WHERE DID SHE GO?


I feel myself crossing the double yellow line,

into the lane of a demon woman and full of hellish fire. It is the line that divides those that still care from those that just, whatever.  

Never thought I’d be a don’t care, no dreamer, no hope woman
but I am there.  What is God telling me? What is the message?

Why am I meeting pitiful people? Do they reflect me?
Do they mimic me? Do breasts mean everything?
Was my youth my only charm?

Why are men blocking instead of
buying me drinks?

Why do they
prick, instead of prune?

Only when they are detonated with insults do they respond.
Is the strong female driven Hollywood character
emblazoning every commercial, film, ad, and song
Stolen the testosterone?

I am going to look for the eighties woman I was. She was

full of laughter, confidence, romance and aspiration.

DSC00130-1

when THEY Leave


Cropped screenshot of James Cagney from the tr...

Cropped screenshot of James Cagney from the trailer for the film Love Me or Leave Me (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I do remember what they gave me. THE MEN always bring something you didn’t have before. LOVE THEM

WHY WRITE


Dad used to say, the only thing I have to show for my life, is you.

Just cause I write doesn’t mean that I have something to say,

that isn’t already known. I write for everyone that feels something different, and no one wants to listen.  exm-n-11192-0192ma27374324-0001.jpgIt’s my life.

Dad in Beverly Hills Court. On a charge for not registering as a criminal. He moved to Bel Air.

 

 

 

VOYAGES WITHIN & WITHOUT


I live in a temporary tide-pool, a lily floating against the current, weighted down by a suit of armor that shields me from the beauty, love and freedoms stirring in my bud.

The throw of the dice this week lands on a quote from the archives of my peculiarity-clipping folder.   I don’t know if this is branded in a writer’s genes, or simply another trivial pursuit to aid us in remembering things, that at the time we feel we need to remember, but we are not sure why.  Being a clipper means that nothing in print is safe in our presence.  We cannot resist the impulse to possess particular images and words, and usually without any logical reason. Once we have retrieved the clipping, we file it in a folder or notebook. The clippings do not age well and after 10 years, they are yellowed with torn, frayed edges.  They are rarely plucked from their binding burials and given present day meaning because they live in the bottom of trunks, or in storage units, and are difficult to get our hands on.   Since I discovered a clipping several weeks ago I’ve been investigating the connection between clippings and destiny.  I stopped being a savage clipper in 2002.

I opened up this one journal from 1988, and reading the pages, I came across the quote that propelled me into adventures in livingness. It came from Theater Critic, Kenneth Tynan, from a magazine article he wrote.  It was a personal essay and the line that beamed through me like a telekinetic force was ,   “Adventure. Voyage, there is nothing else! ” When I ripped it out I did not live, or ever imagined I‘d live in Santa Fe.   That was the first time I had come across that article. I remembered it, and swore an oath to adventure ever since.   I memorialized the quote and have continued to look for new places to adventure and voyage.    Since 1982, I have called home behind 31 different doors, in only six different cities.

I realize Kenneth’s voyage metaphor was not about relocating, though moving has a definite adventure inside it, but more of an internal adventure, opening your own doors to unconventional, unacceptable, and unrealistic measures in the hopes that you discover real newness of vision. 

WHY I LOVE MEN


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.

 

SALON THERAPY


Paris beauty salon

Paris beauty salon (Photo credit: adrian, acediscovery)

In the salon, Wendy, who sees me coming in and senses my mood, whipped out a particularly inviting  greeting.

” What’s happening laaaaady?”

” Turning the page on another year.  OMG- how did I get to be this age?”  Screening my head for imperfections , she stroked my shoulder.

” You don’t need hi-lights, and you look terrific.

” That’s not enough,  I haven’t planned well.

” You’re an artist, you create..

” You sure I don’t need hi-lights

” No, you look fab-u-lous.”

Two women in the salon, the conversation cuts through all of our individuality, and ends up in the center, of our tribal understanding, our sensitivities, and insecurities.