Spores of malcontent.
My brain plays calming tunes, a defense mechanism, I suspect. Behind
docile rythmes, a whisper catches my better senses. "You have seen this before", it beckons.
Indeed I have.
I wait in silence for another revolution. Perhaps I will escape it, if only I keep listening to the music, but my instinct to join in the festivities may prove too strong.
Time will tell. He is a sneaky one, time. I keep one eye on him. Lest he attempts to dupe me again. He is not to be trusted.
The player in me wants to scream advice, but the observer in me demands silence.
And so for now, I wait.
Time eludes me. Nothing new there. It always has.
It sets me up for the general understanding that it will keep moving, regardless of whether or not i choose to keep up. I get distracted, you see. By shining objects or pretty colors.
By words. I am easy prey for words. They take me captive at times, throw hours and days into what seems only seconds, minutes at best. My head wraps around them, reliving them until the moment I realize that slippery concept of time is several blocks up now. And ive been dawdling at a store window. Sure i got some great outfit ideas, some new shoes to dream about, but what did i miss while time was weaving thru the crowds?
What windows will I miss now that i have to run to catch up?
Time, space, reality. These are things I know only of in textbook form. They exist, im sure of it, but the deatails of that existance are not aligned with my own perceptions.
It isn't really a complaint, just another mild observation that hit me as i sipped my vodka ladden drink. I threw in some fruit too. A mock-Sangria. Plus, I'll get some vitamins while my liver deteriorates.
Maybe I dawdle too much. But I don't think so. Id like to think I dawdle just enough, or maybe, even, not quite enough. But too much? Such a thing seems silly. Like being told you've been looking too long at one particular piece of art.
I don't mean at all that time escapes me as in the hours and days slip by too quickly. THAT concept of time i get. 60 minutes makes an hour, 24 hours make a day, 7 days make a week...on and on.
I mean more that I find myself drifting backwards. Or sideways, even.
My cat is seeking attention, chewing at papers around the house as he knows it drives me crazy, makes me look up from my musings to call his name. He'll play cute, but then when i go back to my typing, he continues.
I kept this around, just in case. The blog, I mean, not my cat. Because every now and again I fall back to my writing. When the painting I took up as a substitute doesn't quite silence the buzzing of my thoughts, and i know it isn't going to go anywhere until I subdue it with it's preferred method of expression. Until then, it will not be satiated.
When i was much younger than I am now, just a child, I used to always be on the run. And actually, that applies to more of my life than just my youth. But for the purpose of this memory, i was a child. My mother would lose track of me frequently. One blink and i was gone, not even time to see the blur. Up in a tree, or running down the street with my clothes already off. I don't remember exactly what was always catching my eye, but I imaggine that the way i ran then is not all that dissimilar from how time runs from me now.
Maybe that is what I was chasing after.
Maybe time prefers to be naked too.
The Universe has its way, strangely and beautifully, of occupying time when plans would otherwise bring me here to rant and rave and fill these lineless pages of internet void with the updates of my newly founded knowledge and often perplexing experiences.
I send this out only to assure those who ask that I am indeed well and good. Im simply taking my time on this laugh riot of a rollercoaster.
But I continue to evolve. I morph and contort and amend myself to the circumstances of will. And with each mountain that I must climb, I see yet another but am not perturbed. I take these in with curiousity and determination.
After all, Ive not fallen yet. Slipped, perhaps. Muddied my jeans and scraped my knees, but not since my long lost teen years have I allowed myself to fall. And even then, it was with precise intention of having then the opportunity to rise that I ever did so.
But that was then, And I am now. And Ive carried with me since that time the understanding of my ability to soar higher and higher without out ever needing to touch the ground.
So take a deep sigh of relief, oh friends of mine.
Im enjoying my playtime here in the rockies, and have many friends made with the stars and winds which circle my every endeavor.
I am, after all, within the safest hands of all. The hands of that magically ever changing and ever well organized Universe that is ours.
And there is a hornet after my Vanilla coffee. It hovers just a few inches from my face, but seems unphased by the size of the creature in front of it. And now I must take this pesky creature outside before Vogue comes out, sees it, freaks, and destroys it.
I tell her, "Just get me. Ill take care of it for you." Better that I capture the spiders and wasps than she does. But in her panic, she does not always think to call for me.
My only hope to save them is to get to them before she does.
Today I am on the schedual for an "Ionic Foot Bath". I haven't a clue what it is. Other than that it is a bath for the feet that may or may not contain ions...
Im told it is used for cleansing the body of impurities. And I wonder, if my body is cleaned of all its precious impurities, what will be left of me?
I saw my first bear the other night. This trip has become a haven for "firsts". It came right up to the front door while I sat at the kitchen table talking on the phone. I thought at first it was a neighbor dog, one I had not yet seen. A very large, fluffy, neighborhood dog.
But as my eyes adjusted to the dark I realized it was a mid sized brown bear. Not quite a baby, not nearly an adult. I cut off the other half of the phone mid story as I jumped to my feet and filled the house with a shriek of excitement at the very first bear I had ever seen outside of those depressing zoo settings.Vogue came running down the stairs then, and the dogs followed with their hair raised, catching on now to the chaos taking place just outside the door.
But in her frantic pounding down the stairs, and the dogs fierce howls of territorial display, it turned itself around and waddled down the porch stairs. I began to open the door- just a crack, mind you- to get a clearer view of the pudgy little critter now half way down the driveway.
But Vogue slammed it shut, yelling at me to stay away. Well, it hardly looked harmful. Even if it had come charging towards the house, it would never have made it to me before I got inside and shut the door behind me, I reasoned.
I only wanted to pet its fuzzy head, after all. I mean, Ive got two arms. Surely I dont need them both.
She told me repeatedly not to open that door again. She shook her finger in my face as if I were a naughty child, and her a mother on her last nerve.
"Okay, okay...Chill out" I told her, placating her as I would any irritated parental unit. I then waited for her to go back upstairs before opening the door and stepping out onto the porch for a cigarette. But the bear was long gone by then.
I named it Pudge-Butt McWaddles and I hope to catch it one more time before it fades into hibernation for the winter.
I thank you, Colorado, for giving me so many things to write home about.
This we did on Sunday, and the dogs, too, accompanied us. We laid out a blanket of the course sand and she played with her tarot cards while i searched the rocks for colors which entranced me.
The sound of the water put my mind at ease and I waited patiently while she gave me a reading on my past present and future, according to the box of cards.
It assured me that my visual nature was indeed a plus. That now was the time to kick up my heels and celebrate, and that I should not be worring myself with a timeline of growth, my evolution would come in time.
"Huh", was all i could think to respond to such a thing.
It had in fact answered my question. Perhaps only slightly more accurate than if i were to thumb through a dictionary and point randomly to words while posing to myself questions that plagued me.
But I promised myself on this trip that my mind would be closed to nothing. As detatched from the use of tarot cards and crystals as I may be, they are there none the less, and heavy within the mind of my Vogue. And frankly, Ive nothing against crystals.
It's all mind over matter, this I believe firmly.
Each stroll down the street, or hike through Vallecito brings me home with pockets full of rocks. Always slightly dissapointed in the vibrancy of colors that seems to fade once removed from water, I gather them together in a bowl and keep them wet so as each day brings for me an explosion of unreal shades.
I catered a wedding party this weekend. Vogue passed the job of bartender off to me, which pleased me greatly. People do so adore the individuals who brings them alcohol. And with my constant rounds, there was not a dry glass in the house.
I was given ridiculous tips just for keeping the glasses full. An older gentleman by the name of Alan took to me right away. The older gents usually do.
He assured me that my freckles were not only beautiful within themself, but an irish badge of honor and strength.
I thanked him, as beliefs such as that are a dying breed. But freckles are no badge of honor, I thought, it is wrinkles and grey hair that speaks of such things. Freckles just...are.
Winter approaches, I can feel it in the air. It taunts my poor Vogue, whose heart grows with sun and not shade.
She confessed to me that the Colorado winters bring much bitterness for her. And I assured her, that with my love for snow and cold, and hers for sun and heat, our moods would bind together to form a peaceful balance.
There will be allowed no such disruption of peaceful snow covered lands with bitter revelries for long lost summer. It will, after all, come again. Just after Spring, as it does every year.
But she will hear nothing of my musings for snow capped mountains. She remains in a silent denial that Summer is gone, that we are no longer in sunny southern California.
I, on the other hand, dance to the moonlight in anticipation of those beautiful crystals of falling ice.
The same women, I imagine, that chooses to birth more than one child.
Its madness, I tell you.
While my days here are never dull, with my Vogue nearly always within arms reach, I do find myself missing my east coast. I promise a trip to NYC for my dear Vogue. She will love it, I know. And NYC will love her.
A true mafia buff, she will have me taking her on tours of where the NY Boss' spent their days. She demands musicals as well. As she does Tiffany's, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton....
It comes to me every now again, this sadness for my lost city. It creeps on me as I lay in bed, or while reading a book that takes place on familiar streets. It comes to me with the sight of soft pretzels, with the scent of roasted nuts, with every pause at pricey shop windows. And it sinks down to the core of me with every snow fall. The longing intensified by the nagging feeling that there is little chance Ill find myself living there again.
And people continue to ask why, if I love it so, I choose not to return.
Brooklyn and Manhattan were noble and generous lovers for years. But time and circumstance drew us apart, as time and circumstance tend to do. Nothing is written in stone, nothing in life is. But when I think back, fondly, to my dear, dear city, I remind myself that I had great love there. I had it. And no matter where this world takes me, it cannot never remove that fact.
I existed in NYC, and NYC continues to exist in me.
Reasons of more depth are between me and my city. I do not kiss and tell.
This simple Colorado life is not unpleasant for me. I find myself quite at peace here, in fact. Waking every morning to a beautiful woman laying next to you is never a bad thing for the spirit.
But I know that if not for Vogue, Id not have found myself here. There is something truly disturbing about living in a town where everyone knows everyone else's name and business.
I am silent and anonymous by my nature, and such things do not suit me.
I saw my first true cowboy the other day. Lasso and all! Ruggedly handsome and chivalrous with the tipping of his hat, he was herding a flock of sheep down the main road in Bayfield. There I was, trapped in the car, layers of sheep on both sides of me.
They baa if you baa, Vogue showed me. I could not understand what in the world these cowboys were doing, marching hundreds of sheep over 50 miles. Is this not 2008?, I asked Vogue. Can they not truck them?
No, the cowboy life requires that they do this march, and spend their nights in the open fields that are designated to them for rest. Twice a year, they do this. And twice a year, for several days, the people of Bayfield get stuck in a herd of sheep on the only main road in this town.
I flashed a courteous smile to my mother who, in her infinitely maternal martyrdom had forgone her own good morning cup of decaf for my necessity of regular in an effort to pump me full of enough caffeine to get me coherent and functional and on my way to Phase Two of my "plan"; Operation Cowboy.
I jumped in the shower and pondered to myself as I lathered what in the world had compelled me to pick up my beloved east coast life and head across the country to reside in Bayfield, Colorado, of all places.
I then reminded myself that this all had something to do with the reevaluation of existence. I chose for my companion on this wayward journey one of the few people in the this world to know all the darkest secrets of said existence and STILL invite me to live with her for the next 6 months.
Pulling out of the driveway, Ricky Nelson sang great praises to his sweet Mary Lou, and the hot breeze outside my window carried blossoms of those dearly missed crepe myrtles.
The flight attendants on my flight were, I can only guess, sniffing glue in the back of the plane. Which might explain them blasting YMCA and offering free drinks to anyone willing to dance down the aisle.
Sorry intoxicated airplane workers, this woman doesnt dance to drink. She does, however, drink to dance, on occasion.
My gorgeous partner in crime, my Vogue, met me at baggage claim. From the moment my plane landed I was bombarded with text messages inquiring as to my position. I replied, sadly, that while in a layover in Vegas, I had decided to stay there and try my luck as a showgirl.
I don't think she bought it. She did, however, tell me I would wear the tassels well. I'd much rather see her in tassels. But I thank her, all the same.
Emerging from a thin hallways in one of those rare travel warps where everyone is going only one way, I could see her pacing back and forth. But they had in this airport the kind of gynormous revolving doors that always make me pause at their opening. I have visions of being sliced in two if my steps are not timed correctly. I let it spin around a few time and waited for it to be all mine so I could hesitantly and frantically swing through and embrace my love standing just a few feet away.
We had a roadtrip teaser, with 3 1/2 hours of driving thru New Mexico to Colorado. My window gazing greeted me with rocks such colors Ive never known. These rocks of flame called out to the fire lover in me. They captured my heart with their colors, and I happily burned with them.
Then suddenly, the rock turned to forest. Deer, horses, and hawks emerged. The air smelled of wild flowers. And something was missing....Smog.
Id somehow become accustomed to it again during my time in LA.
There was champagne to drink upon our evening arrival. Melrose place and 90210 to occupy our tired hours. The kind of laughter that brings unstoppable tears has consumed these days of mine. And the hours seem shorter here, somehow.
Ive seen many cowboy boots, but surprisingly few massive belt buckles. I imagine this will be amended, however, when we enter the Billy Goat Bar in Bayfield.
My dear Vogue informed me that I was not to feel as if I had to dance, were I asked to. Slightly offended, I told her, "Just who do you think I am? I'm a New Yorker at heart, after all. No one makes me two step!"
Well, maybe Danny Nucci could. But then, that goes without saying.
I lazily fill out my applications and wait to hear if I will be bartending or waitressing in these coming months.
I spend my unemployed hours reading in her spa's waiting room, taking awe-inspiring hikes through thick forests, driving around the 4 blocks that make up this town, and meeting all the people who Im apparently supposed to remember.
There is always so much gossip in these kinds of towns. It makes me glad I never grew up in a small town. But rather, I emerge into this place as Vogue's "New Yorker". As if the Yankee hat I always have on isn't a dead giveaway, or the seemingly random accent that occasionally appears out of nowhere when I say words such as "coffee" and "door".
Each individual I meet comes with a story once they have departed. His wife left him, she's a total drunk, their mother just died...on and on.
Being the roommate of the town spa's owner, Im privy to all sorts of interesting tidbits. I may not like gossip, but I do enjoy stories.
There was a car theft here the other day, for example. The car was somehow moved without the use of keys or hot wiring from a shopping mall parking lot and moved, oddly, just a few blocks away to the bank.
The mystery intrigued locals for days until it was discovered that an angry individual had moved the car with a forklift because her place of business was in that shopping area, and she simply felt she had every right to control the cars which remained parked there after business hours.
There is a disturbing fact about this small town I cannot quiet let go of. No one locks their doors. Not just their house doors either, mind you, but their car doors. Vogue leaves her keys either on her dashboard or in the ignition. Every time. In my distrust, I grab them on our way out and stick them in my pocket.
Perhaps if the car theft victim had left her keys in the car as Vogue does, the stolen car would not have had to risk damage via the use of forklifts.
Vogue hooked me up with a free massage last week. The second I've ever had. The very first, in Brooklyn, did not end well for me. In fact, where it ended was with my head looming over a toilet bowl. No one told me that it was water I should be consuming afterwards, not beer.
It stirs up all those toxins, you see. And adding more to it is just, well...stupid. Now I know.
Ive also been threatened with a leg waxing. This does not please me. But Im sensing it is inevitable. I sense this, you see, because that is exactly what Vogue has told me.
It seems that I have no say, once I enter this spa, in the things that will be done to my body. Lash tints, I also hear, are on their way. Why people would dye their lashes is beyond me. Why women do any of the baffling masochistic things they do in the name of beauty is beyond me.
Except torturous heels, obviously. I mean, that's just common sense.
But then, I certainly did enjoy gazing at those fabulous models that roamed the streets wild in Manhattan. Seeing as I so enjoy the end product, I should perhaps not mock the process.
Better them than me, is all I can think to say.