the old-school guestbook archives
my amazon wish list... my favorite astrologer... my favorite artist... yerba mate revolution! erowid: a travel guide for interior journeys... no more war: MoveOn.org United for Peace and Justice True Majority seek the truth: Common Dreams Unamerican Activities The Nation people I adore, diaries I read: rev.raikes ariana cubiclegirl epiphany glitter333 laurakay wammo the music: the asylum street spankers backyard tire fire blue highway bill camplin wendy colonna freedom tribe joules graves guy forsyth band hamsa lila hanuman libby kirkpatrick leftover salmon pamela means medeski martin & wood the motet the nice outfit nickel creek open road rose polenzani railroad earth south austin jug band string cheese incident taarka tha musemeant the devil makes three tim o'brien band trolley wild sage keller williams yonder mountain string band |
black leather and snakeskin ~ December 26, 2001 - 1:21 a.m. tired, yes. but christmas was good. my nephews aren't the wake-you-up-at-crack-of-dawn types, strangely enough. we were, when we were kids, dragging our folks out of bed before the sun was up because we weren't allowed to open any presents without them. lucas and nicky were still snoozing when the rest of us rolled out of bed around 9. we actually had to drag them out of bed so that we could get the show on the road. we yawned and grinned and sorted out the humungous pile of gifts, the usual stuff. I've come to realize that my family's christmas is somewhat ridiculously excessive as compared to many. and as little as material things mean to me, I can't say that I mind. I like presents, giving and getting. I like the surprise of the unknown. I like picking out just the right thing-- like the tiny rubber ducky for my mom's collection, which made her shriek out loud, the old-style tin wind-up moth toy for my brother. and I like seeing what will be chosen for me. this year's wildest pick came from my parents-- which, in most cases, means my mom. dad may spot something from time to time, but we all know that it's really mom who does the shopping. so, this year: a harley-davidson leather biker jacket with "snakeskin" panels down the front and back. OH. MY. GOD. and what's funny, is that it's the kind of present that almost seems incongruous, juxtaposed against my vegan-organic-hippiechick-northerncali lifestyle. something I'd never buy for myself these days, citing ethics and expense and so on and so forth... and yet. and yet, there is still somewhere inside me that badass little punk rock girl I used to be-- that girl who always wanted a biker jacket and never got it. who shaved off all her rich, red hair, blackened her eyes with waterproof liner, and drank as if she could drown her demons. I am so far from that toughscaredwildhurt little girl in so many ways... living the life I've dreamed of, in a land filled with sunshine, surrounded by beautiful friends and music, feeling the current of the divine running through everything I do and see and feel, dry for so long that I don't remember what drunkenness feels like... and yet. and yet, if I saw this jacket in a store, I know that I would respond to it. I would finger the leather, the satin lining, snakeskin textures tingling beneath my fingertips. I would notice the quality, remark on the care harley puts into the gear they sell; the clean, strong-stitched seams, the logo gleaming in steel near the hip. I might even try it on, sighing into the rich weight of it across my shoulderblades, the warm hang that feels like strong arms wrapped gently around your torso. I'd turn one way and another in front of the mirror, giggling to myself, noticing the way the browns and tans of the snakeskin-patterned leather set off my hair, how the slim, clean lines make me look strong and lean and ready for anything. I'd rember what it was like growing up in milwaukee, the home of harley-davidsons, and dreaming of the day I'd learn to ride. a purple hog, I'd tell people, imagining the gas tank gleaming iridescent in the sun-- someday. someday. and at some point, after maybe ten minutes of dreams and memories and mirror smiles, I'd take the jacket off, hang it back on the rack, glance at the price tag and gasp, and giggle. and walk away without looking back, satisfied with the image of myself in my mind's eye, lean and strong in snakeskin and black leather. so this morning, when I opened up the box, it was nothing I'd expected, but it was like a long-forgotten dream come to life in my hands. I gasped, and giggled, and grabbed it up, put it on, turned this way and that, ran to the den to look in the full-length mirror. I noticed you still wear leather shoes, my mother told me, so I thought it might be okay. I bought it at auction, so you can't take it back, but you can probably sell it for plenty. I grinned at her, knowing I couldn't sell it. knowing that, while I would have never bought this jacket for myself, I will love it as much as I would have when I was sixteen. that I will wear it and feel tough and wild and beautiful. and hearing, also, the unspoken message-- the sweet communication that lies at the heart of so many of my mother's well-chosen gifts, that chokes me up as I hear what she can't seem to say in so many words. I love you, I'm behind you, even if I don't agree. two months ago, I got my motorcycle license, fulfilling a lifelong dream and striking terror into the heart of my mother, to whom motorcycles represent death at best and life as a vegetable at worst. with this gift, my mother reached out to that wild girl I used to be, acknowledged the joy of dreams fulfilled, and said in black leather and snakeskin what her fears will not let her say aloud: if it makes you happy, go. live. RIDE.
(((rings))) |