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I'm staying at the Fairmont Hotel in downtown San Antonio
tonight. I'm meeting up with a friend tomorrow. We're meeting at a
museum in the morning and we may also go to the zoo. Her baby is a little
older than mine. My baby is asleep in the oversized chaise chair by the
plush, draped window.
The American flag flutters feverishly outside my
window. A classic movie featuring Betty Davis, Humphrey Bogart, and
Ronald Reagan graces the sleek flat screen which looks a little ironic on top
of the Spanish antique armoire with little brass feet, artistic embellishments
in wood inlay, creamy marble surface on the top, a lively little green plant
slanting toward a window on the bottom shelf. The theme of the room is
decidedly nautical. I do like it. The wall wears a monumental painting of a
stormy sea, two ships slanting in the violent wind, framed in gold. I look at the flag
outside again. Very windy out but no rain.
Across the street people
are watching a movie in the park. I'm still listening to this movie in my
room. The other classic movie just ended. Another one with Betty
Davis just started: The Man Who Came to Dinner. The actress who
played Glenda the Good is in it. Makes me think of the summer I was in
the play The Wizard of Oz. I was in the chorus. That summer marked
the first time I fell for a gay guy. It wouldn't be the last. One
of the hazards of growing up in theater.
That makes me think about myself
as a child, and all the things I wanted to be one day. I was always
trying to get at something, something I knew not what. Something
instinctual wanted me to get at it by drawing, painting, telling, and writing
stories. I loved my stories, stories about cacti coming to life, girls
turning into trees, princes and princesses playing with witches and warlocks,
and a little boy who knew how to grow and shrink at will. I often pretended to be him when I was at church and I imagined myself being able to shrink so small I could fit inside the pocket where the hymnals went so I could take a little nap. Telling stories
was something I did all the time. I wasn't "practicing".
I was being. I was living. And I resented interruptions like
dinner, bath time, and worst of all, homework.
I never liked school as
much as a smart kid should've. I found it unnecessarily laborious,
boring, and too full of danger. I was afraid of mean kids and often pretended
to be one so as not to be mistaken for an easy target. Growing up with
blond hair in El Paso, Texas was a treacherous business. Which makes me
think about being a minority. I was definitely a minority in El Paso, a
city with a Latin American population of at least 95%. It was
interesting and wonderful in many ways, too many to mention for this little
entry.
Which makes me crave my favorite Mexican food. I should try
and find something good tomorrow. I'm in San Antonio after all. I
seem to remember a place called Mi Tierra; an impressive, orotund Mexican restaurant,
quite authentic fare, multiple vast rooms, each one decorated as a different
holiday, dripping with lights of all colors year round. As you
walk toward the exit you find an enormous case of Mexican baked goods.
Oh, my. Now I'm really craving Mexican food. Thinking in
circles.
But what I meant to write about was this room.
Impressive! Full of antiques. A miniature boat atop a white cement
sconce of some sort "sails" above the crackled, blue desk. A
helm wheel, polished wood, adorns the plush bed drapery, all stripped cream,
gold and navy blue. Makes me think about my father. He was in the
navy way before I was born. I used to wear his sailor pants and jacket in
high school. They barely fit. My dad was a real stick back
then. I was pretty slender when I was a teenager, too.
One time my
Dad read us the love letters he wrote to mom, the ones he wrote while on the Enterprise
in the Far East during the Vietnam War. They were just kids and they were
married. And they are married still. What a phenomenon. Makes
me think about my failed marriage and my second, my happy marriage. How
can I even use the same word? The first was fraught with confusion, darkness,
and the deepest loneliness. The second is so sweet, and full, and
innocent somehow.
Sometimes Ely likes to talk about what ifs.
"What if we had kept in touch all those years ago? What if we had
gotten married younger? To each other, instead of suffering through our failed relationships and respective divorces." I don't know. But something
tells me I had to suffer some, to somehow deserve the goodness I now call
life. I think about the arduous nature of my first marriage. I
think about how awful and slow it was to recover after such a long, terror of a
marriage to a very unhealthy person. Maybe it wasn't necessary for me to suffer so. But
it happened all the same. No sense in regret. But in all honesty,
sensible or not, I do have regrets; more than a few. I regret not doing
my homework. I regret smoking. I regret being awful
toward my parents. I regret being mean to my siblings. I regret
punching that sassy girl in the face in high school. I regret all my
meanness, and it was considerable. I regret never playing sports. I
regret not riding a bicycle more. I regret never learning to dive.
I regret not taking piano lesson seriously. I regret not paying enough
attention to my inclinations, the artistic ones especially. I regret indulging
my doubts. I regret doing it still.
Looking out my window I seem to
notice the wind has died down to scarcely a breeze. I better say my
prayers and read my scriptures and fall asleep so I won't be a bore tomorrow, but before I sign off I just want to say I love this nautical room and I love America and her flag and my sweet, sleeping baby, Betty Davis, Spanish antiques, room service, and Macintosh. But most especially, I love Ely and Aria. Good night,
Moon.
