This House Believes

Sometimes I see things...
Faces...mermaids...faeries...
Out of the corner of my eyes,
for a flash, an instance...

Or maybe, sometimes....
Things see me....

Photos taken last night at our little Hippie Slumber Party. These are the walls and windows to Kimbies world....

Steam trapped forever, frozen in a glass box at the bathroom window...And we all saw it...

A delightful painting of an English Garden, tucked behind glass in a Victorian frame....
And we all saw it...

The Faces....

We weren't haunted. We weren't afraid.
We danced.
Drank beer.
Told stories.
Cried.
In their company...

And somehow I'm sure, so did they....
In ours....

At the Matinee

The last time I was going to be a ballerina, I clunked through all the closets, dug through the drawers, pilfered through old suitcases and found one....just one...tattered pink shoe. I pirouetted out into the living room, spinning madly to Jethro Tull, and my daughter, eyes barely lifting off the book she was reading, muttered..."Ma, you can't do that anymore, you'll break your foot". I never quit twirling.

And of course, I was in surgery, three days later. And still in a cast three months later.

Today, I was a ballerina again. On my own private stage, the heavily wooded curtains hiding me from the audience in the red velvet chairs. The wind an orchestra....the sun a spotlight shining only on me...

Sometimes we just have to believe....

And keep on dancing....

Running Away....

Today, I'm pretending. All day. I decided that before I fell asleep last night, so I wouldn't have to wonder about it at all this morning.

I woke up to bedhead hair that's now half way down my waist, make-believe dreadlocks the colors of a drip castle at sunrise. I stood up and stretched, slowly padded through the house, the old cold congoleum covered in cat hair, sudden beach sand on terraza floors. I smiled.

In a little while I'm gonna whip up Bloody Mary's, ice cold and freckled with black pepper and then on the little splintered deck, I'm going to the Tiki Bar...the tinny sound of Rolling Stones dribbling from the little amfm radio will fill the Air....Amps the size of Winnebagos will hang from the sky, and for a little while, there won't be anything at all but the music and the movement and the moment.

When the Sun reaches Noon thirty, blazing, I'll bop over the ring of the blow up pool and fall face first into the ocean....A giant salty tidal pool just my size. When I open my eyes underwater, the coquina will be six inches deep, thousands of teeny tiny shells....a treasure chest under the sea. My little pink float will be a peace kayak, and I'll paddle out of my puddle and down to the river where the water runs up, up, up and away....

At dusk, I'll drape my long flowy girly swirly hippie dress over my head and fall asleep on the hammock, barefeet dangling in the overgrown grass, that for just one night, will be wild sea oats tickling my toes.

I'll dream paisley colored thoughts until the light show in the sky nudges me awake...an electrical parade just for me....

Peace....sometimes we just have to make it happen.....

Fairytwinkle Soup and Other Short Stories...

I remember when Skinny was little and she used to run away. She'd have on the same little dress she wore for years and a quickly swiped pack of gum, maybe a marble or sidewalk chalk ,and she'd hit the trail. Long legs flying, hair dancing in the wind. And she never looked back. Not once.

Eventually, we'd have to go and fetch her. Find her in the cubby of an oak tree limb...periously dangling over traffic, or squatting at the lake edge, stirring the brown water with a magic stick....

And so it goes that we all grow up, grow old, and forget how to runaway....We pack electric toothbrushes, cell phone chargers, cowboy boots and crayons. Bayer aspirin, cold packs, and dirty laundrey. We take it all with us....

And then some.

Next year, I'm going Naked.

Now....

It's 93 degrees on my porch and one by one, I shear off the legs from a stack of hand me down levis... These are for Skinny, this pair for Kimbies, a ratty tatty pair for myself. I reach down and wind my hair up into a knot, thread a bic pen threw it to keep it off my neck. I'm melting. And I smile. The broken AC is paying for how may nights at the beach?

I lug a giant tupperware box into the kitchen and start tossing necessary evils into it....salt, pepper, a cork screw, the camera, sidewalk chalk, a flashlight, paper fortune tellers, packs of no name cigarettes. We go without eating at home, we won't need much food at the beach....And I smile.

I wander through the house with a Winn Dixie bag and a peace backpack chocking random things in at will....the last bikini's I'll ever wear, magic markers and paper, little Love postcards for playing Pixies. I wonder for the last time where I left my little suitcases...what rendevous I came home from bagless...and what priceless pair of old jeans were lost in the leaving. And I smile at my makeshift luggage.

Less than 48 hours....

And we'll all be home...

Meet me at the Sandbar

Midnight.

It wll be 7 days...
Until we've waited 365 days
to pull into the coquina drive way
and
be free...

7 days until
the hum of the dripping little air conditioner
lulls me to accidental sleep on the rare occassion I give up and give in to motel logic...
until we're pretend skating around the Tiki Bar...
Couples only...
Backward skate...
Until the sun rises 10 mornings in a row to smile at us...over a blue, blue endless highway, or playing peek~a~boo behind the pink clouds of a fickle morning...
Until Jimmy has to run to the corner store to stock up on Michelob Light...
Until we have no clocks, no rules, no barefoot boots and
we laugh at
everything
that landed us here
yet
again...

at the Love Fest....

Lying in a hammock tethered by heartstrings....

It doesn't matter whose child it is....

There were wires everywhere and the hum of soft shoes padding up and down the halls almost drove me mad. How could they be so quiet when my world was exploding? How could my heart pound louder than every machine they had plugged in, louder than the canned voice calling Dr. Kildare on the loud speaker? How could they not crumple, fall to their knees with me...and know....

Long before he stabilized they told me in a foreign antiseptic language..."we've done all we can do"... and then they scattered, pigeons on a highway dodging five o'clock traffic.

And then he lived.

They came back to pack him up, uninsured, in my little red car. Naked and broken. Nobody wished us well on the way out the door. They didn't call in the morning to check on him.

This time they kept him.

And for 72 hours someone will watch over my child. With the cheese curl toes. The homemade tattoo on his ankle. The blonde hair with the slightest red sunset. For 72 hours he will be mad, but he'll breathe.

And I'll cry,
But I'll sleep...

Because he'll be safe....

The Crying Moon

"Watch your step" he bellowed as I threw one clutsy foot out of the truck door...the second fringed moccasin hit the parking lot floor before I could quip over my shoulder "I know"....

Of course he knew I wouldn't remember to be careful...
couldn't,
it's not in my nature....
And before landing at our last stop,
I parachuted out the door
and landed in a pile of pick up sticks on the gravel driveway.

He cringed. I laughed. And we called it a night.

In the morning, black and blue, and hobbling yet again, I remembered falling in slow motion... the click clack of the door opening, the billowing waves of wind as my ruffled and crumpled skirt sailed behind me, the smile creeping up fast, frozen laughter captured in polaroid color, right before I hit the ground.

In the morning I remembered,
that sometimes,
I just like to fall....

Face first into the moment.
Kiss the gravel goodnight.
Take chances.

And sometimes,
I skin my knees.

It was a crying moon,
And I could have cried,
but it wasn't in my nature.....

I needed to save that for a day I was steady on my feet....

Butterflies and other True Stories...

She was a plain jane. Faded yellow with raggedy little wings, windswept,sidewalk scuffed, Cinderellish. But Oh God, could she dance....swirly twirls in the air, and head first dip~dives straight from the sky, barely missing her nose on the upturn. And she's lived to be a 100 years old or more....in Storyland...

The yellow butterfly of San Marino...

with her dirty little feet and freckled petticoat....
she's a gypsy.....
in her husky morning after voice,
she's a sunrise....

Counting days until we travel to her homeland again...
until she lands, teetering on wobbly show~girl legs, on the lip of my Michelob....
until she barrels in, Mardis Gras style, right before Santa Claus...
until she tickles my nose,
or my toes,
or my fancy...

And reminds me to laugh,
to live,
to dance at the very,very edge of the ocean...

I still believe in butterflies...

and peace
and love
and all that
hoo~hah....

The After Party

I don't do funerals. I don't like mourning and crying and reciting lives in ticker tape in front of crowds.

And so I didn't go. To the Last Night. The buy-one-get-three unexpected lemondrops-for free night. The night they stood the barstools upside down on the counter and threw them in the dumpster the next day. The night they said good~bye.

I couldn't. I had a cold, an old broken foot that came back to haunt me, a lover that deja-vued me, a crick in my neck, nothing to wear, no money to tip the bartender excessively. I had an excuse.

It was a lousy excuse, but I wore it well.

As Big Dad-O would say, "thats my story, and I'm sticking to it".....



Rest in peace little corner bar...

The Moon in My Arms

I've seen this moon only once before...

in a lifetime...

http://thehippieparade.blogspot.com/search?q=martini+moon

I remember the exact moment...

where I was,

where I was coming from and where I was going....

And then tonight...

there she was again...

The Martini Moon.....

with the glimmering olive on the rim....

And I remembered....

Yeah, baby....

Friday's are for dancin'....

Rock my Peace

She was so excited. Her chubby little 10 year old cheeks exploding in the "Mimi" grin...



Tiny chicklet "I'm gonna need braces" teeth on parade...
She was smiling....
This was what she picked out...
wrapped in newspaper....
A rusty ole word...

Peace....

She couldn't have been prouder....

And her smile was infectious. And I knew then what peace was. My blonde haired grandaughter with the hippie soul....whispering in my cobwebbed hair....."It's for you, Mimi! Peace......"

On the day after New Year's I came home to the front door wide open. The door we haven't opened in 17 years. Strangers ring that bell.

And the rusty little letters on my porch... splayed in half...

"Must have been the wind" they told me....

But I knew....

It's the year of ghosts....
And they've barged right in....
rocking my peace and rearranging it....

Sometimes we have to remember,
even in chaos....

Peace is spelled the same....

99 bottles of beer and a Butterfly, too!

I rolled out of five o'clock traffic, Stones blaring, and scooched into the faded little parking lot. No beer in the fridge and two cigarettes to my name. Stopping on my way home to stock up on a little peace and my everyday addictions. I thought about leaving my sunglasses on. Not to hide my identity, but because I looked so bad. Old. Tired. It happened overnight.

Instead, I followed the construction worker with the beautiful blue bandana on his head through the double doors and smiled as we clinked cooler doors together. He nodded. Five thirty etiquette at the corner store.

I was third in line. Right behind the man with the baseball cap. And the blue eyes.

He turned. We've met here before. In pajamas. I groaned. And laughed. Couldn't look any worse than the first time. He laughed, too, and then inched his way closer to being "next " in line.

He paid for my beer. Kissed me on the cheek and walked out the double doors.

The six people in line behind me and the girl behind the counter watched as he never looked back.

"A carton of Winston Ultra Light 100's, please" I asked as I balanced my Michs on the popsicle cooler. "Your neighbor?" she asks, pointing her head and every squiggly hair on her noggin' towards the door. "Nah".....

A murmer began behind me. And I smiled.

When I walked through the double doors, I smiled at the sunset. Seven people touched by the butterfly. Everyone making up different stories. Talking out loud....

"Her ex" the hippie in the blue bandana grumbled.

"Dude, wanna buy my beer?" the kid behind him asked.....

"I don't think she knows him" Leyla replied.....ringing up the hippie's beer....

And then I was out the door.....I didn't hear the telephone tag that passed through the line, but I smiled even bigger at the sunset.

The man who thinks he doesn't make a difference, doesn't have a clue. Seven people went home with a story. All different. All painted to match their imagination.

And imaginations grow....

Letters from Where We Left Off....

I remember as if it were yesterday, those fateful blue eyes.

Standing in my Sunday pajamas in the cold February wind....I slid the credit card through the "fill her up at the pump" slot. Nothing happened. I turned the card upside down and tried again. Nothing. I imagined the "E" glowing brighter on the dashboard. "Damn"!

I looked once. Both ways. No one else was in the parking lot or at the pumps. I bolted for the double doors. This is a really small town. Please God don't let anyone see me in my pajamas, with my "I've been up all night" face on! I'm not vain, but I had a hangover and it had been a long and sad 36 hours leading up to this moment....this I can't even coast home on hope moment.

Kimbies and Papa and I had spent the day before cleaning out Nadine's house. Selling a lifetime of love at a garage sale to benefit her children. Smiling at strangers while our hearts broke. And then we went out drinking. Big time. We laughed. We cried. We made new best friends. We kissed the nicotine stained Sky. Waved at Nadine up there! Over us, watching. And now it was the morning after.....

And I just wanted to go home.

I didn't see him bop through the side door. Full of himself, and Sunday Spirit. But I felt those eyes, those fateful blue eyes from heaven.....rap,tap,tapping on my new day. And so I turned just in time to catch his smile. His Mick Jagger smile.

And I laughed.

For the first time in forever.

And it wasn't long before I danced. For the first time in forever.

And lived. For the first time in forever.

Endings are sometimes beginnings. Beginnings are sometimes endings.

And sometimes the circle goes on and on and on.....

I should have known if I was going to be late for work this morning, I was going to be really late.

I felt that rap,tap,tapping on my new day....
Just before I saw those fateful blue eyes again.....

Pinnochio and other tell~tale stories

I was fat. A dumpling with cold black hair and an indian nose. I was a girl. Samalama Singleton. And my Father adored me.

He nub~nubbined my head, and pinched my nose, threw me in the air and caught me football style, just before I kissed the ground.

At four, my hair was blonde and he had squeezed my nose so many times, it had almost disappeared....

At ten, I ran face first into a concrete wall, sprinting out from under a Christmas tree....and set that nose straight again....broad and bumped...

And then I was 32. Exhausted. Sacked out on an empty living room floor. Two toddler loves waddling in circles around my head, little feet knotting my hair up in piles of angel speghetti on the Berber carpet. I closed my eyes. "Here we go round the merry go round, the merry go round, the merry go round".......

"Mama!" he said. A three year old's world breaking the rhyme. I opened my eyes just in time to see the bottom of his size four pretend Nike's leap in the air. I closed them right before all 38 pounds of Boy jumped in the air and landed on my face.

Broader and bumped again.

My nose grew and grew and grew.....

When my soldier left for war, I bit my bottom lip . I couldn't let him see me cry. Not out the airplane window. I waved and smiled. Turned. Ran.

I kissed the door head on. Knocked myself out silly.

Six months later, the black eyes faded....and the bump was all but gone. I had the most perfectly straight broken nose anyone had ever seen.

When I tell the story, sometimes people think I'm fibbing.....
But I'm not....
It's broken, always has been.

Only now I can crinkle it.
Wrinkle it.
Screw it up in a magical "I dream of Jeannie" spell....

If you don't believe me, ask Skinny....

I saw you ten years from now....

I was laughing. Fluffing ten layers of petticoats back into place and scooching my cowboy boots out of the way. Making way for the casual passer~by. We were being silly. All dressed up with no place to go.

And the night rolled on....

I pointed my toes and grafittied "Make Love not War" on the waiting wall with the chalky tips of my boots. I did shots. Lemon drops. And clinked Skinny and Curty Boy in tandem.

I sashayed out onto the floor for Rolling Stones in my bouffant dress and pretended I was having a blast.....

And I did. All dressed up in my make~believe world.

And then I saw you. Ten years from now. Hair a little thinner. Arms a little skinnier and silly little six pack tummy, a little plumper. There, over there, in the shadows, sipping bud lights and staring at the band. I stopped mid sentence, mid Pink Cadillac. But you didn't see me. I smiled, but like 99 cent a bottle bubbles, the magic was gone before it reached you.... And your eyes passed right through me, dreamy and lost on the shadows behind me.

I watched you in slow black and white motion...crooked smile growing each time the double doors opened. You're head tilting back, waiting to laugh ....Remembering....

I watched you until you stopped watching the door. Until the buxom brunette grabbed your hand and whisked you out on the dancefloor. Until you gave in, and just called it another Friday night at a lonely bar.

You didn't see me, head thrown back, laughing at yesterday. Skinny legs tucked into dusty kick~your~butt boots. You didn't notice me, next to you, eyes closed, dancing to the music not the crowds. You didn't hear me when I said good night, and left.....

Life is short.

And I was only visiting....

"You can't preach peace...."

he said. Pacing across my living floor. Soft shoes padding over the dirty leopard skin rug.

Arms up, he did a 180 and turned, sighing, Counselor at law, giving up on his client.... Muttering under his breath...

"and live like this?"

Arms waving now, casting a shadow over my world....

Cats on the bartop, disco light flickering, chewed up flip flops on the floor.....

Cellphone chiming....1-800 messages waiting...

Dirty clothes spilling out of the bathroom closet, the sunshine only shines when I'm not home....

And then he rested his case with Perry Mason words...

"Chaos is not a peaceful place"......





"Choose your peace, friend" I whispered to his shadow.....

I was only Dreaming

I rolled over....Kicked the paisley orange sheets off the bed, wiggled my toes and stretched. The sun tickled my nose. Morning. Nudging me forward. I stood up and moaned. A little jooking pain in my right foot made me pause barefooted on the fake wood floor. "Shake it off" I murmered in morning breaths.

I added 3 scoops of new coffee to the 5 scoops of left over coffee and waited for magic.

And then it happened.

The Awakening.....

The Jolt....

No wonder I'm tired. I'm old. And I must have been dreaming. I missed the part where everything changed. Catnapped through the shift in gears. Eraser smudged the difference between 16 and 46. Swirled and twirled the years into a grapevine wreath, an endless circle....

And then these damned contacts brought it all home again.

Don't mix coffee and mirrors unless you want to face the truth....

On Friday, I'm leaving my eyes at home....
and
Dancing like there's no tomorrow.....