Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of Purple Rain. I had the purple 45 growing up and listened to it until it was all scratchy. And then I listened to it some more.
I was in elementary school when it came out, so it’s likely I didn’t get it right away, but who remembers? I’m pretty sure I still have the saucer-sized vinyl disc and a plastic yellow 45 adapter stuck in the center of it.
It’s somewhere buried in the stacks of albums, cassettes and 8-tracks in the basement. But I’ve not been home to check them lately.
To the house, is probably more accurate than home. As I wrote long ago, home is where the heart feels welcome. My heart and home are with Blue. I’m in the process of moving again.
I have an essay brewing about getting back in the swing of things after a year of transition. And now more transition is on tap. I have a couple of essays brewing, actually.
Speaking of writing, I’m thinking about taking a creative writing class. I’d like some sort of structure and accountability. Writing groups have been suggested to me more than once, so I do plan to look into those as well…
Years ago I claimed I had nothing to say. Not that what I had to say was valueless – I claimed to lack for ideas. I have the ideas. Just gotta to spend more time putting them on paper.
As a general rule, I love routine. I like to be oriented. I want clear directions. I want to know what to expect. As a child, my parents thought it was cool to say things like, “Let’s go!” without any explanation as to where we were going. Some people think this is adventurous. I found it highly irritating.
Sometimes my mother would give me a choice between some wonderful surprise or staying home. If I couldn’t know in advance, I always chose to stay home. They never caught on that I just needed to know what I was getting in to. The ice cream, the movie, the {insert wonderful thing}, was simply not enough of a draw. The key thing for me was knowing what was going on. Having a clear sense of place and belonging.
I’d like to say I grew out of it. The truth is, I am just more willing to be uncomfortable. I dislike going into crowded rooms if I am unfamiliar with the layout. I’m not excited to strike up conversations with strangers just because we’re near each other.
I will do these things, and I can make the best out of it. I can smile genuinely and find points of connection. I can get oriented in a disorienting situation.
But it doesn’t bring me pleasure.
Many times I’ll opt in to uncomfortable situations just for the sake of growth. Or love. Or some such noble reason.
But every now and again, I opt out. Just for the sake of me.
Sometimes I’m shy. Sometimes I’m an introvert. Sometimes I’m moody. Always I’m me! *shimmies*
It made me tense because every time he said it, I thought I was already doing it. He, Daddy, insisted I wasn’t. Squeezed beside him in the dark brown easy chair, we’d while away the late afternoons. He’d finish a cigarette while watching sports or news or whatever was on that time of day. Our legs stretched out, fully reclined, his head back and eyes closed, voice like a hypnotist, urging me to relax.
I am relaxed! I’d protest. I’m relaxing!
No, he’d disagree in that same quiet trance. Relax, he’d repeat. And on it went day after day. As the years passed, sharing the easy chair became more of a challenge. My petite build was now too much for a chair designed for one. His admonitions to relax fell to the recesses of my mind.
Pretending to relax.
Until I found myself in my 30s holding my breath. Doing homework or watching a movie, or really any mundane thing, a quick moment of reflection would reveal hunched shoulders, a tight body, and me, inexplicably holding my breath.
It was as if my body were in a perpetual state of flight or fight.
And yet, as far as I could tell, there was no reason for stress.
Is this what daddy meant when he insisted I never relaxed? Did I somehow develop this habit of holding tension in my body, even holding my own breath, in childhood?
I think of it now for two reasons. One, I’m reading Tiger Eyes, and I believe it’s triggering memories of daddy. Davey, the central character, was close to her father. As the book opens, he has died unexpectedly. I didn’t make the connection before, but when the second memory, “Relax,” came to mind, I thought that might be the cause.
The second reason is I’m doing it again. I thought I had mastered deeper and more regular breathing, keeping unfounded tension out of my body. But twice in recent days I’ve found myself slouching, breathing shallow breaths. And I’m hearing his voice urging me to relax.
My Goodreads feed has seen a lot of action lately. In recent weeks I’ve finished The Good House by Tananarive Due, Salsa Nocturna by Daniel José Older, and Freeman by Leonard Pitts. These represent a pretty significant departure from the type of fiction I usually read, yet I enjoyed them all.
Now I am on to Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume. I thought I had read all of her juvenile/YA fiction growing up, but somehow I missed this offering. These days I’m “reading like a writer,” meaning I’m paying more attention to the structure and craft of the writing I read.
Although I’m not very far into the book, I was swept into the action on page one. There’s a reason I devoured Judy’s books growing up. What I notice and appreciate in these opening pages is Judy’s clear, direct and economical style of storytelling. I’m not getting lost in a huge cast of characters or a sprawling universe. I’m learning about and empathizing with Davey. Period.
I’m doing a lot of reading these days because one, I love a good book, and two, because I’m working my way through new ideas for short stories and novels. These stories provide inspiration, clarity and craft lessons.
Do you have some time to read this summer? What’s on your summer reading list?
Thought about my daddy this morning. Not sure why he came to mind, but he’s always welcome.
This morning’s memory was of his goodbyes. He never said goodbye. I can’t recall a single time he actually used the word when departing. Whether we were separating for a couple of hours, or a couple of weeks, he always said the same thing: “So long!” He’d smile showing all his teeth, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. We’d wave, go our separate ways.
I always did a double take, as if somehow a second look would ensure so long really meant it was time to go, but only temporarily. Remembering it now makes me as sad as it did then.
I think I asked him once, about why he never said goodbye.
Perhaps he said he doesn’t like goodbye. As if goodbye were too formal or too final. So long implied a reunion was imminent. That it was so long until I see you again, but the seeing you again part was definitely going to happen.
He invited me to the Navy Ball. Originally, he had a date, but for reasons, he decided she was a bad idea. So he nixed that plan and asked drama-free me T-minus eight days away from the event. I shrugged and agreed. No biggie. We weren’t dating, I wasn’t busy, and I already had something to wear.
Hanging in my closet was a tea-length champagne dress I had worn to the Vanity Fair party at the Cannes Film Festival a year or two earlier. Something urged me to confirm the short, backless, halter would indeed be appropriate attire.
Nicole & Halle @ Vanity Fair in Cannes (2006)
To my horror, no. Attendees would be in conservative, floor length gowns. It was a ball after all, not a party.
With a week to go, I reconsidered my quick, uninformed yes. How many graduate students do you know with extra money for ball gowns lying around? Before I panicked, I searched my closet and found a dress that would work. Floor-length black gown, with a (less dramatic) halter top and a deep fuchsia splash down the back. Little fuchsia beads adorned the halter. I wore it years ago in a faculty fashion show. It was muted and elegant.
There was one problem. It no longer fit.
I could sort of wear it. Sort of means I could get into the the dress, but I couldn’t zip it all the way up. I’d only gained a couple of inches and a few pounds, but too many of each to wear that dress in a week.
I’m not big on magazines, but for reasons I can no longer recall, I remembered reading that celebrities lost “those last few inches” for the red carpet through strange diets and/or super intense workouts. A couple of them said running was their magic slimfast. I wondered if it could be mine, too.
Because of previous bouts with runner’s itch, I wasn’t sure it would work. I’d try it, prepared to opt for a new dress if pounds and inches were more stubborn than I was. I had no plans to make any dramatic shifts with food. I would increase my water intake, but I wasn’t planning to go hungry or mix any olive oil cocktails.
Sunday afternoon, I headed to the stuffy little room known as my apartment’s fitness center and mounted the treadmill. I decided I’d jog – slowly – until I got tired. I had no idea how long that would take or how far I would go. I called it quits at the 3-mile mark and no one was more surprised than I was. I thought I’d be done by mile one. I felt pretty good, all things considered, and decided to return the next day.
Monday was another slow jog, another 3 miles. I drank a little coffee before the run and I got a nice burst of energy near the end.
Tuesday, same deal, same results. Nine miles in three days. No runner’s itch, no overly tired muscles. And in fact, I felt even more energized this time. After Tuesday’s workout, I tried the dress. The zipper damn near made it closed!
Another day, another three miles on Wednesday.
One last day to run – Thursday. The ball was Saturday. Would I have to shop after all or could I make this work? Friday’s test was zipping and breathing.
So five days and fifteen miles later, victory! The zipper went up with no hesitation. Breathing? No problem! Sitting posed a bit of challenge unless I employed perfect posture and tightened abs. Given the fact that dinner was also part of the proceedings, I’d have to suck it up, literally. But there I was, in that dress.
Me, two months after the ball, now running outdoors.
Who could’ve known that I, a former high school sprinter, would enjoy running short distances? And who would’ve believed I’d lose enough inches/weight to wear a dress on Saturday that I couldn’t zip up the weekend before?
Because of a slow jog on a treadmill?
I was sold.
And thus began my foray into the world of running.
Now I am on to Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume. I thought I had read all of her juvenile/YA fiction growing up, but somehow I missed this offering. These days I’m “reading like a writer,” meaning I’m paying more attention to the structure and craft of the writing I read.
I always did a double take, as if somehow a second look would ensure so long really meant it was time to go, but only temporarily. Remembering it now makes me as sad as it did then.
