PATHS TO DOORS


Français : Une chaîne rouillée, à une poignée ...

Français : Une chaîne rouillée, à une poignée de vieille porte. Dordogne. English: A rusty chain at a door lock of an old door. Dordogne, France. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The signals were all there, but I kept going in the opposite direction, on the road away from the new door, because I’d gotten used to the door I had.

Today the road is closing, it’s going to be shut before too long, hardly long enough to pack it all up, the newly purchased furnishings, drapes, lighting, towels———-and going in the boxes, into storage. The fifth renovate, refurbish, and move play. Three acts-repeating themselves.

Where the new door will open is uncertain, more of these adventurous in livingness tests that I write about.

 

“THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THE MAFIA”


John Rosselli (right) checks over a writ of ha...

UNCLE JOHNNY

Growing up the daughter of a gangster meant that I would remain a  little girl forever. My father died when I was 29, but emotionally I was still a teenager.

Had I had known that I was seated next to one of the most powerful and influential men in the  Mafia, Johnny Roselli,   then I would have listened with sharpened ears, and repeated bits of explosive headline blood curdling stories to my girlfriends. That would have placed myself, my father, Johnny and my friends in jeopardy. An informant from the government may tag me on the way home from school, or tag one of my friends,  or an enemy of the Boss, may pick me up from school and not bring me back.  Everyone is suspect: an informant, or weak enough to become an informant, a loose lipped wise guy, a bragging connected businessman, a friend of a friend, a cousin of a brother, and a daughter of a gangster. We are all potential targets of this organization known as the Mafia, Mob, syndicate, Costa Nostra, or our thing.  Growing up in this circle of gamblers, killers, fixers, enforcers,  bookies was like growing up in a novel, it was a fictional tale all the way, until the end of my father’s life.    There is a drop down board that appears every time I write about our family business that reads,

“ How dare you open my life to the world, what do you know? You know nothing little sweetheart, and that’s the way I planned it. “

“There’s no such thing as the Mafia! If you ever mention that word again, you’re leaving this house!”   I melted down to the floor, and he was ominous as God standing over me. I would never mention the word again, I promised, and I would never believe in the Mafia.    

RAKING WINTER FOR SPRING


I’m raking, a meditation for writing in your head, like ironing or baking, or lavender baths. The pavement on Palace Avenue is under jack hammers and a yellow tractor is parked in front of my driveway.

Eight men, in yellow jackets, are, digging out the curbside shoulder of a two-way road, so traffic is cumulating in front of me. The sun shines on the traffic control worker, his face is crusty with an untamed beard, and bushy eyebrows.  He appears to be in his sixties, but he never takes off his sunglasses, so I don’t know for sure. A gentlemen walked by, as I was maneuvering into the driveway with groceries, an open pack of red skinned potato chips, on my lap. As I got out of the car, I turned around, and he spoke out,

“ Exciting isn’t it?” He said smiling.

“ What?”

“ All the activity on the street.”

I shook my head, like an older person who can’t believe you’d say something so

bird at piano lesson with rock

bird at piano lesson with rock (Photo credit: Terry Bain)

stupid, and marched in the house, repeating what he said, and after a few times, I had to stop myself- I am doing a lot of that,  ridiculing, criticizing, mocking  and imitating strangers.

The bird, that was born last year returned to her nest to lay her own eggs.  Spring,  is contracting up through the ground, melting the last remaining buttons of ice, and there is new life, all new, here inside my ground, my fertile ground for love, torment, adventure, challenge, relationships, achievement, conversation, travel, hiking, horses, ocean, it’s all there, I didn’t lose it like I thought I would.  You can still call me LouLou, I’m not all adult yet.

Passionate love is always an interlude, a gallop that ends in exhaustion.


SOMEONE WHO CANNOT LOVE IS A THIEF, AND STEALS FROM THOSE WHO CAN.  AS LONG AS THE TRUTH IS NOT BROKEN, AND WHEN IT IS,

Break Through 1995 "Walls break hearts, h...

Break Through 1995 "Walls break hearts, hearts break walls " (Photo credit: Pierre Marcel)

SHATTERED, THE THIEF RUNS IN COWARDLY STRIDES. YOU MUST REMEMBER THE BEST OF YOU, THAT ONE SUMMER,  WHEN YOU WERE UNSPOILED, AND GALLOP AGAIN.