Santa Fe today

Santa Fe today, Friday the 13th. Listening to soundtrack of Man & a Woman, my lyrics, my movie. The end is what I imagine mine. The day was blowing cottonwood  and white wisteria  in a blow glow of dance.  There is a certainty about my movements, different than yesterday. I declare this day of summer, sandals,pedicure, trying on my bathing suit, making a palette change, and putting on the ritz. The gloss and bronze, and maybe even going outdoors.  Shopping and going to the Lowriders Day in Santa Fe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SUMMER IN SANTA FE


All I SEE AT THIS HOUR IS
dinner for most of the USA. Imagine all those people, dining in separate uniqueness. The walls of imagination merge with internal images, from the media, personal experience, and true life stories. What I think of at dinner time is never the same at ten o’ clock in the morning. The labyrinth of safety, family, friends, security ALL colliding with the unknown, seems to be the most innocent of emotions. It is also a time that springs bright-eyed realizations, recognition, and a time when our mirrors move toward us. Who we surround us with is who we are.

The wind is sullen as it has gone from the spruce tree outside my window.

I want to get up and take a long walk, listening to the sound of my own steps on the brick walkway. I walk outdoors onto my steps and sit on a pillow watching the birds flock to a fresh pour of seeds. The silence is like a mirror to me. This un-sound so clear and virgin in Santa Fe, brings me back to my adolescent years in Hollywood. The nights my father went out, allowing me the freedom to explore outside. I would run down Doheny Drive to Santa Monica Boulevard and just keep running. It was on those windy Santa Ana nights that I’d run the longest. I was running because the need to express something was bulging through my soul. This night is like that, only I don’t feel like running, I am listening to the sounds of silence. Watching the shadows that look like ghosts, and the clouds that appear to have messages, and how everything is different when you are alone.

July is expectant there is expectancy everywhere you look. The blossoms on the tree limbs are blooming, the birds have evacuated their nests and begin singing early in the morning, and insects eject themselves from their hidden corners. I don’t know what summer is like for a man, I’ve never asked any man, but I am going to tell you what summer is like for one woman.

The essence is sensuous, and for a woman, it is an overture.
We strip down the layers of clothing; replacing socks with sandals, and sweaters with t-shirts. When I hear birds and watch them in the trees, I think of babies and innocence. There are flowers shooting through the heavy clasp of winter dormancy, and when they do, the colors remind me to replace all the black pants and turtlenecks with pastel shades of coral and blue.

20151011_161455

The sunlight radiates through my skin and warms everything. My heart feels like it has has been through a tune-up. My body wants to dose in sea water, eat less, run up Canyon Road, listen to music, dine al fresco, and get pedicures. All of this preparation is to tune up the romantic notes and to get YOUR ATTENTION. It is time to bring you out of the garage, or wherever you go in spring, and to notice that we are blooming.
Surprise us with flowers, a new hat, or a picnic on the banks of the Rio Grande. Our attention is on our surroundings; we will want to buy flowers, and baskets and new cushions for the patio furniture. We change our lipstick color, comb our hair different, and we look for new ways of expressing how good we feel.

If you live in Santa Fe then you understand when I say slow down summer do not leave us.
“Is there any feeling in a woman stronger than curiosity? What would a woman not do for that? Once a woman’s eager curiosity is aroused, she will be guilty of any folly, commit any imprudence, venture upon anything, and recoil from nothing.”
Excerpt from Guy De Maupassant, “An Adventure in Paris.”

 

A BLESSING OF PUZZLES


 

The embryo of  thought. Sometimes it is negligible,  as is life.  I am the puzzle maker  and every time I try to carve the right size square, I fall off the board and have more material to write about!  The  puzzle is so vast that it covers our life time and the pieces are the choices, and non-choices that fit into themes.  We are a theme,

My life, is like a melody, a Gershwin tune. As  a dancer and prancer  at heart,  my feet are my hands,  and my hands are my heart. Yes , Christmas is in the shop isles, and cafes, the windows displays and string lights mated to children’s eyes, in blissful delight.  a doll size tree left on my patio, with a note that made me grin, and the Direct TV technician who who solved the signal loss,   that his job, but when I asked him why the CD/DVD trays  didn’t work in the Movie Theater he pulled out cables, jogged to his truck and brought new ones, installed and un-installed the cables until, ” There is your trouble; someone unplugged this one.”  A moment that matters when you are given more than you ask for , and it is a big deal for a vacation rental to be  wired, and entertaining. Last week it was the tub faucet,  the previous tenant yanked the knob out instead of turning  it and pulled out the whole shaft.  Outside is  the spillage stain  on the concrete driveway, the week before that, the circuits in my bedroom went out randomly…. the house functions as an older lady,  she was built in 1907. We call it Gallery LouLou, but truly it is Elliott Barker’s home..

I am to blame for these follies, and I exercise my poise and power when I have paying guests. I love hosting 80 percent of the time because strangers from all over the world (this summer from Moscow) walk up the driveway grinning.    20141211_164203

 

 

 

RELIC OF REBELLION


BEFORE  I think  how to respond to a stranger,  I  feel them;  the gestures,  expressions, tones of voice,  movement,  conversation, mannerisms, and the eyes.   I acknowledge feelings first, then I think.

UNMANNERLY  I can improvise a dance to any music,  except ballet and tango.  I don’t feel rigid and life’s burden lifts when I dance.   Lately, at dusk my day ends with vinyl soul and rock and roll music. It works wonders for the dinner hours on your own.

ISADORA DUNCAN

THE sense of sprite  or gloom in the city reaches me when I’m driving.    I feel a whirl of sensory  perception from the drivers faces.   To witness  the joyous reciprocal ink of friendship between shop keepers, cops and other cops, city workers, and service technicians trying to fix satellites, and cables  in a city of inconsistent infrastructure.

SOME of my principles are unsupported with experience,  but more with GROWING UP WITH GANGSTERS  training that I cannot erase.    My  theme is unbalanced, I take the extreme path instead of the path with arrows.  It is why writing settles my sea-saw.  As I sit in my antique wooden chair looking out, a  feeling  leaps to the clouds;   creamy linen-white like parasols floating through the radiant royal blue sky.  A  tiny thread of blush pink ribbons the outskirts of Santa Fe.  Beneath this canvass are the stick branches of winter trees, then a gust of wind blows the last leaves into a dance.  The sedate and quiet surroundings relieve my spinning head and I just continue to sit and not fidget.   Every pedestrian that passes becomes a source of study. There is a woman who walks weekly with a Parrot on her shoulder. This draws attention to her and she relishes the conversation with her Parrot, who appears to love to sit on her shoulder.  The old man with the bent back that walks with his chin resting on his chest is a storyteller.  I have a difficult time understanding him.

HE’S  told me that he knew Elliott Barker;  who owned my house for fifty or more years and was the  distinguished New Mexico game warden, environmentalist, and author who coined Smoky Bear.  After the cub was rescued Elliott took him to President Roosevelt and asked that the bear become the mascot for preventing forest fires.   Men and women with legacies like that leave some presence in their residence. I think that is why I feed the twenty-five birds, six doves, white-tailed hawk, and Homeboy, the squirrel.  I live in Elliott’s office.  Maybe even wrote where  he did.

THERE  is always commotion and a raucous of human emotion coming from the hotel across the street.  Staff workers chatter into laughter, truck loaders shout and spit,  deliveries stop traffic and sometimes a bad boy yells out obscenities.   Cops are always dropping by to check-on some hotel hiccup.  Dog walkers tug at their dogs and the Santa Fe street vagabonds dart by staring at the brick sidewalk.   This street activity is in slow motion pumping along with the beat of my heart.

SOME people appear to drag their bodies rather than the other way around. I wonder if all the global google news has weighted us down.  Young bohemian gals walk by  and turn towards the house when they hear the music.   Facial strain and deadness erase their youth,  even when the music is pumped up jam or rock n roll.   This nonchalant  detached  behavior  bothers me because I am an aloof!      The exchange of human voice and expression is our background symphony, along with the birds, crows, power saws, blowers, and sirens.  This street is part of my theme;  a juxtaposition of affluence and simplicity.  I am a 21st century flapper clinging to the roar of independence, self-expression and breaking rules.  If  we  feel the chord of festivity,  we should not hold back.  I am going out now to see if  I can feel Christmas.  images XMAS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DROPPING OF THE THINKER


It’s been a month since I’ve seen the Thinker.   The time was spent luxuriating in thought and activity.   They became days of resurrecting my business, writing, and staying at home, where my fantasia of comfort welcomes me.  Above my bed, I hung an umbrella. A vintage peach faded Parasol. One day, while I was searching for a place to store my ribbons, I looked up and watched the light sprinkle through the Parasol.  So that is where I stored the ribbons. When I am in bed during an afternoon nap,  I see abstractions of figures:  dancers, faces,  gods, and gorillas.  The Thinker noticed the abstraction. I think he said, ” Wow, this is incredible. Do you see the legs? And there is the face.”  He took everything in and profited  from imagination.  He had a thousand virtues, that regrettably did not serve him.  dsc01740.jpgI don’t know why.  You know I want answers, that is why I write.

THE THINKER & THE PUPPET


After I  published this last story,  I spoke with White Zen, my palgal in Santa Fe.  She said the last paragraph of the story made her cry.  Juxtaposed between writers Zen of exporting such feeling, and the sadness we both shared. White Zen had a Thinker too. I guess there are more of them than I knew.

Having had six true loves in my life, who impregnated me with knowledge generosity, and loyalty is what made me so unprepared for the Thinker.  He does resemble Macedonio;  the first man to peel off  the woman in me. They both have charisma, mystery and good dark looks,  Macedonio is dead now, and the memories of him still glisten;  like the day in Golden Gate park under the cherry blossom tree.

What I miss most, is the giggling, dancing, folly-maker that the Thinker pulled out of me  as If I were a puppet. He called me Puppet because that’s how he saw me.  I’ve got to get my Jojo  by tomorrow. I live Thanksgiving as a day with admissions of selfishness and greed. I need  to be washed away into thanks that I am here with a mouthful full of food, and a napkin.

Thanksgiving with Rudy and Opus I his brother.DSC00512

LAST SWIM WITH THE THINKER


I love to swim; water has been my home since I was born.  I wrote the Thinker stories in  the water because I  know the water. It was an experimental impulse to write as I did.    I know when you break the surface;  reality is  indifferent.  Breaking barriers, in water, in love, in business,  is all the same.   I have to work up a mental sweat to write, to create a dinner, a concept.  Nothing is meaninglessness to me.  I want everything to matter.

After the Thinker left, I have had two weeks of suck time to reflect the alchemy of our relationship. I believe in examination of relationships. It is the key to understanding who we are, who we don’t want to be, who we wish to be.  I have ironed out the swimming with the Thinker. It is a bridge to my courage,  to know it is time to leave Santa Fe. If you have ever lived here, you know it is not  ‘ the land of enchantment’ , rather the land of entrapment.  I don’t know who coined the phrase; but it is as true as Los Angeles being the land 20140528_194204of movie stars.  You may not become a movie star, any more than you may  leave Santa Fe.   I chose the challenge of living here.   I discovered  the conflict of leaving,  and living it now as I write.  I know I came to Santa Fe to discover the underbelly. That is what the Thinker gave to me.

THE THINKER – THE IMPROVISER.


I was there a few days before I noticed a figure darting from one sea-lion to another. He gestured for me to follow but I couldn’t catch him.

20141117_172039[1]

He caught me by surprise from behind and wiggled over to me.
‘Let’s eat. I’m starved.” The Thinker dove down then up above my head. He cupped his fins around my head and pulled my hair.
“Where you been my Fins?” I asked.
“Why?” He said as he let go of me.
“ It’s just a normal question?”
“I don’t answer those kinds of questions. I am building my sand castle! Wait till you see it–it’s going to blow you away. Everyone will be blown away!”
“Exciting! I’m so happy for you. Will you show me?”
“ Maybe. Don’t look at me like that. Your eyes, they draw me in. It scars me. I don’t know what to do with you little one. Who are you?”
He lowered his eyes and sucked in his gills.
“I really love you. I mean I want to be with you forever!”
You should make a book of shells and tell their stories. ”
” You’re right! I know their stories too!”
” You could make a lot of money.”
” I don’t think about that. When I need money I just ask for it and it comes. All you do is count what you have. ”
” You think that!”
“Yes I said it didn’t I. ”
We carolled between starlight nights and crimson sunsets on the rock porch exploring varieties of sea mates. He used his fancy fish feet to get us into private ceremonies, and parties. The fish authorities didn’t bother us at all. We crashed into a party of penguins, and we weren’t eaten alive. My eyes were always on the thinker; as pleasurable anticipation bubbled inside.  In the morning he read to me from his bible, and watched the seagulls. He drove me in many directions, unfamiliar ideas, and habits that got me to thinking so when we swam we were always talking.
“You need to lower your voice. Make it deeper.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
One day he swam me to a blow-hole.
“I’m not sure I can get through as easy as you do.” I said.
“Don’t say that. Follow me.” so I followed. I’d waited a long time to see the sand castle. As we expanded our gills and soared upward, my eyes searched for the castle.
“You see it? Isn’t it spectacular?”
“I see the sand yes, but where is the castle?”
“You don’t see it? Come on—really. ”
“No my fin. I don’t see anything but piles of sand.”
“ Look beyond the piles. You have to see between the lines. You don’t get it do you? You only look at what’s right in front of you. There’s castles everywhere; huts, hideouts, back alleys. ”
“Is this what you mean by patience?”
“ No! This is conciseness of the universe. We’re not alone you know. The skeletons and ghosts are here.”
“ Have you seen them?”
“ The water of Santa Fe is as crowded as pavement. I’m telling you what no one else will. You should thank me for that. I’m handing you the key to the universe.”
“ How about the key to a warm place to rest and food?”
“ You’re such a brat. Come on. I’ll take you
to shore.”
I met his power posse; and they all assured me they could reverse or  promote anything I wanted.
“If you are ever in trouble call me. I can fix it.”  the Thinker said.
“ Like what?”
“ Whatever you ask. You want to live forever under our safety net. You have to trust me. You’re a city cougar with a Range Rover and a brick house above water. Come on–don’t you see that. Most of the fish hate you. You need me.”
His eyes narrowed into dagger like bits of darkness.
“I’m not a cougar. You are the first young exotic fish I’ve swam with.”
“ Oh really. That’s not what I heard.
“ What did you hear?”
“ I know about you?”
“ Really. Then tell me what they say?”
“ You’re impatient, aloof and swim alone. ”
“ I’m not like that always.”
“ Well I know, I’ve seen inside you.”
One day he emerged as a sea monster, holding empty bottles and wailing. I felt a rush of empathy and covered him with my body. He wrestled in pain for days and then when he surfaced, he was wearing a different face, and his touch was absent. His teddy bear eyes were like bricks of strength.
“ I’m not coming back.” He said
“ Why?” I pleaded
“ Wrong question.”
“ What did I do?”
“ You don’t see my castle. I can’t be with you. All you think about is lobster and hotel vacations.”
“ I haven’t had lobster in years, or a hotel vacation.” He swam away, just as suddenly as he appeared.
It was like a knife severing me from one place to another. He despised me. His curiosity and mischievous cleverness triumphed over affection and companionship. His splashes exploded into monsoons of tears inside of me. I returned to my brick house and closed the drapes. Every night I danced and cooked. I sat on the porch in a spray of solemn sunlight and didn’t miss the waves or blow holes. I’d missed my dance music, old movies, journal and sanctuary of comfort. I made him vanish with a vow.

As I cut his sunflower from my yard, placed it in a vase and said, ‘when the flower dies so does my love for the Thinker.’ The sunflower died yesterday. I pulled off the wrinkled yellow petals and scattered them in a planted pot. Maybe he will come back as the beautiful sunflower I once knew.  But I know he won’t. Love is in all of us. How we give it and cherish it  is unique.  I still have my love. No one can take that.                           20141122_143530[1]

 

 

*

 

THE THINKER ON MY TRAIN


1328837711373.jpg

I asked the Thinker why the universe brought him to me. ‘To guide you through Santa Fe and teach patience. Without it you will find yourself where you are now.’
‘Where am I now?’ I snapped. He clasped my arms around his neck and we swam to the center of the Plaza. There he opened a porthole and asked me to look through it. Historical images emerged like a kaleidoscope and the Thinker told me stories of Santa Fe. Some were humorous; like the bank robbers who dragged a safe down Palace Avenue and left cracks in the stone sidewalk. Other stories pointed to the feuds, violence, and mysticism surrounding the Vortex. He whisked me away to a mirror, floating sideways, and asked me to look into it. The reflection was me curled up with my knees to the chin, while a school of fish surrounded me. They were talking about my mermaid skin and long fins. I was touched. Then the Thinker took me to another mirror and there I was poised on a chair; reserved and grave. I looked like I was somewhere else.
He tossed me in a circle, waved his arms in conductor fashion and said, ‘Get rid of her. She’s not liked.’
The image troubled me and so I jumped off his back and crawled behind a sunken wooden door. I was there a few days before I noticed a figure darting from one sea lion to another. He gestured for me to follow but I couldn’t catch him.

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: