Eraser Lips and other secrets

I haven't been hiding. I haven't been busy. Or tired.

I've been learning.

I've been shedding skin. And sunning naked in my new colors.

And I haven't been alone.

I've buried a friend. Kissed 17 years of laughter and mischief, crooked smiles, and secrets good-bye...I've been waiting for her to answer me, to visit, to rock my world...waiting for her to cross over...waiting for the teensy weensy sign that she's OK. That it really rocks over there. I've been listening to a newfound silence. And suddenly, I realize, that not all my friends will be ghosts...they won't all trip me in the kitchen, haunt me in my sleep, follow me into the corner store. Sometimes, they'll just disappear.

And that's OK.

When I go, I'm gonna snatch a knot in her ass.

Because I miss her.

I've been camping out at The Men's Center. Visiting on Sundays. Sending care packages that get rifled through, and edited, and recorded. I've collected quarters. So that on Thanksgiving we could buy a Coke for a dollar twenty five from the vending machine. And share it. We can't touch, but we can share.

I've watched my 5lb 2oz baby boy grow. Into a man. The hard way.

And I've prayed.

I've had an affair. And called it off. And started it all over again. I've confused comfort with Love. And Love with memories. And yesterday with today. I've settled, and rocked the boat, and tumped it over upside down. I've tested it, and driven it, and painted it every color, including wrong. I've feigned happiness, and forgotten that what I was faking didn't make me happy.

And I've learned that to be accepted, sometimes, you have to accept. To welcome open armed the difference. That there will never be the symbiotic sameness that I thought was karmic. That perhaps, in our difference, we can build a bridge...And we can carry each other...

And that, in that very need...

We are the same...

I've fallen. And blown out my tattle~tale arm. My drawing arm. My tell~tell arm. I can't paint colors without an extra set of hands to twirl the paper. I can't buy beer unless someone I know and someone that loves me will tote it to the car and pop it in my fridge. I can't shift gears, zip my jeans, or open the pickle jar.

I'm lucky.

I've learned that:)

I'm old now....

And I revel in it...

My skin is saggy, a little loose,
and Mick Jagger and I have a lot in common....

I finally have a beer belly.
A pudge.
A little love handle, or two.
I can still suck it in, but rarely remember to.

I snore.


Loudly.

Or so I'm told.

And I'm my Nana's grandchild.

I can't see to put on make~up, and didn't wear it when I could.
I only date men who are as blind or half again as I am.
And in our blurred up, trailing world, where oak leaves are green smears in the sky, and clouds are marshmellows....
I'm beautiful.

Or so I'm told.

The music comes on and I shimmy.
I swirl.
I twirl.
I pretend I'm a barefooted ballerina making love to the Blues.
I'm 17 again....
barefooted,
and tipsy,
barely balanced on Chris's coffee table.

One day I'll fall off, and break a hip...

Break the magic...

But until then,
I'm old...
and
Loving it....

I believe in butterflies and beer.

Peace, Love, and Passion, Please...

I like to drive slow....creep along and daydream, sing really loud, to Primal Scream and Led and Stones, chain smoke until the ashtray looks like a Blooming Onion, and flash two-fingered peace signs at the folks cussing me in silent screams as they zip past me.

I like to ride in fast cars. To pitch my contacts out the window in an act of littering defiance so the highway is a blur. To feel my hair madly tangling with every mile we fly, blonde speghetti in the wind.

I like to dance to make believe music. To dip low, and long, and pretend I'm a ballerina on top of a vinyl jewelry box. To dance in the street barefoot, under full moons and pouring rains and streetlamps sweltering in the heat. I like to dance really, really slow to fast music, and lightening fast to so~slow~it's~a~lulabye~music. I like to be asked to dance. And sometimes I like to say no.

I like to laugh until I cry, choke, cough, spew beer everywhere. Until I can't remember why I'm laughing and have to cross my legs so I don't accidently tinkle. Hell, I like to laugh so much, I don't really care if I wet my pants, send my gum richocheting into your lap, get the hiccups. I just like to laugh.

I like to Love. Hard and fateful. Ridiculously comitted to the moment. Wreckless and silly.

Forever can be a really, really short time...

You gotta make the most of it.

The Purple Stapler

I woke up almost late. Not quite. But not early enough to lounge in my jammies. Have two cups of coffee and daydream.

And so I rebelled.

I camped out on the porch smoking cigarettes and sipping one cup of coffee, coloring tiny matchbook size scraps of paper, watching the sun rise. From where I parked my fanny I couldn't see the only clock in the house on the near~right time. I could only kinda tell the time by the world around me...The footsteps of the lanky 9 year old across the street, running, book bag heavy, chasing the dotted lines on the street. The tires of the bus grinding to an unexpected halt. "Yeah, he made it Dad!" Three little birds dumpster diving in my garbage cans, splashing in the unexpected puddle on the lids. The cats, stretching, raking their little paws on the screens....fingernails on a chalkboard Monday through Friday, but ahhhh, if it's Saturday, we're just stretching....

And then....

I raced....

Jumped in the shower...

Left with wet hair.

Rat packed into the city...did the nine to five plus some...and played bumper car home.

I yanked open the screen door and there on the worn out carpet ,tossed carelessly, lay the teeny weeny little matchbook size scribbles of the morning. I stepped over the color and went to fetch the stapler. All I needed was the little purple stapler and walah! somethin' out of an accidental nothin'... a teeny weeny notebook....

But it wasn't where it was supposed to be. It wasn't in the kitchen cabinets. Under the couch. It wasn't in the bathroom. The pass the trash Christmas Closet. It wasn't in my underwear drawer or the guest bedroom. It wasn't in little house or the laundrey room. It wasn't with the pots and pans or the kitty litter. It wasn't anywhere.

I pulled out the flashlight and looked in corners, emptied drawers, tumped out boxes....

But it wasn't anywhere...

And I cried.

I could go without making my house payment, skip breakfast and dinner, wear clothes still wet from the line...
but I needed that little purple stapler....

to make
something
outa
nothing....

Funny, but it was the laughter I remember....
And I miss that.....

And we all fall down.....

It was late. Skinny and I had been on the phone for hours. Literally. It's the way we bridge the miles. Reach out and touch each other. I piled into bed, four beers and probably eight brainstorms later, and crunched under the covers, heavy and smelling like rain....line dried and fresh. I stretched. Ran the Friday numbers by. How to make payroll. What to pick up at Winn Dixie on my home. How much catfood is behind the bar.... And I listened. One child out for the night....celebrating at Kobe's....

Drifting, just barely, slightly....I heard her key. Her high~heeled feet ballet stepping down the hall. Water running. I even heard her comforter being thrown back, her body flopping down, comfy cozy....into slumberland. I fell asleep immediately, whisk into that maternal peace that rocks a Mama....

"Safe", she's home safe and sound.

Georgia flew. Her claws digging into the orange quilt, needle banging my shins on her way out....unearthly growl growing as she took flight. The banging. The incessecent banging on my doorbelless door. She howled, barked, danced in a dark circle, and I spun in the same circle, grabbing joe boxers, freaking.....at that sound....strangers at the door.....in the middle of the damn night....

The front door rattled, bumped, slammed....."Oh, God, we're being raided"....and I flew out the kitchen door....where we meet friends, family, stray dogs.....as an army of one, ready.....and then I saw them....fraidy cats in headlights.....crumpled, coming, moving, falling into me with words, stories, frantic noise.... that suddenly sounded like coins dropped underwater.....and reaching, I couldn't catch them,worthless tokens falling heavy and distorted, gobbled up by the bottomless sand.....but I could see them, Jonah's roomate, his girlfriend....their faces.....

My youngest child had overdosed.

911 had been called.

He was barely breathing.

His blood pressure was nothing.

His heart was exploding.

When I touched him, he rolled his eyes. When I held his hand, nothing. When I said "I love you son".....I dreamed he answered me. When they told me "There is nothing else we can do" they went about their business and I prayed......

JSYK, in our world, if they breathe again and they're over 18, there is nothing you can do but pray......

I prayed hard......

Yes, Virginia......

I started. Don’t say a word. I know it’s early, but it just felt right. I plugged my little vintage fireplace in, with the crackling snapping tinsel twirling on a shish-ka-bob skewer, and hauled the tree onto the porch…..and then....Ta! Dah! Years of mardis gras beads dangle from her fronds, and tethered there, like winter wind chimes….our ornaments…..plaster molds of little hands, kindergarten pictures in macaroni frames, my Mama’s glass church…..ballet slippers, an American flag from Desert Storm, a slice from the trunk of my very ever first Christmas tree….coasters from the corner bar…the cork from "that" bottle of pink champagne...

It felt like Christmas today, so I stayed in my pajamas and sock feet and blasted CD’s and smiled. I emptied the Ho!Ho! Closet onto the hall floor and giggled. I wrapped and wrapped and wrapped. Laughing out loud in my empty house. The tradition continues, and like love, it grows…..

Pass the trash….

Shopping in my cupboards, my closets, my kitchen garbage can……

Peace, love, and here's my phone number.....

I had just gotten off the bus, my patrol belt, neon orange, wound into a wad in my right hand, and my denim notebook covered in blue inked grafitti (And a book cover because it was private school) tucked under my left arm, when he threw it out the window. The tiny football of blue lined paper thunked me on the head and pelted out into the road. The exhaust fumes from the bus camoflauged it, and then the next 17 cars whisped it flying, invisible quarterback at work. The love letter.

I opened it carefully. I wasn't crazy about this kid. In fact, I barely knew him. But his words were inked so carefully, so thoughtfully, and, well, who was I to read it carelessly? His heart, tossed out a moving window. Gangly legs flying, I wadded it up in a ball and hid it in my room...I never responded, in fact never looked him in the eyes again, and no, I didn't dial the number laboriously etched at the bottom. I hope he forgives me. Richard Hill.

I learned to write love letters well into late life. I wrote them to lovers, strangers, voices on the other end of the phone. And I wrote them well, but it was years before I ever recieved a love letter the likes of the one from Richard Hill.

He left one here. Propped up against a temple of all our keepsakes on the porch. I tore the envelope open and sped-read the words. "Chicken F'n Noodle Soup!" I belted. Stomping in circles, flailing the card. I showered and stewed, and put on my make up, made my mind up to never respond, when he showed up all gangly, skinny legs and arms smiling, "Wanna sit on the deck and have a beer?" "Are you kiddin' me?"

But we did, and he was devasted, his first and only love letter penned at 43, trashed and lonely on my kitchen table...."Save the last dance for me" he cliched at the end.....

And I was apalled,

that was apparent

and we clinked to even my

dismay because he's like

that and knows that

he doesn't know

what I'll

do

next

but the last dance

is the last chance

and i wasn't about to trade it

for prose.....

or promises

The crash

She knows. I’m floating, dreaming, basking in the quiet. I forget that lawn mowers, power drills, kid’s riding three-wheelers up plywood ramps, are screaming into my quiet. I block them out. In my world, I hear the fat-bellied-bumble bee at the all-you-can-eat, slurping down the jasmine….the moth in her nightgown taking out the trash….the wind... talking sign language.... hands moving furiously through the trees…..

But, Georgia hears them.

From miles and miles away.

Hears them put on their suits and load their gear. Climb into the truck, Flip the switch.

And she bellows, the most pathetic heart wrenching howl.

She crouches on the deck and cries, neck stretched mannequin-tight to the sky, and belts out…..
The saddest opera.

And then I know.

It’s bad.

It’s not a ticket-taker chasing a 16 year old taking the car to the store for bread.

It’s bad.

My heart stops.
My child, it could be my child.

I crank my car everyday.
I never hear it turn over, lunge with life.
I hear the Rolling Stones.
Or Led.
Or Janis.
Or whoever will get me through the day.
But I can’t hear that,
The siren song.

I drive on…..

I crossed the bridge today. The very bridge I’ve dreamed about tearing down. Swimming under. Climbing over. The very bridge I pass everyday, music blasting, barely rolling. Parked in the early morning traffic, I was at the top of the ferris wheel and could see it all. The end of the world.

Thank God, the music was blaring…..
Or I might have bellowed….
Neck stretched mannequin-tight to the sky……
and howled...

Pray, people, pray….