Her hair fell like maple leaves in autumn when she released the clip. It brushed across the arm of the young man sitting next to her. He forgot the brass band and the place he had gone to behind closed eyes, and turned to her.
She didn't know why it worked. A rehearsed glance or a soft hip jutted while standing at the bar and the room owed her attention. She parted her lips. The nervous stammer sat on her tongue.
The piano lulled the saxophonist. The boy in rolled up sleeves led the girl with tattoos onto the dance floor. He slid his hand under her waist length hair and pressed his thumb into the small of her back.
The music and the weight of his arm resting on her hip summoned the memory of a Louisiana bar, and dancing tippy toe on a wood plank porch in the arms of a man whose name she left on a napkin at the bar.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Uncovering Crystal
There are many things I've done in life that most people would hide. I've never believed that my life turned out better or worse because of the road I took as a teen. Three years ago, I took a pickaxe to the lock on the cover that held the pages of my life. I looked over my life as I would a friend's. Holding myself accountable, accepting myself, and giving myself the admiration that I should have long ago, has freed me from years of self doubt. I am a strong woman. I have much to give. And I want to share it with you.
My alter ego exhibits no fear. I wonder if she even knows it exists.
Ten years ago I passed by New Orleans. There was this little bar that lit up on the weekends like lightening bugs in July. Conversation was loud, half the time filled with profanities and insults tossed in jest.
These two cats were playing acoustic guitars this one night. The old man in the stained Sunday shirt thumped his guitar while the younger man's voice melted into the smoke.
In between songs, the singer would reach up and tug on his short beard, probably some habit he started because he thought it made him look intriguing. This one time I caught his eye. He didn't smile at first, just nodded, acknowledging my presence. So I waited until 'Sugar Mama' poured off his lips before I walked onto the dance floor.
Anyway you look at it, it is performing; because it is never me. On the stage I hide behind routines and makeup and on the dance floor, my alter ego takes over. She is confident. She has this way of making people want to be with her, lean into her, want to be close to her. And me? I do well to look people in the eye and speak without stumbling over my words.
I like to converse without speaking. And that is what happened that night. He stopped singing, just played his guitar while I danced. The couples moved to the edge of the dance floor and the lone inebriated lady finally gave up and left too. It was his guitar and me and we controlled that room. When that smile moved his lips I knew that he knew.
I caught a glimpse of her that night in a mirror. Underneath the red Budweiser paint this chick stared back at me, sweaty hair, eyes rushing like a summer crick. She winked at me.
That part of me has no fear. I want to draw her out but she stays far away. Waiting for smoke filled bars with little lights that flicker like the lightening bugs in July.
My alter ego exhibits no fear. I wonder if she even knows it exists.
Ten years ago I passed by New Orleans. There was this little bar that lit up on the weekends like lightening bugs in July. Conversation was loud, half the time filled with profanities and insults tossed in jest.
These two cats were playing acoustic guitars this one night. The old man in the stained Sunday shirt thumped his guitar while the younger man's voice melted into the smoke.
In between songs, the singer would reach up and tug on his short beard, probably some habit he started because he thought it made him look intriguing. This one time I caught his eye. He didn't smile at first, just nodded, acknowledging my presence. So I waited until 'Sugar Mama' poured off his lips before I walked onto the dance floor.
Anyway you look at it, it is performing; because it is never me. On the stage I hide behind routines and makeup and on the dance floor, my alter ego takes over. She is confident. She has this way of making people want to be with her, lean into her, want to be close to her. And me? I do well to look people in the eye and speak without stumbling over my words.
I like to converse without speaking. And that is what happened that night. He stopped singing, just played his guitar while I danced. The couples moved to the edge of the dance floor and the lone inebriated lady finally gave up and left too. It was his guitar and me and we controlled that room. When that smile moved his lips I knew that he knew.
I caught a glimpse of her that night in a mirror. Underneath the red Budweiser paint this chick stared back at me, sweaty hair, eyes rushing like a summer crick. She winked at me.
That part of me has no fear. I want to draw her out but she stays far away. Waiting for smoke filled bars with little lights that flicker like the lightening bugs in July.
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