Echoes

Upon my easel is a piece of plywood. It has never hung in a gallery, never been the focus of attention, never even noticed. Yet this board is more important, more tangible than my greatest painting. It has seen my soul.
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Against it I place my my canvases. Gleaming white, they stare blankly back at me, emptiness embodied. I sit across the room tapping my brush against a paintless pallet...waiting. The tornado in my mind, the lists of things undone, the voices of siblings and friends and children must fade. A sip of wine...

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A flash. A dream. The music surges and I reach for the plastic tubes of color that litter the shelf. A soft curl of pigment slides into the divot. My hand hovers.

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Joy, pain, love....searching, hiding.

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Frustration and anger and ecstasy. The emotions of my life spill onto the ivory space, smearing into the images trapped inside of me. The board has seen it all. My sighs of delight at the perfect capture of morning sun; sailoresque swearing at a ruined forest glade. Sometimes I dance when I paint. Sometimes I throw down my brush and leave in fury.

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Echoes of every painting I've done are on that board. I can trace them with my fingers. I recognize the color of that ocean sky last year...the black of the cave, the vineyard's emerald leaves. These memories are there--but only for me. It's just nonsense to the world. Like the coffee mug only you know the meaning behind. The last necklace your mother gave you before she died. That picture taken on vacation moments before the disastrous fight you wish you could take back.....only you know.

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I wonder at the echoes I'm leaving in my life. In my children, my neighborhood. Do I leave remnants of myself? Fingerprints that stain? On one hand I desperately want to change the world--paint it richer and brighter for my sons....and on the other I would give anything for a giant eraser to rub out my mistakes and impatience.

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The echoes of me.

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I wonder what they say.

The Wettest Car. Ever.

Is "wettest" a word? Like "completely soaked to the point of saturation in the absolutest sense." (yeah, I know--sue me for "absolutest")

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So I used to drive a Cadillac. Ooooh.....you know those hot commercials with the rockin' babe in skimpy attire that make you wonder if you're going to the store or about to orgasm? (usually there is a tunnel, flashing lights, and glimpses of gleaming metal and a stiletto heeled, perfectly manicured sexy foot pressing the...uh....gas pedal....hang on, gimme a minute....whew)

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Um, you can scratch those. Now, I have actually had complete strangers stop me and offer me a check for my car--no smack. (they were usually a tad gangsta with seriously blinding bling) My gleaming, gorgeous, two door, low rider, SOLID GOLD pimp-me-like-you-mean-it cadillac....yes, the bank SECURITY GUARD actually personally ushers me in the lot and comes to check my tires. He's like, "you know, you got a paint chip on the bumper?" I'm like, "Man, it's a 1990--she's sweet." lol

HOWEVER.

There was an expiration date. Didn't they tell you? Your car has one too. It's usually on a really important day. Like your wedding day....or the day you're leaving for vacation. Maybe it's the day you have two dentist appointments (doesn't everyone do this? dammit, get it OUT of the way!), a lunch with a long lost pal (ok, so I drank a shake...stupid novocaine), and a job interview. (pass off the shake stain you drooled as hand lotion.......right...never mind) THAT is the day your car expires.

In two days time, it was over. The right blinker quit working. The breaks began SCREAMING--not squealing like a forked pig--the pig got run over and then they backed up. The driver's seatbelt developed a completely unpredictable ability to unlatch...usually when you're doing about 65. The "gleaming metal" on the outside of the passenger's door came loose--it flapped in the wind like a dying crow until your teeth rattled. The caddie has an awesome air conditioner...the fan stopped. The fan is located somehow behind the entire engine. As in "cash-in-the-kids-college-fund" money just to GET to it--much less replace it. It makes deliciously cold air...that you can feel dribbling over your toes if you do about 70. The dash lights went out.

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And the locks would randomly engage. Especially when you were unloading groceries.

The windows....well, apparently there are these plastic clips; they ride in the track up and down inside of the door, attaching them to the gizmo that makes the windows do their thing. They broke. The windows are either up--or if you try to roll them down--they crash with a heart-stopping thunk into the bottom of the door never to be seen again unless you cram your fingers into the slot and physically hoist them up again; a feat only my 6'4" husband has been able to achieve. So the windows are either UP--it's 91* in that lovely August summer in the 'Burg and you redefine "roast;" or the windows are DOWN. Unable to be rolled up until my dear man comes home from work.

There I was, on a broiling humid Monday evening--headed to get the boys, and it began to rain.

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Ahem.

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Make that, "Dear GOD I am NOT NOAH!!" And everyone is staring. There is enough water coming down from the sky to drown a small army of zebras and both of my very LARGE windows are completely down. Torrents of rain are soaking me--my hair is plastered to my head, glasses fogged, cars hitting "puddles" are sending oceanic waves across my shoulders....

So I went with it. What the hell else could I do? Found some hard core Rage Against the Machine and turned it WAAAY up. I whipped my hair up into a soggy mess on top of my head with pieces curling in the wind, black spaghetti tank straps falling off my shoulders as the mascara smeared across my cheeks. I was HOT. I was "I don't care about your cozy vanilla-scented minivan with your mochachino and booster seats.....I am WET and WILD and ROCKIN'!"

The boys were flabbergasted. They were ecstatic. They whooped and hollered the whole way home. I told them they wouldn't have to take showers.

Love that caddie.