. It felt good to exercise those my legal muscles, but it felt better to talk personal things over with another intelligent woman who's married to a proud yet private man.
In my own stream of consciousness, I surfed from As The Tumor Turns to one of her favorite blogs, The Cheerful Oncologist. CO posts a poem every Sunday night, and this week's entry was from Pablo Neruda, one of my favorite Latin American writers. It is fitting to honor Neruda today, on the death of Augusto Pinochet. Neruda died of heart failure in his beloved Chile, mere days after Pinochet overthrew the government of Neruda's ally, Salvador Allende.
Reading Neruda in translation -- like García Marquez and Borges -- is like eating diet vanilla ice milk when you know there's French Vanilla Haagen Dazs around somewhere. How I do know? I've read and experienced all these in their original language. I ran to my bookshelf and found my favorite volume of Neruda poetry, Crepusculario (Poemas 1920-1923). "Crepusculario" means "dawning". It was Neruda's first book of poetry. Symbolist in nature, this early work was part of the Hispanic modernismo (modernism) movement, which was a rejection of the materialist world of the day. Modernist poetry was equivalent to today's fantasy genre in fiction, wherein authors create exotic and distant worlds ... escapist writing. Comparatively, Modernism was a short-lived movement in Hispanic writing. The ugly realities of World War I and Latin America's defiance of colonialism gave rise to new generations of writers compelled to comment on the social, political and economic turbulence they witnessed. Neruda's subsequent writings reflected the burgeoning 20th century: erotic love poems, surrealist poems, historical epics, and political manifestos.
To whet your appetite and to challenge my brain, I present you wth Neruda's "Sensación de dolor" in its original text and my own translation. The poem speaks of how something as fleeting as a scent can evoke memories both painful and wonderful. Apologies to Ricardo, may he rest in peace.
Sensación de dolor
Fragrancia
de lilas ...
Claros atardeceres de mi lejana infancia
que fluyó como el cauce de unas aguas tranquilas.
Y después un pañuelo temblando en la distancia.
Bajo el cielo de seda la estrella que titila.
Nada mas. Pies cansados en las largas errancias
y un dolor, un dolor que remuerde y se afila.
... Y a lo lejos campanas, canciones, penas, ansias,
vírgenes que tenían tan dulces las pupilas.
Fragrancia
de lilas ...
"Feeling Pain"
The fragrance of lilacs ...
Limpid afternoons of my distant childhood
that flowed like a stream of tranquil water.
And later a handkerchief trembling in the distance.
A star titillated under a silken sky.
No more. Feet, tired from endless wanderings
and pain, the biting pain of extraordinary effort.
... And in the distance bells, songs, grief, anguish,
virgins with such sweet eyes.
The fragrance of lilacs.
For my grandmother, Frieda (z"l), who was the scent of lilacs and roses.
She brought me the gift of another tongue.
I am one of those loons with a musical memory. Given any situation, or just about any phrase, I can reliably dredge up a few words from an applicable popular song. Given all the homework I had to supervise and all the housework I did this weekend, I've had that 80s song "Workin' For The Weekend" in my brain.
Music is an essential part of my life. I have sung in community chorales and chamber choirs for many years. Those weekly rehearsals are my therapy: time for the mommy-mind to disengage and focus on notes and meter and diction and dynamics. Listening to music is cathartic for me: songs bring out all kinds of feelings and reminders of where I was in my life when a particular song was popular.
One of the wonderful benefits of singing with my current chorale is that, from time to time, we are offered free tickets to concerts presented in our city's 1400-seat theater. I got 2 free tickets to see such a concert this evening. It will feature works of Schubert and Philip Glass. The concert got a great review in today's newspaper. I can hardly wait to hear Glass's piece for 14 timpani (kettle drums)! WineGuy decided earlier in the week that he did not want to go, so I asked a friend, Wild Thing's first grade teacher, to come along. We're meeting first for dinner, and then we're going on to the concert.
I'm looking forward to filling my addled brain with some high-octane musical fuel tonight. I think WineGuy now regrets his decision. So sad, too bad. It's a Saturday girls' night out!
Saturday songs: "S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night," by the Bay City Rollers; "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting," by Elton John.
What's your therapy?
