WHY I LOVE MEN

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Once again after a lengthy and gushing nourishment of his body and mind, I return to this mask of myself. Sunken eyes and droopy cheeks; a hollowness that overwhelms the spirit.

The insomnia of separation from a man’s thunder.  When his shoulder hooks my head, and tweaks my worries like soft bread. The mind that directs me when I am driving directionless, and maps my journey, and to walk beside me, a guardian of my fragility. The voice that encourages me, and applauds my success, rather than let it drip from jealously or preoccupation.

More to come.

How the laughter erupts in a moment of spontaneous passion.

My observation of his secret revealed, unknowingly.

The gestures of him shaving, and the modest vanity after I re-wardrobe him.

Feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or  expression.

The humor he finds in my misguided attempts to open bottles, and packages with a dull spoon,

and figure out electronics.

How he will pardon and pamper my unwarranted fears of stalkers, misplacing my Progressive Prada glasses,  and falling down the slippery wooden stairs.

The man whose balance evens my wrinkles.

Let’s the light into my eyes.

Opens my shell with wonder and tenderness.

WHY I write this is because the danger of reversing the purest form of love is tempting me. This dragon argues with me for dressing up, for believing in love, for wanting romance, for giving the guy next to me a chance, and  for dating.  She tries to stop me from waving at neighbors, for whistling winds of change, hope, and all those iridescent rainbows I lived with my man, and now are like submarine weights to lift each day.

It’s like taking down the Christmas Ornaments, and returning to the blemishes of winter.

Yes, the dragon sees me in the mirror, and maybe you, but we cannot allow her to trample over our feminine skin.

 

DIARY TO DIARY

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I appreciated him coming back to look after me while I was temporarily flattened by a silly back spasm. I know that he would have preferred staying in Taos with his new lover. I also know the feeling of being split in two-known it for two and half years when I was with John. Sometimes I felt like Anais Nin who had a husband, she didn’t sleep with but who supported her writing, and then accepted her lovers like Henry Miller, Gonzalez, and Durrell.

That mixes up the cocktail of love so at one moment, you know whom you love, and whom you want to be with, and the next day, it is all clouded, opaque and vague as a dirty olive martini. It is frustrating to know that my love for Rudy is bygone for what we both need now. Sometimes, it just crushes me in the knees and I beg for answers. He is sheltering me from the truth, but I know the new woman in his life could be serious. I know that, because I know him so very well. I am prepared; at least I’ve faced the insertion of someone else in his life, who will encapsulate his time and thoughts. If only I had the motivation to script this, or book write it, because it is, extraordinarily unique. It divides the weak from the strong when it comes to love. Nothing ruins a man more than love, and I mean woman too. It is the one force in our life that can leave us heartless or make us heartwarming.

When life imitates art; I’ve read the diaries of Anais Nin so often, they must have invited themselves into my life.

WHEN TO WRITE

~ LouLou ~ 2 Comments

Now. I don’ feel like writing, and haven’t for a month other than scribbling in the journal and on napkins. When I run from the pen, then it is time to write. I bought the refills yesterday, and three writing pads. What I discovered, going straight to the laptop is constipating; I must first write in long hand allowing the flow of urgency to ink and not having the option of making corrections.

UNDERSTANDING

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His eyes widened with the surplus of understanding that comes after you’ve accepted an unimaginable pain. Why is it that
tragedy teaches us more than triumph?

ART OF BAR WRITING

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ART OF BAR WRITING.

ART OF BAR WRITING

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SANTA FE, NM

It was just 3 in the afternoon, and I’d returned from a trip to San Diego, and my body craved relaxation, but not in the house, where suitcases remained unpacked, and dishes to be washed.  I walked down to La Fonda Hotel and sat at a table in the woodsy and old leather bar.  The smell of tequila and chips permeates the room, so I flowed with the

ambiance and ordered guacamole and a margarita. Sipping slowly, I took notice of the other people around me; old men in Spanish colonial chairs staring into the hotel activity, the reception desk staff, fudging with room reservations, and the lovely waiter, who bowed each time he came to my table. I hadn’t planned on thinking about the script I’m working on, and just as I was unwinding my limbs from the plane ride and trip from Albuquerque, ideas started boiling up like bubbles about this script. I panicked because I didn’t have my journal, or even a pen.   Ah! the gift shop.. …

” Do you have a writing pad?”

“What kind?”

“With lines.”

” We have a few.”

” I’m in a hurry, anything will do.”

” What’s the rush?”

” I’m a writer,”

” Oh, I get it.” The clerk rushed through the transaction, and as I was about to leave I remembered,  

” And a pen.”

She handed me the one she was writing with, and off I went.

Seated with my tools, I scribbled the thoughts as fast as they entered my still sober self, and when I finished, I took to writing about my surroundings.  Yes, this is a place to bar write. I’ve observed Sam Shepard in several places writing through a meal. He has the distinction of not being bothered, but if he is, he draws a line around his space with his power pupils, one glance, and you’re blown off his planet. Sam does not always  position his power pupils to defer interruption, I’ve seen him put his pen down and engage the stranger. His eyes turn to a likeness of the Mustang horse, wild and waiting for tenderness.

 You have to practice this art, because invariably someone will ask if you are a writer, if you are published, and then they tell you they want to be a writer too.  I don’t have power pupils so I put on my head-set and if necessary place  my phone to the ear, if I am in the middle of a superlative sentence that I cannot stop.  You also have to monitor your drinking, because I’ve learned more than one glass, is not going to read like it did while you were drinking.  

 

RUDY

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Never became now. We say it, we believe it,
and then, we have to accept it. Never is
nothing but a dream, and everything
when you say never again.

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU’RE BROKE

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Don't Go Broke. After the War Buy More War Bon...
Don’t Go Broke. After the War Buy More War Bonds – NARA – 534094 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Eat less, drink more, and write. I know that’s bad advise. It’s mine.  We have to own how we absorb the tumbles and falls. We all have them. I mean, there is no answer, no universal answer, or political party, that will bring you to that point.

You just have to find the path that you belong on.Mine is all about gambling.

I love to be tested. Isn’t that crazy?

If I had known that I was seated next to the Mafia Boss of Los Angeles, 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 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. So, I became a writer of our secret interior life.

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Two Weeks

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Cover of "The Vagabond"
Cover of The Vagabond

How do we get through the myriad of fears?  Absent minded activity,

conversing with technology, avoiding risk, reality TV. I need to rig my back-bone for the next few weeks,

and what I bring to the nightmare is: The Vagabond by Colette, the Nancy Wilson station on Pandora,

my journal, and the Travel & Leisure issue all about Italy.

DEATH, PLUMBING AND LOVERS

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Part Two

WEEKS BEFORE RUDY’S, insultingly witty and honest mother passed away, she looked at me over the rim of a Lemon Drop at the Ripe Tomato in San Juan Capistrano      her unfading brown eyes acutely aimed at me.  

              “You’re too emotional    ; it’s going to be your ruin.” 

              “It’s passion Harriett, and part of my character.”

               “It will do you no good. You have to listen to me.  I’m 97!”

Harriett learned early on how to wear pearls and refuse pointless suffering. 

I write this after a wakened sense of transformation.  I didn’t have to go far, or pay any money  for this mud bath.  It was after reading an email from my former almost engaged  to man.( me never!) and the concentrate  of my last standing hope for truth between us was treated as a formality.

 So my emotions have been replaced with a cooler temper for both love and sensitivity.   That’s okay, the  real danger is in developing into a cynic;  tossing out jazzy lines about, how a man can destroy your life, and all of that.  There’s a Middle Aged group of women  “men suffrages’’, that live in Santa Fe. Sometimes I see myself in that group, chanting, doing yoga, going to lectures, out to lunch.

What percolated this epiphany?  I’ve never been emotionally damaged by a man.  There have been  sorrowful break-ups, but when we split up, all eight of the men became close friends over the years.

My gal posse offer advise; light a match to his love letters, treat yourself to all therelaxation rituals, and spa treatments, take a trip to visit them and indulge in friendship, and joining Match.com.  You see, everyone knows your voice, and even if your thousands of miles away, friends can hear despair.

 It’s all very similar to “A Book of Common Prayer  .” Witty Joan Didion  , the ways she says, something I am paraphrasing,  “I’m not calling  at a bad time am I Charlotte? You’re not in the middle of a nervous breakdown or anything? “

I wonder if you lie to yourself it gives you an edge on how to lie  without  conscience.  Seems to be in vogue or something.  That is the fault-line innocence and adulthood. Once you cross that line you know it.  I’ve always been told I was a late bloomer in everything!

 I’m on my way out the door; I rented the house for twelve days.   The big white Suburban just drove up. A wide shouldered, grinning forty something just got out of the car.   I see a woman, then the two teenagers, and a dog! They didn’t tell me about the dog, but it’s a little limply Cocker Spaniel, so I wave,  

         “Hi, come in I’ll show you around.” 

               To be continued. Hariett and I pictured in 2004 at a San Diego Opera Gala.

THANK TOU OLYMPICS, I WANT TO BE A CHAMPION TOO

~ LouLou ~ 1 Comment

Only minutes after the Olympic closing ceremony and your song, I asked, will they tribute John?
AND YOU DID IT. YOU DID IT PAUL. AND JOHN WAS LISTENING.
WE CAN ALL BE CHAMPIONS. YOU DON’T NEED A COMPETITOR, YOU HAVE YOUR CONSCIENCE. LET THOSE 85 COUNTRIES, AND THOUSANDS OF PERFORMANCES INSPIRE YOU TO BE YOUR OWN CHAMPION.