Peace, love, and happy hauntings.....

This is it guys....
another spooky little day!
Enjoy!
I'm pulling the black sheers over the windows, and letting the disco ball do it's blue magic...
tiny little orbs sneaking through the wind blown curtains out into the streets....
dancing like bubbles into the Halloween sky!

I can't talk now, we're dancing in the kitchen...

The first time I heard/saw Lyle Lovett was late at night. I was pacing in the kitchen. The TV (one of the few moments in my life I have actually owned a TV, much less had it turned on) was background noise littering the living room space while I circled from the sink to the phone to the sink to the phone to the sink. Wash a dish. Walk to the phone. Wash a fork. Walk to the phone. Klink! Break a glass. Walk to the phone. God, I wanted to pick up that phone and call him so bad. And it was so late. And what would it accomplish anyway…

The incessant humming of the TV wafted around the corner. A different noise. I stopped. Listened. Smiled. Crept around the corner peeking. Like there was a secret waiting there and I was playing “I spy”. I loved it. The sound. The raspy earthy wailfull voice. The rhythm. It moved me. I crouched on the floor , scrunched close to the tiny TV, and fell in love with the words, the laughter, the morning after voice. Write it down. Write down his name. BUY THIS CD!

I’m a rock and roll girl, and maybe a little soul, a little blues, a little country. But a lotta rock and roll. I love to play my music loud, so that the bass thumps on your heartstrings, the guitars become your heartstrings, the drums…Oh God, I love drums. And then came this Lyle thing. I just wanted to sway. To swoop. To dip.

I bought the CD. And gave it away. I bought another one. And loaned it out. Another one. Played it until the tracks skipped and the scratchy voice was stuck on random words, over and over again. I didn’t buy another.

Years went by. Skinny got married and I danced with an old friend. Until the sun came up. A week later, the Lyle Lovett CD came in the mail. Bootlegged, of course. No Smokey portrait of this strange looking gentleman on the jacket. Just the word “Lyle” scribbled in Sharpie marker across the CD itself. I tossed it in the car and rode to work with The Big Band for a day or too, and then there was Janis, The Rolling Stones, a few rants, and a few love songs, and I sort of forgot.

Until last night.

When I ran barefoot out in the rain to plunder through the glove box, and barefoot back …

To sway. To swoop. To dip.

Love it!

I Drink Beer!

I drink beer.

I started early. I’m not proud of it, but this is the way the story goes. I drink beer. Million used to splurge and buy Heinekens and we would ride around in the green van blasting Deep Purple, drinking imported beers and laughing. We’d tell stories, that got deeper as we plundered further into the six pack, and sometimes….we would stop at ABC, lurking in the parking lot, until he would find another lost soul and bribe them into buying us more…and then we would tell stories that made us cry. Hug each other. Love each other.

And sometimes we would just laugh. And drive further. And maybe faster.

It was dangerous.

I outgrew that driving and drinking stage. (And thankfully lived !)

Now, I just drink beer. Ice cold Michelobs, stacked in the fridge like other people pile cheese and milk and broccoli. I drink beer. I don’t do the drunk girl wobbling aimlessly thing, the drown in my cup of spilt sorrows thing, the I’ll take off my clothes if I’ve had too many thing, the watch me cuss you out thing. I just drink beer.

I love the cold bubbly feel of it. The shape of the bottle. The way it tastes.

Oh God, your Mother’s going to hate me…..

DO NOT HIT SEND!

This is the warning my friend Linda bellows into my ear. My Boss echoes it. Peggy preaches it. Spontaneous words. I am compelled to let them fly. A fleeting thought becomes a giant break-through in spiritual self awareness , and suddenly it all makes sense and I have to share it.... SEND! DONE! SHARED! Of course, the morning after, I might not feel the same....

"Mom! Tell me you DID NOT just break up with him on text message?"
"Ummm. yeah"
"Arrrrrrggggghhhhh. Do you think you're 18 again?"
"Ummmm. yeah.... kinda"

I do that. Dirty little fingers. Draw it . Write it . Type it . And hit send! I've written 3:00 in the morning love letters to strangers (well, almost strangers .... Kimbies surgeon for example) and walked them to the leaning mailbox, placed the flag at high mass, at 3:45 AM. In the morning when I wake up, trudge down the gravel drive way, back up and see the little red flag waving at me, I cringe a little.... "Oh God, I have to take it out...snatch the words from the runway before the postman finds them and sets them free" and then I turn the music up louder and keep backing out. Put it in forward. And drive off. It's a love letter for crying out loud. If he thinks I'm a nut so be it. He saved my sisters life. I can write him love letters if I want.

I've painted billboard revalations..... giant banners of "Do you get my drift yet?" and left them annonymously staked on obvious corners like "We Buy Houses" Signs or " Speeding fines doubled when workers present" signs. (Skinny, I remember the night we hauled off with the Beach Bag sign.... Paul McCartney on the radio... "Baby you amaze me"..... We laughed all the way home, high from the "WE DID IT" "WE GOT THE LAST WORD IN!")

I hit send.

If I have something to say at the moment. And it feels right. I hit the button. I might have better manners, or be more reserved, or more inclined to keep it to myself in the morning, but if it feels right when you think it, share it.

Last night my internet was down.
This morning it was down.

I wanted to hit SEND so bad I couldn't stand it.

For once in my life,
I'm glad I couldn't.

Must be that "Baby, you amaze me" thing.

Happy Birthday Skinny!

Peace, Love and Happy Friday the 13th!

"Triskaidekaphobia is a fear of the number 13. It is usually considered to be a superstition. A specific fear of Friday the 13th is called paraskavedekatriaphobia or friggatriskaidekaphobia."

Kind of makes you miss the drive-ins and B rated horror movies...
Spooky little fun.

We're going dancin' instead.

I went on my first date when I was 13....
Curty boy was born on July 13th...
I weigh exactly 113 pounds...
There are 13 doors in my house...
The first house I owned ALL BY MYSELF was numbered 1330..

So jump back, spooky little day....
We're gonna have a blast!.

I know who you are and saw what you did....

There were five of us. Kids. And a natural order of Age. Me, four years, Kimbies, 4 more years, Curty Boy, 2 years, Skinny 2 more years and then Chanty Boy.

For the most part we were passive, a wandering tribe of gypsy souls. Rarely did we scrap. By our teen years, Kimbies and I were given lots of freedom as long as we toted a little one with us. Thus, Curty, Skinny and Chance were introduced to Rock and Roll, fast cars, and secrets early on.

And that would be how the natural order of things would change.

Skinny, when not digging in the dirt, was the first to bop up with "Take me, Take me", often elbowing her way into the front of the line. Which wasn't really hard to do. Curty was passive and frankly,not really interested in cruising with the big kids on Friday night. Happy to just stay home, perched indian legged in front of the big old console TV, watching reruns. And Chanty, with no words to make his wishes known was often at our "take em or leave em" mercy. While I love Skinny dearly, being the oldest, I often opted to take Chanty. We'd plop him on the center console of Million's van, and venture into the week-end, Deep Purple blasting from the 8-track, windows rattling. See, Chanty, dumplin' of a sweetie, is down syndrome...born with a forever smile and dancing eyes. And in those little eyes you have to read the world, because he doesn't speak The Kings English. His tiny voice box was just born jumbled up and the sounds and noises he makes are endless streams of babbling, sound effects, noise....but never words. He early on, became the keeper of secrets. Never one to tattle tell.

Not the case for Skinny.

Her endless arms and legs piling into the week-end, also meant her wishing well eyes were there. Soaking in every word, every sight, every secret. She would be elbow deep in a bag of Lay's BBQ chips, singing, WATCHING. Gathering. Later, on occassion, trading sssssshhhhhhhssssshhhhhhs for candy bars. A business agreement. A lucrative and viable business agreement. "Don't tell Mom and Dad"

As the years grew and her legs grew, we settled into sisterhood. Trading secrets for secrets. Trading the spoken for the unspoken. Trading the order.

Sometimes now she leads.

And I quietly follow.

Oh.....the secrets Chance could tell.

I'd rather be flying.....

I used to fly. At night. Suspended in fast forward, out of control.

I would lay awake in bed. Praying for peace. For sleep. For respite. And I would fight sleep, the only real get-away. "Keep your eyes open" "Keep singing, humming, thinking, wiggling your toes". And then I would feel it. God, I hated to feel it. The falling. Asleep at your toes. As if a thousand wasps had stung you. It hurt so bad and it crawled. Filthy little winged things chewing up your legs. Numbness. Taking over your body. And when I was totally encased in the vibrating, tingling," oh my God I have to leave this body"feeling, the body would leave me.

And begin to fly.

To bat really.

To zoom over the furniture furiously. Frantically zipping through the house, slapping walls, just skating the ceiling. Searching, searing desparately for a way out. Sometimes I would just fly faster and faster in endless lopsided figure 8's, nearly cracking my head on the fireplace mantle, bouncing vases off the coffee table. And sometimes I would leave. Find an open window. Soar into the night. Free. Fast.

And I would fly so high there would be no oxygen. And my lungs would expand until they felt like a leaded x-ray tank embedded in my chest. When my hair would wire out with energy and be alive, crawling, flapping at the sky. And I would fly over roads, and memories, and yet-to-be's, sometimes diving, nearly crashing onto crowded highways, headlights blinding me.

And then I would come home.
And crawl into my body.
And say a prayer.
"Oh, I'm done. It's over for tonight." "I can rest now".

And the humming would start again...........................................

I haven't flown in years now. I later learned it was a syndrome. Psychotic actually. Symptom of those out of control. Dreams they called them. Those that didn't fly......

I awoke with eyes cutting, eyeballs wide open, but glass, there must be glass in my eyes. I can't read the clock. The open doorframe is casting a shadow. And it's a monster. I sit upright. In my yesterday's clothes, I forget to breathe. The dog is growling. At the shadow. "Oh my God, what if she dies from eating crackers and cheese for two days. I have to look that up on the internet. Is it safe to feed Georgia Triscuts and cheese?" I listen. She's growling. She's living. Deja pounces on my forehead, running circles in the dark. She has no claws, my only one, so I know I am not bleeding. She runs in circles. " I fed them right? The cats. They still had food. " I listen. "Isadora, Tallulah?"

It's so dark. It's three A.M. I wander down the hall. What is Georgia growling at? And I remember. It's the hauntings.
I haven't paid the
phone billl
the car insurance
the second mortgage
the attorney's fees....

I'm being sued. You were perfectly fine. But what would your husband say when he found out the 14 year old station wagon that ran perfectly fine until you got bumped would be totalled and they would only give you 750.00 for your BESSIE? He would say sue her. For your teeth that you never bumped, but should have been crowned 20 years ago if you could afford to go to the dentist. Sue her!

"I've loved you for a million years". The voice. The blue eyes. His. Hers. The funeral. The not funeral. The "I'm trying to tell you something, wake up! and listen to me" messages I KNOW they are sending. "I can't understand you, I can't see you. God, can't you just stand in the drive way smoking cigarettes, sit at the kitchen table and TALK TO ME ANYMORE?"

I bop the coffee cup in the microwave. Hit 2 by instinct.

I'm up for the day.

Peek into our other world

Sometimes I just can't write.
I can't think.

Here's where I go to hide.
www.justgivemepeace.blogspot.com

Empty Nest

I hauled everything out to the curb. Loaded it up in black plastic bags and left it for the garbage man. The beer bottles I found under his bed. The coke can with spent cigarette butts in the closet. The borrowed clothes never returned, I didn’t know who they belonged to…and the styles have changed, anyway. I chucked the weight set into the woods…too heavy for the trash, and I’m too tired to bury them in this cemetery I call a yard.

And then I sat down and cried.


A prom picture, marred by a beer bottle ring , was stuck to the entertainment center you hauled home from the trash. I spent 15 minutes peeling it off the glass shelf, before I pitched the found five -shelf treasure and gently buried the picture in my top dresser drawer. A trophy, your engraved name missing, toppled sideways, stood lonely in the corner of the room. What piece of furniture did you take with you, that left this plastic soldier exposed? I dusted it off, and laid it to rest in the kitchen cabinet. Receipts for things I never knew you owned, were smeared onto the vacant floor. Every now and then, pennies, nickels, quarters…lazily tossed amidst them.

I opened the windows and let the fresh air in. Noticed that even in your going, you were coming, The screen was propped just so. I’ll miss you . Precious child of mine.

Wings
I pray they are mighty

A Sign of the Times

So today, this precious little lady reaches up to my neck and gingerly touches my love beads, cradles them in her hand.
"Oooohhh, they're so pretty, so unusual" she says in her perfectly lipsticked 80 year old voice. " I've never seen a steering wheel charm before".....

Last Call

Sorry guys, I had to go here. I have a stack of LPs , tattered cardboard corners, and covers I used to croon over, in the corner of the living room. A collaged heap of CDs tossed randomly on the floorboard of my car (front seat passenger side). An ever growing, ever reminiscent collection of sound. That I like to play LOUD. And sing to. And yes, dance to…

And sometimes the music is new and noisy and grindy and great, and sometimes, it’s just old school. The stuff that memories are made of. For whatever reason, I started thinking about certain songs and how you can remember the EXACT moment when you heard it….. felt it....banked it forever into your memory.

So here it goes….

Smoke on the Water, Deep Purple…
Million’s van, flying down Drewer Hill, well we were rolling really, but it felt like flying…blue lights dimmed behind us, just watching, And finally, I threw up

Just the two of us
A champagne and caviar party resulting in the first of many endless nights at The Entertainer, (now, a topless go-round) dancing in circles. And then, what the hell, getting married. I have since given up Champagne, and the husband

Aquarius, The Fifth Dimension
Getting kicked out of PCS Christian school. Age: 13 It was on the radio when my Father came to fetch us Filthy little sinners! How dare you have a pool party (on your own time) and invite mixed (boys and girls) company to bathe (swim, play Marco-polo, float, dive) together while listening to Rock and Steal your Soul (The Beatles) music? Ummmmmm…..It was my birthday?

Red Rubber Ball
Christian’s funeral. The procession. The absolutely ridiculous words ringing tin-like out of the radio. And how prophetic they were.

Moon River, Andy Williams
Ohhh, I shouldn’t be sitting right next to my Mom on this couch listening to this in the state I’m in.

Tainted Love…
The Palace. You were there SLB.

The Kiss, Tom Jones and The Art of Noise
Dancing, gliding, dreamily off the deck and into the pool, satin dress parachuting up to the surface…..
Plop, splash, splish, slip, swoosh…..a sea of wedding-goers joining us. Pool party anyone?

The Letter, The Boxtops
Soldiers. My soldier. Yellow envelopes. Homecomings

Pink Cadillac….
Rumors! The Other Side. I still do NOT know how to do the electric slide!

Private Dancer, Tina Turner
Tami on the mike, belting it out at Fitzgerald’s. No Karaoke. Just a mike and her voice filling the room. She‘s 12 years old and we have her at the bar drinking Shirley Temples! Our parental instincts were always ….proper?

Build me up Buttercup
The 6th grade. Ronnie Beasley and a valentine too big to slide under the desk.

Mr. Lonely, Bobby Vinton
Pale blue carpet in a long long living room. Stereo at the far end of the room. Furniture lining the walls leaving the center open for a plushly padded dance floor. Mom and Dad on Friday nights, Martini’s on the coffee table. Kimbies and I, long legs dangling, parked on the couch, watching them dance in rhythm, in sync, in love.

Funeral for a Friend, Elton John
Dancing on the tables. Kim’s living room. Birthdays. Slumber party. (We had to have a slumber party, we couldn’t drive home)

Queen, anything Queen
Our first apartment. “We are the Champions”. Throwing BYOP parties just to stock the bar ...aka... the dishwasher…top rack glasses…bottom rack bottles. Loading the tub with ice and beer. Sleep walking in the window.

Creep, Radio Head
The radio cannot play this loud enough. Reversing all the “I’m a creep’s” to “You’re a creep’s” ….. This would be my all time favorite Rant song. And I’m not even gonna say why.

To be continued….
On another reminiscent night….
And oh yeah, I just did the spell check, and I do make up words!

Sometimes you sing
Sometimes you dance
Sometimes you just go backwards