Travels with Trulia

Trulia is my travel agent of emotional escapes and several times a week I am a voyeur into other people’s lives. There are several settings to consider before I go on my trip: price, location, amount of bedrooms and bathrooms, acreage, and one that I always take seriously which is fireplaces. Once I have made my selection, I begin my voyage. I prefer houses that range in price from 10 to 20 million with at least seven bedrooms because then I have a lot to manage. It’s important to have staff rooms as well. Yesterday I transported myself into a mansion in Pebble Beach, California. The rooms were large and had heavily ornate little metal crosses on the walls and enormous arrangements of dried flowers in dark, muted colors like vampire rooms.There was a dining room with a stand in the corner for reading the Bible and at least three kitchens spread throughout the house. My very favorite room, however, gave me the inspiration that I had been looking for. The master bedroom. There was an enormous bed with a headboard covered in powder and silk and a duvet also covered in the same silk spread over the feet. The nightstands consisted of pieces of glass balance upon carved gold wood made to look like unicorns who are slightly crazed. There, above the fireplace, was a portrait of the mistress of the house and when I saw the portrait I knew I had found my true self. She was blonde with babe hair that hung to her waist and was thick and wavy.She wore a black knit dress, unbuttoned, and a black lace bra under that. The black dress clung to her curves and she was leaning forward with both hands holding onto a couch breasts pressed forward as if to say I’ve got you in the palm of my hand. She was a dame. She was a slut. She was in control. There was no question that this was her House. Oh! How I wanted to be her! Powerful! Sexy! Men falling at her feet! She probably had a gun underneath that black dress. She never suffered from loneliness or despair or depression or anxiety. No way Jose. She just lived in this giant house and swished around the hallways in her black dress and bossed people, Particularly men. It was really hard to leave that Trulia house.I figured if I stayed long enough staring at those photos I would end out being just like her.Fearless and powerful and as a woman who had never been victimized.

In the Desert You Can’t Remember Your Pain

 

In the December desert near the crepuscular 

hour many people experience subtle, ocular

change. Sometimes these changes are

permanent. Saguaros (Te 

quiero) can begin to move

and appear to challenge with their arms

the delicate prickly pear while the Feather

cactus plays, “catch a falling Star“. It is, however,

the Christmas cactus that interests me: 

blooming blood red pink like a baby‘s lips exactly at the

time they say we had a virgin birth.

Who will tell it to bloom now that we have lost faith:

a world divided, no party lines, no Avon lady, no 

agreement  not to kill each other?

 

 

 

The Neighbor

The Neighbor

Each morning the dogs walk her down Chestnut Street.

Past Taylor’s house, empty lot, red mower for sale($95.00) ,

Mrs. Alonzo’s dead flower bed, and she’s got makeup on and

clothes that are good because it’s time to wear the good clothes.

There’s Bob with the two white poodles prancing and Bob prancing

because he can when he’s out of the house.

She always stops at the empty lot, stares at the two abandoned rattan

chairs and wants to slip into one, take a breath from dancing all night,

sip the last of her champagne.

She still hears music.

Remembering Isadora Duncan

I asked for a womb with

a view.

Just a small picture window

to see what was coming.

Even then I wanted

to be prepared.

I think about routes before

I take them,

Conversations

before I have them

and life before I

live it.

Even the garden

Is not spared from prediction

As all I do is prune and refuse

to replant.

They think I dance for myself

But all I do is planned.

Adoption

                                                                  Adoption

I remember when I was young and beautiful but at the time

I thought I was fat and boring. Maybe my mirrors were bad or

my astigmatism was uncorrected.

Now I think I am bewildered about what I did in my life

and why I stayed where I stayed.

I have written to the British royal family and asked them to consider

adopting me. I think I would be a good addition as I know how to dress

and have beautiful table manners and I really feel comfortable with a strict schedule.

I would know instinctively how to back out of a room, and how to occupy

myself during the daytime hours.

I would certainly never embarrass anyone and I like the idea of knowing

what was going to happen for the next 7000 days.

I love dogs so I would fit right in.

I look good in riding clothes even though I am 70 but the horse

always knows I am afraid  of him.

I don’t think it’s a lot to ask of the royal family because they need help

and so do I. It’s a very equitable solution for all. I don’t need a title

though  I would like a crown. I like the idea of living in a house

with many other people who have no idea how many people are actually living

In the house. It’s the idea of all those bodies there that brings comfort

and the prescribed nature of life which is soothing.

Parking lot debris

I have a friend who manages a parking lot outside a large office building. The other day she told me that there were no longer many condoms found in the lot but there were many dental picks. I’m not sure if this is good or bad and I guess it depends on your point of view. Good to take care of your teeth but bad to miss out on passion.

My dream come true :my poetry book has found a publisher!

Dear Lucinda,

We would be honored to publish The Favorite.  It’s wonderful.  In fact, it’s so wonderful that I hope you collect a dozen offers to publish and choose the one which will win you a hundred thousand fans, and make you become required reading for poetry classes and Road Scholars across the country.  Actually, that’s a half truth.  We’d be happy if it happened, but we hope you’ll come straight to us despite the likelihood that you could find a larger press with more sophisticated ways of getting the word out.  It’s not often that we find a poet who can make us laugh, wince, laugh again, and float meditatively into the bluest sky Missouri offers.  I’m still floating.

I’ll send a copy of our standard contract to you as soon as you respond.

Betsy

     

Our Front Hall

Our Front Hall

Our front hall had a very tall grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs keeping watch over the household. No one could wind it but my father and the clock defined the nights in regular chimes reaching everyone’s ears in everyone’s bedroom.There was a front hall table made of lustrous mahogany where mail and packages were placed daily.The legs of the table looked like a young girl with four legs curtseying all at once. I know because I spent a lot of time under there waiting for God knows what. My favorite part however In this wonderful area of our house was the front hall closet which no one could put anything in except for my father. It was his personal closet for his overcoat and his hats and his umbrellas and his galoshes. I don’t remember hearing we weren’t supposed to go in the closet so I went in the closet quite a bit. There was a shelf the hats were on that had a thumbtacked piece of decorative ribbon that was ruched: something I had never seen before. I took some delight in pulling a piece of it off and seeing what it felt like. My father had four or five coats in there and most of the coats were some range of the color gray. There were cashmere coats, and wool coats, and cotton coats, and canvas coats. The coats had a big life and seemed to go out a lot. Sometimes alone, and sometimes in pairs the coats went out in the world: across oceans and in airplanes, office buildings, and houses not ours, down inside boats, outside on sidewalks. They always came back home slightly different than when they had left. I knew this because when I went in the closet I would stand up inside each coat starting with my head going into the bottom because they were buttoned up, you see, and I would shimmy myself up to usually just the lowest button because my father was very tall and I was still short. I would stand there and breathe in the outside world imagining where he had been and who he had seen and the smell of old Spice would anesthetize me against the real world. In the closet I created whatever I wanted sometimes for hours. No one ever looked for me. I stood so still inside a coat I became a part of its life.