Listen Carefully
Because I've got just one word for you this week: flagitious. It means shamefully wicked.
What do you have to say to that?
Signs
Have you noticed how the universe will give you signs when you need to change certain things in your life? And have you noticed that if you don't listen, the universe will smack you upside the head until you do what you're supposed to?
For example, a friend of mine realized it was time for her to move out of her condo, but she kept putting it off. A couple months later, she found a dead bird on her balcony. Then, a few weeks after that, there was another dead bird, this time in front of her front door, on the porch. Did she move? No. So then the top of the tree next to her home broke and crashed through her ceiling. She got the message—she moved a couple weeks later.
I got smacked today as I walked home from the café, where I'd spent several hours working on my revisions. <— That's in case my editor drops by. I don't want her to think I'm slacking.
However, before I get into that, let me tell you about last week, when my friend Dawn (of pet psychic fame) dragged me to a psychic fair so we could get our auras photographed.
After our auras were photographed* and we waited for the results, Dawn introduced me to one of the vendors—a man who sells jewelry coated in essential oils that promote compassion, health, joy, etc.
He took one look at me and said, "We've met before."
I shook my head. "Nope."
"Let me see your hands." Before I could comply, he seized them and looked at my palms. "That's what I thought."
Dawn and I exchanged puzzled glances. Then I asked, "What did you think?"
Only he was staring at me so intently he didn't hear the question. I stood there and observed him, partly amused, partly perplexed, and partly wondering at the strange feeling that I knew him too.
Suddenly he exclaimed, "You need to explore your feminine side. Buy lace."
Dawn gasped. "Yesterday I made her try on a bunch of frilly stuff and she wouldn't go for any of it."
He nodded sagely, his gaze never leaving mine. "Next time buy the lace. And you need to stop kicking men to the curb. You're going to miss the right one if you keep this up." Then he dropped my hands and pulled out two bracelets from a pile hidden behind some boxes. "This one is coated for balance, in work and hormones. This one is coated for love." He arched his brows sternly. "Put them on and don't take them off."
"Yes, sir." I saluted and slipped the bracelets on my wrist.
But then I didn't listen to him. (Sigh.) Which is why the universe stepped in and smacked me today.
This morning, I ran into Peter as I left Java Beach, the café where I go to write. Peter is a bright, shiny neighborhood guy—everyone knows and loves him. He was hit by a car years ago, and it left him disabled—mentally as well as physically—but he's the most cheerful, positive, loving person you'll ever meet.
So Peter lumbered up to me as I crossed the street, an untypical frown lining his forehead. He pointed at my chest and, in his slurry deep voice, said, "Open your heart."
I blinked, stunned. I touched my bracelets, remembering what Dawn's friend said to me. Then I nodded and replied, "Okay," because what else was there to say? I know a sign when I get slapped with one.
Some things are easier said than done though. (Sigh again.)
* In case you wondered: my aura is purple topped with gold, and around my face it's all white. Purple was creativity, perfectly balanced by gold wisdom. The white was apparently guardian angels. I'm surrounded by them. I suspect a couple of them are jokesters too.
Tinkerbell
"I did something that's going to make you think I'm crazy," my friend Dawn confessed as she filled a kettle with water.
Turning a kitchen chair around, I sat facing her. "More crazy than I already think you are?"
"Yes." She opened the cupboard and took down a tin of tea. "Tinkerbell wasn't feeling well, so I called a pet psychic."
I stifled my grin before it got out of hand. Tinkerbell the cat slinked into the kitchen, giving me a superior look as she swished her tail in my general direction.
Dawn glanced back at me, obviously waiting for one of my witty remarks. "You aren't going to say anything?"
"Truthfully, I'm stunned into speechlessness."
"It's not as crazy as it sounds though," she said, dropping tea bags into mugs and pouring hot water on top. "I would have spent more at a vet, and they would have given her medication instead of offering a solution."
"And the pet psychic told you what was wrong with her?"
"She had an irritable bowel. I changed her food and gave her some herbs and now she's as good as new." Dawn turned around and paused. Then she admitted, "I asked the psychic about Tinkerbell's mental health as well."
I bit my lip. When I was sure I could look appropriately serious, I said, "How is Tinkerbell's mental health?"
"Great." My friend set a mug in front of me and joined me at the table. "The psychic said Tinkerbell loves us very much. She's very happy in the new apartment. Also, she sees herself as dainty and feminine."
I looked at the large gray furball sauntering across the kitchen. "Really?"
"I know, she's kind of big now, but when she was little we used to tell her how cute and petite she was. But that's not the strange part."
"Do I want to know what the strange part is?"
She leaned across the table. "You know how Tinkerbell sits in front of the fireplace and talks into the grate? She's actually talking to fairies. And you know her favorite mouse toy? It's magical, which is why she places it in front of the fireplace. She's offering it to the fairies as a gift."
A hint of a smile escaped my control.
"I know. It sounds insane, doesn't it?" Dawn grinned too. "I meant to ask what the deal with Tinkerbell's tail is but I forgot."
We both looked at the cat. At that moment, she started chasing and batting at her tail in a way that made her look possessed.
I shrugged. "Maybe there's a fairy riding it and she's trying to knock it off."
Dawn looked at Tinkerbell with new consideration. "You know, that's a really good theory."
Your Turn
I was sitting here, thinking about what to blog about, when I started to wonder why I should be the one to write this blog all the time. Yeah, I know it's my blog, if you want to get technical about it. But don't I deserve a break sometimes? And if there were ever a week I needed a break, it'd be this one.
So it's your turn to do this.
Got your pens typing fingers out? Because here's how we're rolling: I'm posting a picture, and you're going to write about it. A story, an essay, a sentence—whatever you want.
Here's your picture:
The best entry gets something special from moi. Seriously. So get to it.
The Flow
The sky is pink and gray. I'd take a picture to show you, but I'm too lazy to go find my camera.
I haven't seen a sky like this in a long time. It makes me realize how colorful and dramatic the sunsets at Ocean Beach in San Francisco are. Don't burst my bubble and say it's because of pollution—I'm going to choose to believe it's because this is a magical spot.
In your wanderings on this earth, have you ever run across a magical spot? Do you have many or none at all?
In Buenos Aires, my magical spot was a bench in Recoleta, where I sat for hours and watched people walk by. In San Francisco, there's a room in the DeYoung Museum that holds all sorts of mysteries for me. And Ocean Beach, of course.
Once, in more northerly climes, I found a mystical labyrinth in someone's yard—I sat on the edge of that labyrinth for hours. In Paris, years ago, I found enchantment inside an optometrist's store, sharing tea and conversation with several interesting locals. When I was a kid, my closet was it for me. It held all sorts of magic, dark as well as light.
Yes, you're absolutely right—there's no point to anything I just wrote. It just spewed forth from my fingertips, and I went with it. Experts call that going with the flow. I call it random babbling.
For the record, this is totally not the blog I'd meant to write. I blame jetlag. And the ninety minutes of Bikram yoga I did for the first time ever today. I swear somewhere in the second half, I started having visions.
PS: don't ask what I'd meant to write (Jen). I'm saving it up for next week.
Last Tango in Buenos Aires
It's my last week in Buenos Aires. I just had my last tango lesson, and I'm making the final rounds saying au revoir to my friends.
I've had people ask me if I'm sad to leave. Oddly, I'm not. I'm excited. Don't get me wrong—words can't describe what the months I've spent here have meant to me. But it's time to move on to the next adventure. I'm looking forward to the future. There's more travel involved, and just a little bit of intrigue. You'll have to stay tuned for the details.
Sneaky of me, isn't it? But it's not like you're surprised.
But first, I'm returning to San Francisco. The main reason: I'm speaking at the San Francisco Writers Conference. To say I'm looking forward to the gig would be an understatement. I attended last year's conference as a speaker and it rocked.
The conference goers are a mix of fiction writers of various genres as well as nonfiction. The speakers are diverse and interesting, and it draws a number of big name editors and agents, who are totally accessible the entire weekend. For example, last year, I met Donald Maass, who, contrary to what I'd believed, isn't seven feet tall with lightning bolts shooting from his eyes.
My favorite part of the conference: the cocktail parties. Okay—the cocktail parties are my favorite part of any conference. I can't help it. I love to schmooze, especially martini in hand. Yes, recess was my favorite subject in school too.
The conference itself is sold out this year, but there's a pre-conference day of workshops if you're in the area and interested. If you're there, find me and say "Yo." I'll be the jet-lagged one who keeps slipping into Spanish.
La Misteriosa
He's late. Again.
Annoyed, she leans forward on her tiptoes. No man has ever dared to keep her waiting. No man until him.
She searches for him amongst the hordes of adorers at her feet. She sees Tomás, who pledged to bring her a finch for every kiss she bestowed on him. True to his word, he has one in a cage, at the ready. She wrinkles her nose. After two she decided they were too messy—the birds and his kisses.
There's Ramón with his notebook and pen, scribbling. As always. She would give him a fond smile if she weren't so peeved. Ramón and his sweet imagination, writing poetry to her beauty. A man of words, but not so much of action. And she definitely likes action.
Ah—dark, brooding Carlos, partially hidden in a corner, separate from the rest. He watches her with that gaze that used to make her shiver in anticipation. But that was all he did: watch, smoldering in her general direction.
In the center, there's José Christian, with his paintbrush and steady hand. She can tell that he paints another fileteado sign dedicated to her, like the one she stands over. She remembers one time when he used her body as the canvas. He still claims that was his masterpiece.
But of him for whom she waits? No sign.
She exhales, expelling her irritation. How many times has he kept her waiting? Three? Eleven? Twenty-seven? Once is too many. What will he bring this time to make up for his inattention? A trinket? A shiny bauble to dangle from her neck? She has plenty of things. What she wants is intangible and much more precious. Is he the one to give it to her?
She has doubts.
But still she waits, because the doubts are entwined with hope. And for hope, she can be patient—at least for a few moments longer.
Finding Perfection
This is the week.
Which week? you wonder. What's happening?
I'll tell you what's happening: I'm buying my first pair of tango shoes.
This is the part where you scratch your head in wonder. You didn't know I danced tango. You thought I did kung fu.
I've been holding out on you. Unless you follow me on Twitter—then you've seen a couple random tango references. But I'm telling you now: I've been taking tango lessons.
Tango isn't so different from kung fu. Same principles, different application. I'm using the dance to work on the couple ideals I was trying to perfect in my fighting (like being in the moment, and feeling a person's energy). Plus, I'm in Buenos Aires—you'd have to be crazy to come here and not take at least one tango class.
But you don't care about all that. You want to get to the real important issue here: the shoes.
There are several well-known tango shoe store in town, but the most famous are Comme Il Faut and Greta Flora. Handmade, beautiful, unique shoes.
I've been to both stores so many times in the past couple months that they know my name, my preferred heel height, and the colors I like. I don't have to do anything anymore—I sit down and they bring me shoes. The shopping experience is very 50s/Doris Day-esque.
Only so far I've just bought shoes for my sister. Three pairs—who's the lucky girl? But now it's my turn.
This is the week. The perfect pair is waiting for me to claim it as mine. I can't wait to meet it.
Wanted
They say she's a thief.
They say she steals hearts.
She would disagree. She'd say that she didn't take anything that didn't want to be taken. She'd say those hearts were given to her, free and clear. Then she'd give you her wide-eyed, innocent look, and you'd eagerly agree that "they" must be delusional.
She's a creature of the night, but never in the shadows. She's sweet. She's crafty. Beguiling and bewitching. When she struts onto the dance floor, you know she owns it. She crooks her finger and her chosen partner comes running, desperate to lead her, even if it's just for one song. Her attitude captivates, her grace mesmerizes. One song, and you're lost.
How do I know? I've been there. One song, and she had me. She knew it too. She graced me with that little smile—the one that feels like it's aimed right at your heart—and I haven't been the same since.
Then the song was over and, with a flick of her saucy heel, she walked on, leaving me alone in the crowd, helplessly watching her select her next victim.
If you see her, be wary.
If you see her, tell her I miss her.