My lower and middle back is stiff and achy, and my ribs feel as if they’re about to split apart. Even though the chiropractor is working on my back, along with my slightly misaligned hips, I feel as if I’ve inhabited someone else’s body. The skin on my back has sprouted something akin to acne*, which I’ve never had to deal with as an adult, except for the occasional pimple or two on my face when I get my period. I have to wear a pantiliner every day, because sometimes when I sneeze or cough or laugh, a bit of pee leaks out. Continue reading “Maternal Metamorphosis”
About 3 or 4 years ago, I stumbled onto an Old Navy dark blue denim jacket. It had been abandoned in a lost and found pile at Cattlelacs in Manchaca, Texas, where Doug Moreland hosted a weekly music jam. Doug was de-cluttering, and if I hadn’t taken the jacket, it would have been thrown out or donated. It fit perfectly—tailored but not too snug, with enough room to wear a light sweater underneath. It was meant for me, and it became a vital part of my wardrobe.
I wore it all over Austin and the surrounding Hill Country, to West Texas, to Los Angeles and the Bay Area, to Santa Fe, and to Mexico. I wore it with jeans and skirts. I wore it to casual places and fancy places. I loved the copper-toned snap buttons and the two little breast pockets. The way the bottom flared out with a hint of Victorian style.
“Every gun makes its own tune.”
— Blondie, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
“Ross” (*see disclaimer at the end) had almost been hunted down in an old hotel in Jerusalem, drank beer with a midget in Berlin, and slept on the deck of a boat on the way to Crete. He’d traveled the entirety of Route 66 and taken photos of every ghost motel and café. He nearly moved to Mexico to marry a girl. He owned an assortment of World War I rifles and vintage handguns. He’d read everything and met everyone.
(Warning: Do not read this if you have an aversion to loose, dead hair. There are graphic images.)
Every morning before I take a shower, I comb out all the loose hair on my head, as I lean over the bathroom sink, to make sure it doesn’t make a mess on the floor. I have somewhat thick and wavy hair – and I have a lot of hair. Currently, it’s just past my shoulders, so a single hair pulled straight is anywhere from six to eight inches long.
I’ve been writing since I was a little kid. That might sound cute, but I wrote because I was a lonely child with a bad case of anxiety and shyness and only one or two friends at a time, sometimes none. Or at least, that’s how it felt. I was convinced I’d be alone for the rest of my life, growing up to be a lonesome spinster with long white hair and only a garden to keep her company. Sometimes, I still feel that way.