Thursday, March 17, 2011
Excuse Me While I Kiss The Sky
Well, I think I am seeing the pecans begin to swell which means that we can safely say that winter is over. Done. Gone. No more freezing here, baby.
And it's so fucking beautiful today that I almost want to puke. Dogwoods and wisteria climbing up the bamboo and spilling over in purple haze
(Thanks, Jimi, Thanks Owsley).
Sometimes I can't believe I'm this old. How many of YOU know what Owsley acid was? Much less DID any? How many of you were alive when Jimi Hendrix drifted down from whatever star he came from and grabbed a guitar and changed things forever?
Huh? I'm asking you.
Well, let's see. Spring. Oh yeah. It looks like this out my backyard:
It's so fucking beautiful that as Daddy B might say, I want to punch someone.
My ashe magnolia which I bought in a small pot six years ago is finally as tall as I am. Here's it's annual grand opening:
I wonder how many blowsy blossoms it'll have this year.
I think I have spring fever. The symptoms are grieving that I am not creating. My writing room is calling me with a voice of strident demanding. And yet, here I am, on the back porch, blogging and planning my trip to town to buy flour, buttermilk, and other ingredients necessary for the things I'll be taking to Gator Bone tomorrow for the Big Party.
This is a wonderful, gorgeous party where almost everyone plays music and there is music, music, everywhere. People come from as far away as Colorado to come to this party and I supposedly know many of them and yet, of course, I can't remember exactly and so what I do is follow Lis around with a lipstick in case she needs it and when I'm not doing that, I hide in the kitchen and cook and drink beer.
Then Mr. Moon and I drive a few miles down the road to a state park where we get to stay in the coolest old cabin ever on a lake in the woods. Why do I even leave that cabin?
Oh yes. To see this:
My darling Lis with glittery shamrocks in her hair and flowers and guitars and banjos in her hands.
Now I remember.
Okay. It's spring. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Purple Haze, all that jazz, bust-up-a-guitar, make a biscuit, plant a row of something, set out your tomatoes, the pecan trees say it's time, kiss an Irishman or IrishWoman, pick a flower, put it in your hair, spend the night in a cabin in the woods with your old man, get up, make coffee, drink it looking at the lake with mist coming off it, hide in the kitchen, keep a lipstick in your pocket.
That's my advice.