On the road and at a wedding

It should be easier. Less dressing and planning — more decadence and life. But seeing Irene and Steve get married was beautiful. There were mountains, the sun began to set. A light that isn’t an everyday event took hold of the moment. But still. . .

They were married in a vineyard, so there was wine. And it was good. Some dancing, but to be honest, and I hate to say this publicly, but I missed a dear friend of mine in Florence. He would have had so much fun. I took my camera but left it in the car. Oh well. Just close your eyes and picture the Appalachians — our Earth’s oldest mountains — and the gentle ease of the rising against the end of a day. All my best for new beginnings and love.

Politicking Padgett style

It’s very seat of your pants. I’m sitting in the DeFuniak Springs Democrat Headquarters, dad is on the phone, mom is bringing cell phone — colored paper — sparkling personality, Duncan is making ads and emailing me pictures and Lucy is just putting up with us all. I love Lucy. Anyway, this is the way I prefer to start a massive road trip, chaos with the family. The future of landscapes from Georgia to North Carolina will be appreciated deeply after a few days in the campaign vortex.

All of this just to say, life is never dull as long as you leave your house occasionally.

I’ll try to post from the road, but that could be difficult.  Oh, and if you live in Walton County Florida, vote Ray Padgett for Supervisor of Elections on Nov. 7th! — see how easy that was

My first glimpse at the infinite in adventure . . .

I was twelve and it was early spring. At the time I was in Mentone, Alabama. Lowell Ray Barron Jr. was one of my closest friends. He taught me how to love mushrooms, shared the transcendental that dwelt in the trees around us, and had — to this day — some of the most otherworldly green eyes I’ve seen. Regardless of that last detail and the fact all of my relatives and friends teased me about being his girlfriend, we really were just great friends. Secret and safe from any adolescent reality.

On this green, green day, he revealed one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me — The Hobbit. From the moment I opened the pages, my life has been seeking adventure. And for all of you other like-minded people out there impacted by that prelude and its following trilogy, you know today is a special day. It’s Bilbo’s birthday. One of the best-loved but reluctant adventurers in English lit.

I bring this up because I’ve had several conversations with people of late who feel like their dreams, goals, or small desires are out of reach. It’s disheartening. To those futile few, even if the horizon appears very far off, I think we should try to be more like Bilbo, grab a cloak and walk out the door. Really, what else are we supposed to be doing?

And yes, I do realize this post is permanently marking me as a total geek. Oh well, life (and the road) goes ever on. Wherever you are Lowell Ray, thanks.

before coffee

It’s grey here. And damp. Already fed the kitties, had some yogurt, I know coffee is soon to follow — then looking at another day of painting. The repetitive nature of my life here is a tad underwhelming. These murky mornings tend to make the day drag until something happens. Of course, nothing happens here. Life within the walls of my former home weigh me down with memories, current needs, and the misfired past desires of containment. Now, I just want out.

My mood was not helped when I watched an FSU feature on TV yesterday. It was about International Programs and Florence was featured heavily. My former colleagues and friends were interviewed. I even appeared in the background lit by the light from my library’s windows. It was like looking at pictures after a break-up. Everything about Florence came rushing back to me. The piazzas, the food, especially the tiny coffee cups of espresso goodness. It’s maybe worse than a break up, because it is still there, waiting. It will not ignore me when I walk by or refuse to call or write. Florence would never divulge intimacies to its neighbors in an attempt at shaming me. And I doubt seriously it would call me in the middle of the night, only to hang-up. It is the perfect love—reflective and contingent on my love of it. And when it ends, as all love does, it will remain a point in my life that is positive and without regret.

Luckily, I have over two weeks of solid travel coming up. That will certainly get the blood flowing and the life-force coursing. And in that two weeks I’ll get to be introduced to a city I suspect I may have a fling with—a slight diversion from pining—New York City. Hmmm, now the possibilities are stirring me into awareness. In the meantime, painting, painting, painting.

st. aughostine

I love visiting friends. This past weekend was no exception while in St. Augustine, Florida hanging out with Angie. It was the standard fare — walked along the beach, toured Flagler college, drank a Bloody Mary at a place called Scarlett O’Hara’s, talked, fantasy shopped, was abruptly roused from the bed by a ghost at 12:30. You know, a typical visit.

OK, so it probably wasn’t a ghost. It seems more likely to be an electrical surge, or television mishap, something normal. But when you are barely asleep and the TV suddenly comes on, blasting noise, you are disoriented, then the TV shuts down just as quickly—well, naturally you think poltergiest. Sleep deprevation was to follow.

Angie will now test the true potency of her ghost. She has decided to unplug the television set. If it comes on while unplugged, well, calling Dan Akroyd may be necessary. In the meantime, I think a ghost naming competition is in order. So far “Flossie” and “Tallulah” have been suggested.

For those of you who have never visited St. Augustine, you should go. Lovely, old, and breezy. Sorry, didn’t take my camera — next time.

Lorelei (or a cautionary tale of drunkeness)

There were steps leading up to this moment. Actual steps and then stages may be the best way to explain. But first, for you non-knowers of L, an introduction. My friend, let us call her Lorelei, is a mother of a 2 1/2 year-old gem of a girl, a wife of seven years, and one of my longest and best friends. She is, well, typically reserved with a barbed wit and mostly reasonable. But some of that reason may have slipped away one Thursday night while visiting her in Atlanta.

I mentioned, perhaps, the free wine at the Atwood lecture/reception located on the lovely Emory campus in Decatur? Wine, in the slight chance you have not made an acquaintance with its effects, can cause spontaneous, impractical and uncharacteristic behavior when consumed in excess. That said, it was free, we are all poor on some level, and there was a mighty long line winding its way to the tower where Ms. Atwood diligently scrawled and was photographed by the adoring masses. So, understandably, excess— and free excess at that — was unavoidable.

Lori um, hmm, sorry— Lorelei was in rare form already by the time we decided to brave the stone stairs and the wait. The beauty of French men was discussed with strangers.TheOntari-ari-ari -O song was practiced. Contemplation of random objects Margaret Atwood could sign was carried out. I vetoed both the rendering of the Ontari-ari -o song and the mammogram reminder as autograph receptacle as perhaps a bit too much for the (surely at this point) exhausted author. Oh, and we were the caboose at the end of the train of people. So, hopefully at least that fact gave Atwood pleasure at seeing our motley, slightly intoxicated crew crowding her with random tidbits. And by random tidbits, there was my, (stupid, stupid) proclamation and gratitude over a line of text from the Penelopiad . But Lorelei, oh Lorelei, well I think she will be remembered for her particular tidbits. Those bits being:

“Hi! My nickname is Lorelei”

MA: “Really, your parents named you Lorelei?!”

“No, no!” (on her knees now to better view Ms. Atwood at eye level and propped elbows, head tilted above signing area) “my friends just call me that.” (I should admit that I did harp in and attest to this fact.) “And I too am also from Canada!” (I’m cringing at the possibility of On-tari-ari-ari-o and noticing laughter filter from hallway and around us.)
MA: “Really?”

“Yes” (some warbled tale of now being American) “and I want you to know that I think I may get the cover of your book tattooed on my body.”

MA (eyebrows raised in alarm or concern or humor — hard to say with the Canadians): “And where are you getting this tattoo?”

“On my leg, above my ankle” (and then some more rambling).

Needless to say, I think our Lorelei made an impression. Something I failed at, completely. Next time, more free wine before I meet an author. As for the general audience, L’s presence was felt there as well. Tears were flowing from our eyes. Everyone we knew, and that knows my darling Lorelei were laughing. The moment was so rich, that in the process, I lost the very book I just had signed by the lovely, gracious, and highly entertained Ms. Atwood. So if you find a signed copy, let me know.

And Lorelei, thanks for allowing me to tell your tale. To the rest of you: beware tables laden with free wine.

ATL

So, finally made it to Atlanta yesterday. My hometown was playing host to my favorite living author, Margaret Atwood. Lori and I sat in Emory’s Methodist Church, with a large congregation of fans and listened to the unraveling of mythology. Margaret taught me that the word “Gandalf” actually means elf wand in some language. Wish I could remember the language, but the 2 beers prior to the Atwood reading seems to have erased some detail. I actually got to meet her, after a few free glasses of wine, mumbled something incoherent, she signed the book and chatted to Lori and my first glimpse of the world of gods ended.

Later, we went to the Higlander. But, the best of all was the awakening I had this morning by my darling god-daughter. Smiling, laughing Zoe. There is nothing comparable. And today, Ru-Sans’ Firecracker sushi roll. I love this town. More on my trip after its conclusion.

Have a great weekend!

Labor Day

Oddly enough, for a person currently without a job, I labored today. Painting and shopping for home improvement is labor enough. So, I’m sitting here with “Churchill Hotel Navajo White” interior trim paint on my fingertips and a slight ache in my back. Painting is nothing new to me; but painting out of motivation is.

It is not a coincidence that I’ve not been able to write very much or often. The last few months — in the midst of my reflecting in the now — I realized that I had found a place that suited me. Naturally my current thoughts drift towards my return to Florence. Not just thought, but action as well. So, I’m done with waiting and longing — now it is preparation and anticipation of going back. And in the chance that you are confused, yes, this means I intend to not be here in the States very long. Some may think this irrational or at least immature. But, before you judge hastily, I would like to ask everyone reading this if there is something they have always wanted and never accomplished. Lost love, abandoned dreams, the little wishes that nag at us — all of the things we put off in the name of prior commitments, comfort, convenience, no time, no money. That is irrational. Because really, even if there were an after life or reincarnation or some other entity that gives us a second chance (401-K plan?) — there is no guarantee that the small essence of forgotten desires will be realized. So I am going.

And to all of you, dust off your equivalent of a hope chest and maybe do the same. Fear, and fear of failure, is something to overcome — not to live by.

Good luck and wish me the same!