A New Post to a New Year

Let's see if I can't force myself to post at least once a week this year.

We visited my grandpa in the hospital today. A few weeks ago, he went in to get scar tissue removed from his back, and since the scar tissue was pressing against some nerves (and of course surgical wound right up the back), he's been going through physical therapy. The only person who can really give him much company is my grandma, but we go by now and again, mostly at the request of my oldest sister, who grew up close to my grandparents until we all moved (we only moved about an hour south, which isn't very far, but finding parking in San Francisco sucks so much it's a wonder I used to visit my grandparents every weekend).

For brunch, we had dim sum, which was delicious and would have been more delicious if dad didn't have to hunt for parking.

Afterwards, dad took my sisters to the Buddhist temple where their mom and grandma's plaques are. I had been there before, though I can't remember what for. It's located in a (rather wide and clean) alleyway. Enter through the door and climb some steep, narrow stairs with gated-off doors to the sides. At the very top is the temple, though "temple" is too austere a word to describe it. Some old people were sitting at a booth and my father greeted them. Along the north wall were probably hundreds of red plaques with the names of the deceased written in gold characters. Dad pointed out the plaques that belonged to my sisters' mom and grandma (neither were very new or clean looking). We grabbed some incense sticks, lit them, and offered some prayers. Dad told us that there used to be a lot of people in the temple. There was still some free space on the wall.

Last week Dad told us that when he was in the temple, an old woman who he had never meet before came up to him and told him that she saw his first wife next to her. Dad's not a terribly religious or spiritual person, but he humored the old woman. She then described his first wife with extreme detail, the way only someone who had known her could have. The old woman told him that she could hear what his first wife was saying. When he asked her, she said that his first wife wanted him to, "live on."

I thought it sounded so much like something out of a movie.

When we exited the temple, we could hear strains of Katy Perry; then that was drowned out by firecrackers.

The things we pass

Today I visited my grandparents.

When I was young, I used to spend a week out of the summer at my grandparents (back then, I wasn't nearly as easily distracted as I am now, so I could handle spending a week without internet and decent television). There used to be a boy who lived way down the hall. For whatever reason, we became friends and he helped me pass the time.

I thought he was super cool, especially since he had a SNES, a magical console I didn't have that had all sorts of magical, legendary games on it. We'd (sit and I'd watch him) play Ghosts 'n Goblins, the game that solidified my fear of haunted houses and my hatred of games that require reflexes.

I remember that we'd hang out a few more times afterwards, but I eventually stopped going to my grandparents' every summer and we never saw or talked to each other again.

I wonder how many experiences like that we have; meeting people, forming brief connections, and then parting, neither harmed nor enriched by the experience.

Miuccia Prada and the Mulleavy Sisters

I think of these ladies as my heroes and icons (as creepy as that sounds). The Mulleavy sisters, the founders of the Rodarte fashion brand, are both graduates of UC Berkeley. Kate studied art history and Laura studied English literature.

Sometimes I wish I could be like them. They studied artsy stuff (like I am) and they started a successful and quickly growing fashion company (I'd rather go into costuming, but the similarities are there).

But then I remember that I don't have creative talent.

Miuccia Prada I have grown fond of because she's just a little weird. She took over the company in 1979, has a degree in political science, apparently studied to be a mime, was a former member of the Communist Party (according to her, every rich young person back then was), kinda feminist (I'm not quite sure what's going on here, but let's bring this conversation back from the brink of politicking), and, of course, designs for a high fashion company.

But the main reason I like her so much is the way she views sexuality. Prada "has an eye for the perverse. Her work is about inversion and parody, making otherwise dowdy garments desirable, while simultaneously taking the sex out of sexy." One needs only to look at her Fall 2008 collection: what ought to be little-girl fare becomes severe, funereal, church-like sexiness. Fetishistic chastity. Decadent virginity, if you will.

And I'm all about the teasing and not about the pleasing.

Unspoken

My sisters and I went to the funeral today.

It was for their mother and their grandmother. I'd never really been told about my dad's first wife, their mother. I gleaned a few things from comments they made: that she and dad were introduced through high school friends; that she was a very modern lady; that she passed away from illness.

When I was younger, I had a bit of a crisis. If my mother wasn't their mother, that made her the wicked step mother (for, let's be honest, how many kids haven't at least heard of that particular fairy tale trope?). My mother didn't really fit the mold: she wasn't a cackling witch, she wasn't vain, and she couldn't be cruel to my sisters even if she tried (at least part of that is because my mom is far from imposing).

When I was helping my older sister clean some stuff out a year or so ago, she told me that in a fit of postpartum depression, my mom told my dad to burn all pictures of his first wife. My sister hadn't found out until almost twenty years later. She had saved one picture.

I never really pry into my dad's past. He tells me what he does, but I just try not to bring up his first wife. Part of me fears that, even over twenty years after her death, he might still mourn her, might love me and my mom a little less.

She died at 32, in 1986. I was born in 1989. He remarried not even three years later.

I wonder how my sisters felt about that. They never do call my mom "mom." She's always "J" or "your mom."

Today we went to the graveyard after walking the dogs at the beach. My oldest sister had gone inside the flower show and my older sister was trying to balance the bag of McDonald's and keep Paddington, her Newfie, from barking at people.

"How did your mom pass away?" I asked.

"She committed suicide."

"Oh."

"Yeah. It was a chemical imbalance in the brain. She had medication, but she wasn't taking it--SHH!" She turned back to shush Paddington.

So that was the illness my dad was talking about.

I think I won't pry into my family's past anymore.