Friday, June 29, 2007

Potions Waiting To Be Concocted


The entire night during my last Day of the Dead party, I could smell burning hair, my own. I'd gotten too close to a Holy Death candle while waiting for people to show up and had to put myself out. A friend of mine and I decided to put this shindig on and everyone was late, think Martha Plimpton in 200 Cigarettes, and we decided that if nobody did show up, we'd have a lot of Doritos and guacamole on our hands, not to mention all the food for the dead people I'd made (the only time I cook -- flan for my mother, pistachio pudding for Hank, and circus peanuts for daddy), and many potions waiting to be concocted. By the time I started to think that maybe buying the tarantula pinata had been an unnecessary, frivolous expense, people began to flood in, more than I had expected and they all wanted their tarot cards read. Because I had on a dress that was more costume than outfit, people thought I could tell them their futures.

I don't have any gifts as a psychic or even a hostess, except that I can make a good drink, and I'm kind of an optimist at even the worst of times, maybe only the worst of times. With my burnt hair and dress designed like snakeskin, I laid out the cards many a time, gave the happiest reads I could, given whatever had been dealt. John Lee Hooker played on the stereo -- It serves you right to suffer, serves you right to be alone . . . The night wore on, the night to honor the dead. Their candles burned. Nobody touched their food. Nothing got disturbed or broken, not even the tarantula pinata waiting to spill its contents to someone willing to hit it hard enough, in just the right way.

Michelle's Spell of the Day
“When you are already in Detroit, you don't have to take a bus to get there.” Ram Dass

Cocktail Hour
Drinking short story collection suggestion: Sam the Cat Matthew Klam

Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Friday!

7 comments:

eric313 said...

You know I love that idea: Careful what you pretend to be, as people will beleive that's what you are. Good old Mother Night. And you know how that is for writing, everyone thinks they can analyze you for a short story and a couple of poems. Glad to be writing, though. And I'm glad you told me to write all the poems I wanted to write back when I was getting together again. That was the best writing time in my life, and I thank you for letting me become a student once more.

Have a wonderfull weekend. I'll have that stack of poems, soon.

paul said...

myCajoounQ
DayofDeadparty
GoodTimes
IBetYourBestDrinkmakerinTown
FoxlyLadyD
WalkingThru19Seventies
Chevies
OMightyIsis
Shzaaaaaammmmmmm
R2C2!!!!!

the walking man said...

I took a Detroit bus today for the first time in over 30 years and it was the first step in the day something I cherish will die, the day of the dead can be a long day for sure...

eric313 said...

i won't need the walking stick for effect, I think. But...

Maybe a sword cane...

And a moncoule...

Like a skinny mr peanut...
or razzy hutton from All My Friends Are Going To Be Strangers...

yeah...

Susan Miller said...

"I'm kind of an optimist at even the worst of times, maybe only the worst of times"

There's a song by a group called Dog's Eye View called "Everything Falls Apart" and it speaks of getting to put it back together. Do you think that sometimes we get so bored with the status quo that we're drawn to places that may require construction? Hmmmm...

As always, thank you for making me think.

Ken Kesey said...

I remember Ram Dass well and the whole hippie era. Lived it. Furthur!!!!

Inspector Clueso said...

You change zee profeel picdur to zees won, eh? Zee won in my valett, eh? Minkey.