His name was Lee. I think he was about 18 or 19 years old. Hired by my friend Tom Buck to do handyman chores on the ranch. Oh, he was a real cutie....lean, dark haired, wearing tight Levis and a beat up cowboy hat.
He lived in a little trailer somewhere on the ranch, but had his meals in the house with Tom and the rest of us. And he was part of the social circle so was usually always around, all weekend. He'd do some chores, then come in the house and eat, drink, smoke, whatever and go back out.
Saturday night he came out in the living room, having just finished taking a shower, and he was wearing cutoffs...which, in itself, was odd because it was pretty darn cold outside and I was sitting right by the fireplace. The wooden kitchen table was pulled up near the fireplace so I was sittin' comfy. He sat down beside me and opened a beer. I looked down and noticed he had a huge, long scar on his right thigh (which was the one closest to me). So, naturally, I asked him about it.
(Now, you should know that he was a very friendly guy and we had been talking a lot ever since I got there, and I thought he was a real cutie. Also, you should know I'd been drinking some wine and was feeling my oats...or grapes...or whatever. My tongue was a tad loose...just a tad.)
But I didn't just ask him about it. I reached down and traced the scar with my finger...ever so lightly and asked "How on earth did you get that?" He told me....I can't even remember how he got it because running my finger over that smooth, firm, young skin was such a rush, all I could hear was the blood rushing through my hot little veins. After he told me, I reached down and touched it again. This time, though, I also ran my finger over skin that wasn't scarred...nothing too blatant, but I gave him a really sweet smile while I was doing that and saying "Man, I bet that hurt!" My hand was inches away from causing us both a lot of trouble...so I stopped...went back to sippin' wine and dreamin' those dreams.
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
What I wrote - twenty years ago...
...for a creative writing class at Southwest Texas State University
Sublet line: What I wrote
(The prof. gave us 30 minutes to compose...whatever we wanted. I was at a loss...don't like writing in class like that, but....here's what happened.)
Sit down, relax, stretch your fingers, stretch your mind. Reach out with a fearless heart, reach and feel bravado rush through your veins like gold on fire. See through eyes of crystal clarity, see your many visions of dreams now dead; see them once alive, built upon the purity and innocence that lives but briefly in a child.
Ramble in, ramblin' woman. Run with the words, run along with the words like a good shepherd. Watch your thoughts of black and white and prisms of color take shape and form sentences too sacred to share with anyone but your subconscious self. Watch as your mind grabs your thoughts and snatches them and hides them back in a corner so dark even God's light would be dimmed.
Run to, not away from, your clever imaginings of structure and meaning. Give life to the romance in your mind. Fear not the snickers and smirks of those who can't see the shape of a heart rising from a wisp of smoke.
Take your time, at any time, to imagine, to feel, to express on paper what you fear to express aloud because you have to think and dig for the simplest words that will express the complex way you feel; and while digging, the moment to speak passes and you scurry back into your mind-cave, licking your ego wounds, eyes closed, like a cat contentedly licks between it's outstretched toes.
Open, don't shut the gate behind which words lurk and wait for the freedom of your beautiful, creative, twisted, confused, clever, sexual mind to call forth, to whistle for attention.
Hold your hand out and let your higher power gently but firmly take hold of your hand, your mind and guide you, stand beside you while you grace the moments of your days, while you sleep and wake and talk and love and hate and smile and laugh and cry.
Sublet line: What I wrote
(The prof. gave us 30 minutes to compose...whatever we wanted. I was at a loss...don't like writing in class like that, but....here's what happened.)
Sit down, relax, stretch your fingers, stretch your mind. Reach out with a fearless heart, reach and feel bravado rush through your veins like gold on fire. See through eyes of crystal clarity, see your many visions of dreams now dead; see them once alive, built upon the purity and innocence that lives but briefly in a child.
Ramble in, ramblin' woman. Run with the words, run along with the words like a good shepherd. Watch your thoughts of black and white and prisms of color take shape and form sentences too sacred to share with anyone but your subconscious self. Watch as your mind grabs your thoughts and snatches them and hides them back in a corner so dark even God's light would be dimmed.
Run to, not away from, your clever imaginings of structure and meaning. Give life to the romance in your mind. Fear not the snickers and smirks of those who can't see the shape of a heart rising from a wisp of smoke.
Take your time, at any time, to imagine, to feel, to express on paper what you fear to express aloud because you have to think and dig for the simplest words that will express the complex way you feel; and while digging, the moment to speak passes and you scurry back into your mind-cave, licking your ego wounds, eyes closed, like a cat contentedly licks between it's outstretched toes.
Open, don't shut the gate behind which words lurk and wait for the freedom of your beautiful, creative, twisted, confused, clever, sexual mind to call forth, to whistle for attention.
Hold your hand out and let your higher power gently but firmly take hold of your hand, your mind and guide you, stand beside you while you grace the moments of your days, while you sleep and wake and talk and love and hate and smile and laugh and cry.
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