Listen to a discussion about Reenvisioning on YouTube: Reenvisioning
“YES, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ said Mrs Ramsay.* ‘But you’ll have to be up with the lark,’ she added.”
– Woolf, To the Lighthouse
Up with the lark this morning, my chupacabra was still mulling about in the garage. I open the door, peek in, his AirPods are blasting, he doesn’t notice. I close the door. Undisturbed, he continues whatever he was doing that was not working on work. That’s his problem. He’s working on guns and ammo and holsters and racks and flashlights and gear and bags and … He’s not looking for a job. The job that would set him free into his own lighthouse. For now, he’s a troll in my garage, configuring and reconfiguring his weaponry. Click click, zip zip, pop, snap, riiiiiip velcro straps. And…
He is left to his own devices at this point. A parent can influence and advise. A parent of a 25-year-old can cajole and restrict. I have limited his weapons to the garage. He has moved most of the armory to the shed. To help him focus on work. It has not done the trick.
He opens the door and mumbles something when I ask him, “How was your night?” At least he was here, stayed here, didn’t drive off into the night seeking mischief and mayhem that might require his Glock.
In two days my daughter will be 23. Nine days after that I will be 63. My entire crew has gone odd. My one remaining sibling, is 69. We’re all odd or even, depending on the year. I’m the last birthday of the year. Thanksgiving this year. Hooray.
My daughter is leaving for a trip. She didn’t ask for money, permission, or blessings. She let me know when I asked about catching breakfast. She’s doing well. Working continuously as an overnight ER registered nurse. Living the dream. Her attachment to me is no longer financial. That’s nice.
I am feeling an adventure ahead. Snow with my daughter, perhaps, but that will require a new job and more than two days off in a row. Perhaps, a quick drive to the beach. I could go now, this morning, actually. Put my feet in the Gulf of America in less than four hours. Let me check the price of a room at the beach, looking out over the parking lot toward the bay. Just a sec.
$300 for tonight and tomorrow night, drive back on Monday morning. I don’t know what time I need to be at work. Just a sec.
7:45 am, so departure this morning is a bust. Looking to Thanksgiving, my birthday. $500 will get me three nights. Monday shift 1 pm. Doable. Book soon. There are only 209 units left at this price.
No bolting today. No pain. In my comfy chair, a heating pad providing some soothing to my sore shoulder. Overuse injury from tennis.
If I’m not bolting this morning, perhaps breakfast across town in the barrios of East Austin. Do I go with the tried and true, Juan in a Million? Or go for an unknown, random, let’s just drive over there. Last time it was less than stellar. One of the last traveling moments with my ex gf before she moved back to California. That’s probably where my daughter is going, to California. She hasn’t provided any details. I’m not in the need to know circle. That’s fine.
With my son, I need to know.
That he’s alive.
That he’s not doing drugs, as much.
That he’s working on his project.
That he’s looking for a job to liberate him from the garage. I could ask him to join me on the short trek to Little Mexico. Nah, he’s self-contained and smoking on the screened porch. His attempt at sleep failed on the first try. He is probably already asleep in the rocking chair. I don’t blame him. It’s lovely on the back porch. Smells of cigarettes. My brother, his uncle, Tommy. The other smoker in the family.
I’ve texted him. No response. Usually means asleep. Or apathy. He’s 20 feet away. The cats are hovering, since I closed the door to the screen porch while he smokes. The smell of my brother is nice, but I don’t want my living room to reek.
I’ll go put some long pants on. The weather is cooling a bit. Not enough. Just a sec.
