To the old addage that television wastes the brain and numbs the soul, I'd encourage a viewing of six feet under, the HBO drama about a family who runs a funeral parlor. It's not a new show, in fact it ended in '05, but there's a kicking energy that's relevant still and, I'd estimate, for some time to come.
The last episode was just broadcast on Bravo and watching it--there are so many of my own memories, montages, amidst its own scenes. It ends with one of the main characters, the one closest in age to me(Claire), driving out to New York without a job, taking a chance. I compare the open roads of Arizona, New Mexico, Iowa...to the hills and valleys of Andalucia. The populace of olive trees everprescent no matter the hour, season. At twilight there they'd be, these green buds, these doves of welcome.
I'd pull into the bus station and after a time, it became routine. But as we'd make the final ascent, we'd turn a curve and suddenly--GRANADA. Often, I'd be listening to the six feet under soundtrack as we'd make the final push. Something...some feeling of like-minded independance drew me to it. I was alone. I was on my own. And I was in motion towards something.
I can't feel more different now. I feel--grounded. Stoic. Nothing is new anymore in that sense of open spaces, but that's not to say that I don't enjoy the graciousness of the simple and expected. There are comforts of home.
But, last year--last year I was Claire. I was--unsure and uncertain and playing back a reel of memories of loved ones that I knew where out there waiting for me whenever I should return. I had Juan who came to the bus station to meet me that first day in Grenada, his red polo shirt and jeans up to his waist closed tight with a brown belt.
We took each other in. It had been years, two, since we last saw each other and we looked at each as as people who'd never thought to see the other again. How funny, how amazing life is, we said.
We took the 10 bus to his apartment and took the elevator up four flights. His apartment was akin to mine in preigo: long, with many bedrooms, a small living room, and very neat. The kitchen was white and next to a small porch. The refridgerator had some ham, vinegar, milk, and little else in it. Olive oil camped out next to the stove.
It was a beginning! I was beginning! Am i still?
And i was content, though lonely, my pulse quickening at the thought of home.
Where am I now? I'm at home, but I miss the road. I don't know if there are a place for such wandering, wondering hearts. Perhaps one of this years crops of tv shows will try to answer that, but for now I'll end with a quote from an earlier episode.
"Why do people have to die?"
"So life can be important."
