Through my lookin' glass....

He's crying. It's too much. 3 miles home on a dropped foot, a dragging, lagging, "Good-God, it's killin' me" foot. 6 foot shoulders, skinny now, slumped. He's whipped. Done.

And yeah, the truck blew up. Smack. Pop! Poof and it was gone.

I smile and say I'll fry the steaks.

In my world, his life was saved. Tomorrow we'll call a tow truck.

She dials my number 6 times in a row. Leaves a raspy, breathy message every time. I hear her gasp between beeps, between the canned voice reciting "You have 5,4,3,2 more new messages". I call her back and she collapses, homeless for the night, desperately driving in circles.

I smile and say I'll turn the porch light on.

"Not tonight, baby. You're not homeless tonight. And tomorrow the sun will rise and we'll figure it all out"

I fall and knock my teeth out. I cry. And laugh. Fall into the arms of my new best friend forever that I've never seen again. I rack up a phenomenal bill with my next best friend, the dentist next door.

I smile and don't drink koolaid.
Don't ride anything upside down.
Don't hang out in bars with black lights...
Kiss with the abandon that only comes with age and accidents and peace.

I go to bed with the big stuff rocking my world
and wake up
a thousand times spinning,
twirling,
hurling if I could....
And then the sun rises...

And I smile again...

Tomorrow is the gift of peace.

Slow Dancing to Fast Songs

At 17, I did it barefooted and braless, Pink Floyd pinging off the neon walls. Climbed right up on the coffee table and danced, dipped, ca-chinged to the sounds of the cash register clanking...

Bubble eyed gold fished swam in the bathtub, lost in the psychedelic world we painted on their clawfooted world. Christian smoked a fat one. Strangers came and went. And the music played on and on and on.

And we danced.

At 19, I wore neon green platforms and borrowed white painter paints. I rubbed elbow to elbow, knee to knee, through a sea of strangers drinking nickel beer and danced up the steps and down again, Making grand entrances over and over again.

We danced....

In and out of my twenties,
in and out of revolving bars
into raging oceans,
waist high in midnight currents....

At 30 I danced out of one life and in stilhetto heels and a drippy hippy satin dress, danced right into my next....
Tom Jones and the Art of Noise....
The Kiss....
Off the dance floor and into a sea green pool....
Navy blue fabric, and tea stained lace floating,
swirling.....
And we laughed...

Until we cried...

And in slow motion, a gazillion years passed and I watched black and white re-runs...
the music slurring, blurring, getting buried under dust bunnies...

Until I remembered...

And it wasn't exactly like riding a bike....
It didn't come back all at once...

Not until I closed my eyes....

And danced again...

The Kind of Rain...

Tonight.

A little Hurricane gone lazy. Toodling off treck. Wandering like a magpie faerie lost in the woods....

The rains are here.

Delicious. Loud. Plump.

And in this quiet house, the sound I hear is yesterday....

Plodding along in Million's van, bumpity bumpity pot hole jumping down the one lane road through the forest, clod hopping over tree roots and spent beer cans to the opening in the woods, where the bon fire burned endlessly, umbrelled by oak trees, and a blessing we didn't know we had, to Peace Creek......

Piled under layers and layers of musty quilts, hand tacked and sewn of old men's suits and tattered over-alls...9 years old at Mamaw's house. The rain, a mad xylophone on the tin roof, and the car lights, flying past, strobe lights through the clapboard walls...the sounds of tires swooshing.....

Stacked in the hallway, tiny feet, sweaty arms and legs, pretending to play Twister while the Eye of the Storm passed, once, twice, three times and shook our little house like red dice in a cup and spilled it out on the lawn.....the sound of the morning after rain, the safe rain....when we tip toed quietly through the dark out onto the wet earth that was our tomorrow...

Nineteen. Donned in yellow raincoats with hoodies. Rollerskating through Jacksonville in the pouring rain. Silly. In love with the moment. No reason to fear the lightening. Yet.

My wedding night. Yards of taffeta in the mud. I knew it would rain. It was supposed to...

Tonight....
Fat little tadpoles of luminescent rain falling from the sky.....

Perfect.

Rikkity Tikkity Tink!

It was cold and our laughter billowed out in whispy cartoon clouds, mixing with the tart aroma of candied applies and mustard slathered pretzels. My fingers were almost frozen and I kept tap-tap-tapping my boots on the wooden steps trying to keep warm.

Half way up.

We laughed harder. More on purpose. More out of silly make believe fear.

The wooden track wobbled, shook, seemed to tilt in the air, as if the faintest breeze would topple the entire roller coaster over on it's side, and spill it into the boardwalk, a mangled erector set, glowing in the dark. The music stopped , or maybe it didn't, and up ahead of us, the white faces of instant ghosts climbed from their seats, teetering for just a moment to gain their strength, to breath again, and then the tentative laughter of those surviving this trip began again as they descended the other stairs. Free and Alive.

"Next" he shouted, gruffly arming Kimbies and I into the first seat, alcohol breath tucking us in. He started at the back.... one, two, three, twelve, thirteen, running the wooden track, slamming the safety arms down into lock, lock, lock....his dirty fingers barely grazed us, and the little train began to climb. We gave the arm a little wiggle. It bounced straight up. We slammed it down. It bounced again. We screamed. And screamed again. And went higher and higher in tiny rickety bursts of strength. We rounded the highest corner and snapped to the left. And began free falling. The two of us, elbows locked, parachuting. Choking. Huge fists on our necks, faceless fingers twined into our clothes, our hair, holding onto us by Angel's breath. We hit the bottom and slammed hard to the right, left, and I forget now, if we were shaking from the inside or the out, but I remember dying. Just before the next climb.

That was 25 years ago.

The first of many, many "never again"s.....

I woke up this morning with cotton candy in my hair. Two tattered ticket stubs stuffed in the back pocket of the crumpled jeans on the floor.

I woke up smiling.

You gotta love the fair......

Nana

When I was 14, she was 66....
Blonde banana curls cascading down her back , dread locked ahead of her time. Skinny little legs and Blue Mascara. Patent leather pocket book exactly the color of The Yellow Submarine. My Nana. Skinny's Nana. Kimbies Nana. She was wild.

She laughed with no reserve, head tilted back, guzzling the wine of stolen moments from a long fluted glass.
She danced with the abandon of a Ballerina in red slippers, with the wind up wings of a Go-Go dancer, with the free spirit of a magpie faerie.
She told stories in a whispered language only those in cahoots would ever understand or remember in the morning.

She was tickled pink when women burned their bras, but believed in keeping the sexiest ones, the ones in ice cream colors and wicked lace, for the night time....
She rubbed elbows with everyone....catching their magic, and savoring it....
She Loved scary movies, patent leather boots, mini skirts, red lipstick, smokey bars, storytellers, rock and roll, Liberace, romance novels, and her handsome hubby....
She was wild....

She taught us secrets we'll pass on to our daughters and nieces....

I felt her,
heard her,
hugged her...
on Saturday night.....

And I know when she peeked down,
eyes sparkling,
head thrown back ready to laugh,
she was thrilled.

You taught me well, Nana.
I wore fishnets with the combat boots.....