WRITING BY HAND at my tiny Eurasian desk facing the window to the west; framed by time and familiarity into the branches of JD’s pine tree, today ward-robed in bacon colored leaves. The black silky toned crows are still basking like prowesses on the branches, and waiting for the crumbs that fall out of the garbage cans at the hotel across the street. My bird family has already eaten through a full day’s feeding, and is fleecing each other to first place at the table. The silky drape of the winter sky sometimes adorned with lacy clouds is blue as sea and has shaken the clouds all night. NO SNOW. I am selfishly opposed to snow because I don’t happen to get snow shoveling without gut-wrenching lower back pain. How do you shovel snow?
I’m wearing one cotton camisole, one shapeless thermo turtle neck, a down vest, and when I go outside I wear a down jacket. I’m so bundled up it feels like my limbs are bound in masking tape. My teeth look whiter and my hair is flat instead of frizzy. Snow changes everything. From my desk, I write, without thoughts predefined, just a drain of emotional threads from my heart, listening to Zap Mama as she takes me to the wild, naked, warm region of Africa.
This year isn’t like last year. The absentee man, fussing with the fireplace, making me afternoon espresso, kissing me when I cook, hugging me when I pull a folly, has excused himself from my adventures in livingess. It is not at all like last year. Long time friend Rudy is in San Diego and so I am not interpreting the division of attention, between two men laughing at the kitchen table, and eating my blueberry pancakes, as they did last year.
I had the song of Judy Garland’s rainbow in my heart. It was a time I will never forget, or regret, because I was satisfied for several years. Unabridged ecstasy poured out of body, and spread over my attitude, abundant spirit, mood, facial expressions, and my dreams were filled with amusement instead of nightmares. I wander into unfamiliar snowy woods unsteady, juxtaposed between, acceptance and self anger for being so so… whatever it is that I pump into myself. If I was judged by my adventures and not my accomplishments I would be a contender.
Growing up with gangsters teaches you to live with risk, to invite challenge, and not complain if you loose. It’s wrong but it’s right. Nothing is worthless; not one moment should be wasted because there is always that window of escape. Our minds are there to take us away. I’m escaping now, Zap Mama Pandora station on the headset, and writing. This is taking the moment out of frustration and into pleasantry.
My steps inward reply with emotional break-troughs, mundane tasks accomplished, solo ventures, match.com dates (another story) and a comedic sideshow as I wrestle with sealed boxes, make repairs, and toggle in my patent leather too stylish boots to actually be called snow shoes. In these moments, I assure myself that evolving is never ending, and we do not ever know what to expect from ourselves. If I write down the pleasantries surrounding my life, the blessings rise up and give me a softened comfort. The sweet peace may vanish the next day, or be intercepted by the news, a wreck in the street, an unexpected phone call. The crossroads of everyday life comes and goes. Between all of these uncontrollable incidents we are writing stories that some day will be told in conversation, or written in journals and books. The essence of our changing lives is universal. Why am I doing this now, why am I feeling this now? Etc.
Remember your pleasantries, and bring them closer. A few of my snow cold freezing feet remedies: Kneipps Herbal Lavender Bath: Do not apply to the face!
Ralph Lauren Candles: I paid too much, but the scent is like having a man around the house.
Homeland. Sunday nights Showtime. Clare Danes has replaced my empty strong female lead on television. I mean, this is one to Watch! ( season ended. Vegas on Tuesday’s is the other one to watch)
My friend Loren visits three times a week at least: Snow means, silence, and hermitizing, so I can’t wait to open the door to Luxury Limo Loren, and make him brunch. We harmonize for hours; on tones of fretful fear, wicked secrets, sex, laughter, Santa Fe, immigration, buy American, and the crust of survival that is stale and must be reheated.
Treats: Snicker bars, Vodka and snacks that I can nibble on while indoors more than I’d like to be.
Bar Bells: For those combative moments on hold with Comcast, SWA or Verizon.
Books: Time for Virginia Wolf and Jack London.
I AM PACKED FOR THE BEACH, JUST IN CASE.