One more bird has flown the nest and something dark and somber has settled on the house. I think it's peace, but I'm sure peace should feel a little happier. Or maybe I've been living my entire life on high volume and now that someone's turned the sound down, I'm at a loss. What to do?
Writing again. It's lovely. Volumes are filling, stories that have languished in my super secret memories' treasure box. A manila envelope overflowing with browning newspaper clippings from 40 years ago; tragedies printed about lives ended, irrevocably changed, captured by newspapers that no longer exist. The history of the central valley's true wild and wooly days. And always in the background there is perfume. Fracas, sultry and floral to the point of nausea, wafts from sleeve cuffs; New Newest perfume (mine, a yet unnamed) beckons from a hair band saturated with the scent; that pretty honied-vanilla patchouli from Enfleurage crooks it's paisley hennaed finger, whispering sweet somethings.