Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I Dreamt of Van Gogh

*Thought I'd try a 3 Word Wednesday. The words are: engulf, tamper, and imminent. :)

Paint brush streaks across the desert terrain whisper softly. Hues of green and brown with splashes of purple and red draw my eye and engulf me in serenity. It's artist porn. The wind catches in my hair. Sunlight beaming as if to say, "Hey, I know you." The mountains stand proud and welcoming with trees like dancing arms to scoop me up in a hug.


It's peaceful here.


So much is chaos now. Thoughts are a jumbled mess inside my brain--imminent trouble on my horizon. But the day burns bright and warms the chill in my bones. For a moment I forget. I forget the stress. I forget the divorce. I forget the words. For a moment I'm just a girl with sunlight warming her face. I'm a simple creature with a sketch pad and coffee watching shadows morph into spiderwebs and crawl across the street.


The street's alive with creatures rushing about their day. Shoppers stopping to say "Hello," "Oh how pretty!," stopping by to try on necklaces. They shuffle their bags and comment on the weather. They beam as if the sun had worked it's way inside them and their eyes are stained glass windows.


They become a mosaic to me--a wash of living glass in red and amber and white. They are tanned skin and turquoise flowing over the old brick streets of Las Cruces. Potted plants and ancient trees line the middle of the street. Children laugh and dash barefoot past my booth. A beautiful little boy with onyx hair and sienna eyes chases a fairy princess in a frilly dress with dirty feet. Her Tinkerbell anklet twinkles in the morning sun. Yellow ribbons flow behind her as she shrieks with glee and evades his grasp.


It's Market Day.






I settle back and think of new jewelry designs, new materials. I sketch and think. Take a sip of coffee. My mind wanders as it's prone to do. I see a lady in a blue skirt. The kind the old Mexican lady's wear. I saw that shade of blue once before. I saw it on a slide of Starry Night. I remember the off color yellow flicker of the projector's light bulb. The instructor speaking with reverence, "Van Gogh saw with his heart. And his heart bled color."


I never really liked Van Gogh. His brushstrokes were primitive, brutal, to harsh to be impressionist. I thought he was a crazy man who cut off his ear. But that was before I knew him. Before I met him in an amber field ablaze with wheat and orange and cadmium red blurring into a river of joy. He smiled at me, an old man with kind blue eyes. Hands too big for his arms and a voice as soft as winter snow, he spoke of all the things within him.






His words rushed out in a stream of cotton. He explained why art should not be tampered with, how expression burns from within and comes screaming out. I listened. I wept. I looked at the honeyed sky and saw frantic brush strokes. I looked at the wheat beneath my feet and saw truth. I looked at Van and held out my hand--one artist to another. But he was gone and it was just a dream.


I blinked and looked at the lady standing at my booth, "How much is this?" I smiled and glanced around her. The other woman with the Van Gogh blue skirt had disappeared. "40 dollars," I say to woman holding my necklace. The Labrodorite beads burn a cool green fire, softened by an antique brass chain. She smiles and says, "I'll take it." I smile back to her and box it up.


It's Market Day; the sun is blinding. Somewhere in the distance Van Gogh is painting heated brush strokes across the sky.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Strut

"Hey Baby"
She purrs
A cock-sure strut
It's so easy


A fine way to
Pass the time
Men come
And men go

Seldom linger
Hour by hour
Why get attached?
When goodbye comes so soon?

Skirt hiked up to there
They think she's easy
Fair game to touch and pander
Think she'll give them a thrill


But it's just a game
A chase
Who will pounce first?
Will she walk away?


Or go for the kill?
Say she's beautiful
Spin the line
Smile like a snake


Watch her pat your face
See her wink and lick her lips
A fox in woman's skin
Too smart to fall...


I posted this on Facebook. It got stuck in my head. Then came the poem. Somewhere a shrink is looking for me. :D



Then this came to mind:



And this:



My mind is a scary place. :p

Saturday, September 25, 2010

What Else?

There's a kind of loneliness stalking me
It settles in bones
Steals my breath away


I could give in
Let rule me
Take me down with unseen weapons


Or I could tell it
To piss off, bury deep
And pretend I don't feel it


It's not so bad when the sun is high
And the sound of my boys
Distracts me


Tougher to fend off
At night when it's quiet
When the long shadows fall

And my bed is cold
No man to warm my skin
To fill the space within...


What's a girl to do?
But lay back in the stillness of my mind
And listen to some tunes


:)














Friday, September 24, 2010

Friday Flash

"Did you read my Friday Flash?"


I smiled at him, "Of course. As if I'd miss one? It's been awhile since you wrote one. I think you should write more."


"Humph," he scoffed, then looked at me tentatively, "Did it upset you?"


My mouth quirked a bit, "No. Should it have?"


"Well, no...I just thought..."


I laughed at the uncomfortable expression on his face. "Am I the dead girl in your tale, Sweetie?"


He paled visibly. "No! Absolutely not." The words rushed heatedly from his lips and I walked up to his chair. My eyes narrowed on his handsome face, his silver hair catching in the soft glow of the lamp light. "Baby...am I the dead girl with worms oozing from her skin, perched on your couch, asking you for a kiss?"


He chuckled then, "No. Not you, Kitten. Never you."


I leaned over the back of his chair, my hair softly brushing his shoulder, my breath on his ear. I kissed his jawline and whispered soothingly, "Then why doesn't anyone else see me?"


Tunes for no particular reason:



Thursday, September 16, 2010

Miss Sella Don't Know Much



Miss Sella don't know much, but she knows Big Momma Thornton. Her gnarled hands shake as she shucks the corn. Trained and calloused finger tips strip out the the silk and her wrists fling it in the bin as an New York dancer might flick theirs for effect. She taps her toe and sings out loud. "Rock me baby," she bellows, and I just know Miss Thornton is smiling down from heaven.


Old Miss Sella never graduated high school. She couldn't tell you what half the words in the dictionary mean. But she can figure change in her head every Thursday as she sells her homegrown tomatoes at the square. She can't talk like a lady, but she can love as big and strong as the earth she tills. 


"Ya gonna start on them beans, child? Or are we eating air for supper?" I grin and grab up a handful of green beans. I snap the ends off just like she taught me all those years ago. It's hotter than Hades today, but the clean mountain air makes up for it. And every so often a sweet crisp breeze blows through the mosquito netting and ruffles my hair. "We havin' succotash, Miss Sella?" 


She grins and I see that a few more teeth are missing. "You know it, child." My tummy growls in anticipation, my taste buds burst with the memory of the buttery goodness yet to come. Ain't nobody alive can cook like Miss Sella. "You fixin' to have some fried chicken?" Miss Sella clucked her tongue at me, "Fraid not, youngin'. Got me a nice hunk a ham. Gonna have us a feast with some biscuits, if you ever get them beans ready."


I chuckled and assured her, "I'm a goin', I'm a goin.'" I held up my basket and showed her my progress. She squinted against her cataracts and nodded. "Why ain't you singing? You know how we cook in this house. Or did you forget? Down there in your big city with your big city men, I bet you forgot." 


"Hey now! I ain't forgot, Miss Sella. Honest." I leaned back and started up where she'd left off. Wasn't long till she joined in and we were singing Big Momma Thornton up in the West Virginia mountains. Bees buzzin,' breeze blowin', sun about to bake us half to death--and us crazy women singin' the blues. 


Charles hates it when I come home to check on her. He says I don't talk right for days, sound like a damn hillbilly. Well, I reckon he's right. But there is something about the winding black snake road flanked by bright green grass and cool mountain air that beckons me up this manic rock. First thing I do is kick off my fancy heels and dig my toes into the cool spongy grass. Second thing is to chase down Miss Sella for long needed hug.


I look at Miss Sella and try to picture her in the city, walking through the galleries. I wonder what she'd make of seeing her favorite blues singers splashed across walls and idolized by folks who would have forced them to use colored bathrooms 70 years ago. The world is changing so fast it's hard for old relics like Miss Sella to make sense of it.


I could fill an ocean with the things Miss Sella don't know. 


Her knees pop as she climbs to her feet and hugs the basket of corn to her hip with one hand, leans on her cane with the other. "Let me get that, Miss Sella!" She swats me away with her cane and I remember the precision with which she wields that thing. "I ain't dead yet, youngin.' You wanna help? Bring them beans to the kitchen."


Sunlight fills the kitchen with warmth and joy. I breathe in the fresh lemon scent. She makes her own lemon soap and cleaners. Always has. Sunflower prints line the walls. I remember cutting and framing them for her on the days my mother left me here. Miss Sella loves her sunflowers.


She wraps the honey-spiced ham with foil and shoves in the oven. I don't say a word as she huffs and rights herself. Then she takes a sharp knife and scrapes all the corn off the cob and tosses it in a large pot. Next goes the Lima beans and finally the green beans. She puts some chicken stock in and brings it to a boil. I pour her a glass of iced tea and smile at her as she sits down at the table. 


She squeezes my hand. "Ya know he died, don't ya child?" Her voice is well worn gravel turning under heavy tires. "Yeah...Momma told me." She blinks back some tears and I stare out into the sunlight till my eyes go blind and my vision fills with spots. "He was a bad man. Couldn't see why your Momma married him. Never wanted to you run away like that. If you'd just told me..." 


I blinked and swallowed hard. Miss Sella waved her hands in the air. "No matter. You come home when ya can." I got up and gave her a big hug. Her strong hands ran over my back, expelling demons. Tears spilled over my cheeks. "I'll be home a lot more now, just wait and see." She gave me a tight squeeze and let go. 


I sat back down and she took a hearty gulp of her sweet tea. "Ahh that's the stuff!" We chuckled together and fell into local gossip. Miss Sella might not know much, but she knows what matters most. I sniffed the air. Honey baked ham. Mmmmmm....

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Turn Him Loose



I met you on a Wednesday
Sunlight at your back
Shadow over your face


Tattoo branding your skin
Peel it back
See the sin within


Freedom; something sweet
Suckled from your tongue
But never meant for me


Cry with the crow
Hide in the corn field
Dark prince, fallen angel


You think you're something 
Bigger than you are
A sliver star


Dangling in  an opaque sky
Just a little boy
Cowering under Spiderman sheets


Never be what I need
Never see the truth of me
Best to turn you loose


Rather than swing from your pretty noose
On wicked night
Kiss your smile goodbye




One more Danzig tune...cuz I feel like it. Lol. Dang I love a man with a furry chest. Yum!!!

Monday, September 6, 2010

Labor Day and Jewelry

First off... Happy Labor Day to my fellow Americans. Hope you didn't have to work. :p


Secondly...I have been a jewelry making fool these days. Whew! Think I'm gonna open  a booth at out local farmer's market and craft show. Check it out here.




Anyway...these are not the best pictures, but it'll give you an idea of what I've been up to (when I should be writing. Ugh!).


I totally dig that copper hammered heart. It's purty-full. :)


I miss my camera. My phone camera blows chunks. Sorry!


Then I got a "brilliant" idea to make my own boxes and dress them up to match my jewelry pieces. Why do I complicate everything? lmao!

Looks like a coffin, lol. But pretty in person. 


That's the interior of the heart's box...

Here is the exterior:



Another sample:
Last One:



So...what do you all think? Have I wasted weeks of my life? Now I have to figure out what to sell them for. Suggestions? I used real stones, copper, antique brass, and silver. turns out that I'm a fussy girlie-girl. Lol.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Why Don't You Do Right?




"Just 5 g's, Baby. That's all I need is another 5 g's. I know you got it sweet cheeks. I seen Big Paul hangin' on ya. Everybody knows he's sweet on ya. If you don't got it, you just whisper nice in his ear and he'll give it to ya. Whatd'ya say Baby? You gonna help your fella out?"


I looked at my ruby red nails. same old story. Jimmy'd never change. I knew it then, like I knew the line he'd been feeding me was rancid. He'd never grow up. I stood up and turned my back to him. I left him sitting on the bench. The only sound I made was the clicking echo of my heels on pavement. I was tired of his lies--sick to death of his gambling and cheating. I knew about Denise. Did he think I didn't know?


"Baby! Come back here!" He grabbed my arm and spun me around. He stroked my cheek the way a mother soothes her child, "Baby. I know you're fed up. I know you want the white picket fence and a car load of kiddies. And I'll give em to ya. This is it. My big break, can't you feel it? You lend me the 5 g's and I'll triple it. I'll buy you that rock you want and we'll go swimming in Hawaii just like we said we would. Come on, Baby. Trust me this one last time."


I looked at his earnest face. Sad thing is, he probably believed his own bullshit. I remembered last summer when we laid in bed all day and made love on crisp cotton sheets in warm sunlight. I remembered how he kissed me, how his hands teased and plucked my body like I was a priceless violin. I remembered him coaxing my strings into a fine, hushed melody. My eyes stung with tears and I blinked them back. I vowed to never cry over his sorry ass again.


I leaned in and pressed my soft lips to his. I opened my mouth and lured his tongue inside. I grasped at his shirt and walked him backwards to the bench. He flopped down on it and I straddled his lap. I kissed him deeper, wetter, hotter than I had in ages. I felt him stir between my thighs, heard his moan. I remembered the note I'd left on his pillow back home. I remembered the train ticket in my purse.


I whispered against his yummy lips, "I got the money, Babe. You're right. Paulie is sweet on me. He's been taking real good care of me. That's what a man does." Jimmy started to protest, but I kissed him again. I kissed him deeper, more demanding, tugging on his lips.

He never saw it coming.... till after I had fired.


I stepped away from him, the smoking gun shaking in my hand. I thought of the confession I'd written that morning. Wouldn't be long till the cops found it. I thought of Paulie waiting for me at the station. Jimmy looked up, blood dripping from his side. Eyes wide with shock he touched the wound and looked at me. I aimed straight at his heart. The shot fired smoothly.


He slumped over and I tossed the gun at him. I felt a twinge of remorse, but crushed it quickly. "Sorry Jimmy. Bullets were cheaper. Guess you shoulda asked Denise."