Quote:
Originally Posted by *Laurie*
Fabulous posts; I'm laughing and crying - really I am!
Cigarette burns...Once my precious older sister's cigarette lost some fiery ash, dropped on my little 4 year old leg just above the bony little knee (I was sitting in the red Mustang; it was 19667), and left a distinct burn. I laughed! Yes, it Hurt. Like. Hell- (there goes old Tom Waits again) - but because I so adored her and everything she did - I remember her, "Oh sh_it, Laurinda!" (her pet name for me) as she frantically attempted to sweep the hot ash from my leg.
I was in love with her cigarette-burn holes...they were on nearly everything she owned, those little holes with black perimeters...and now I am full-on, tears running down cheeks. Could I have kept one of those little round emblems? Or did she take them with her to the grave?
Is there anyone you love, someone you can gift a torn bit of ciggie-singed bedsheet to? Never know; that person just might sit with burnt bit of cloth grasped tightly in her hand, hold on for dear life....
Fire. 'Tis the season.
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Goodness gracious alive, woman! Still slinging Traubert’s Blues, Jitterbug Girl? Chuck E. — in love, ya know? What a pair they made! What an inspiration to lovers everywhere! What chops, what licks! Tumultuous, though (I was told by a session drummer who I cannot name).
Let’s not play with fire, fond as the memories may be? I don’t know... I’m unsure. Those things that we love about those that we love! (‘67 — I was the dandy of Gamma Chi.) The sweet crushing memories of things whisked away, snatched up, stolen.
I do know.
It isn’t the emblem that you want, it’s the fire; the ember that settles bright-orange-down on summer shifts and skirts burning the tell-tale signatures of those brave enough to smoke. Those with courageous
genes who say ‘poo’ to the PC (and cancer). Let’s
celebrate them with a bonfire that colors the Moon bright-orange-down!
Nothing grave about it.
(I have the jitters. Too much tea.)
The song that the trees sing when the wind blows, you’re a flower, you’re a river, you’re a rainbow. Sometimes I’m crazy (but I guess you know); I’m weak and I’m lazy and I hurt you so, and I don’t listen to a word you say; and when you’re in trouble I turn away, but I love you and I loved you the first time I saw you and I always will love you, Marie. (Randy Newman,
Marie, from the pivotal, awe-inspired-inspiring concept album
Good Old Boys, 1974)
Poets. Poet Laureates. A laurel, and hardy handshake.
Now that
song makes
me cry. Absolutely, sweet Marie (1966).
The things that we recall, packed and hidden away from ECT laser-beams (them’s lasers!) — fallen embers, soldiers fallen on foreign soil, those falling leaves, bright-orange-down.
From fire to fire to fire — I’m not off-topic!
What do we do, old shoe?
Sigh.