Conversations Among the Ruins

Ever since the last one moved out we've cringed a bit. Cringed because the landlord of the house next to us doesn't do any sort of a background check. Basically, anybody with enough cash for the first month can move in.

The last neighbors were witches. Bat shit insane women but good people, if they weren't loudly threatening to kill each other early enough to wake me up. They left a trail of stray cats and a jeep in the backyard that doesn't run. She comes to feed the cat, whom we've adopted, almost daily and it's straight out of the wizard of oz - long black hair and a black leather coat - riding a bike with a basket.

Naturally, I love this woman the way I love everybody - from a fixed distance. I listen, say very little, and smile.

Last week a pile of tires started to form in the back yard of the house. "Guess he got somebody to move in." The pile of tires turned into a pile of tires and road signs, stuffed animals and about ninety giant pieces of dirty metal. I'm sure this is "stuff" but I can't even tell. there are motor bikes and tool box looking things and fans and it's literally a pile of metal. Looking out into my backyard is now like a junkyard. Yesterday the cops even visited it. Perfect.

Naturally we've had a field day with this, doing our best to just laugh it off.

Tweakers are tweakers and whatever. It's the desert and that's typical. Better them than me. Am I a little fucking annoyed that I drive forty five minutes every day to get the fuck out of the wreckage of crack and poverty that is Las Vegas? Of course.

I didn't see people for weeks just more and more shit piling up.

Today I took out the trash and I saw a woman, about four foot nine and very thin with really messy blonde hair walking around aimlessly in the yard. It was an absurd reality, she looked about ninety pounds.. so I didn't say anything at all. I just felt this horrible sadness. Penelope went closer to the yard and as I went to pick her up I jumped at a man that was watching me from the dark laundry room of the house.

I detest people coming out from nowhere like that so I did my best to recover and smile/ say hello. He's really nice actually and the woman comes walking up and I realize that she isn't a woman at all, that she's a four foot nine ten year old girl.

"My name is Reality." She says as she pets Penelope. She has and army print shirt on that says "Angel." She has a giant spring in her hand. "I found this in the pile!!" She says happily as she bounces the spring on a fence.

"I'm sure you can find two hundred more." I say with a sinister smile as my eyes fall to the trash pile before I make an exit.

A few hours later I go outside - Harmon is pulling weeds and Reality is helping him. She even has leather winter gloves on. There is a dead flower on the bench.

"That is one of my favorite flowers. It died in the move so I wanted to give it to you guys. I like your flowers on the porch."

I laugh. "I kill a lot of flowers so I finally just got some fake ones. I like all of the colors. I like your shoes" I tell her. She has on boys DG skate shoes, black and blue.

"I like boy shoes better. People make fun of me but I don't care."

She sits with me for an hour on the porch. No adults come out to see what she's doing or their kid might be. She is pale with frekals, blonde hair and a fake peace sign tattoo next to her left eye.

"I hope we get to stay in this house. I lived in an apartment at first, and after this this really gross place. I've moved like nine places this year."

She shudders. I watch

the air. Ten places this year in February. I hope she counts the years starting in September like I do.

Hi my name is Heather and there's something you should know about me. It's that I do not enjoy listless conversation with people.But I sat with this kid for two hours on my porch today and it was one of the first times in a very long time that the conversations were effortlessly real and sincere.

"Do you like art?" I ask her.

"Yes." She leans over and cups her mouth to whisper

"Don't tell my mom but in my art class I've been working on weaving her a basket for Christmas. I know it's late but I didn't get to give her anything so I'm going to give it to her anyway."

I bite my lip. "Mothers are lucky for their daughters." I say.

"Do you want to see my art studio? It's right back there."

She gets nervous and says no. I tell myself that it was her parents, of whom haven't been out to check on her in two hours, that taught her that caution.

I tell myself that really loud all the way to work.

I don't hate much in this world, but the desperation and despair of so many on this planet, and the ways in which it affects the innocent children

is really an aspect of the sort of thing I do hate. My sponsor tells me constantly that I can't save anybody but myself.

Powerless over any other people places or things.

I can't believe the awareness of this I lack at times.

I have a sunburn
and a puffy new
tattoo.

Took my dog to
the fancy groomer
today.

She smells like a
baby flower and
her nails aren't all

hoodrific long
anymore.

I'm in the middle of
a painting and I fell

hard
off of the backyard
fence yesterday.

I started my
stepwork over.
Got a new notebook

with new stickers,
a new sponsor and a
broadened perspective

of
gratitude and
fistfulls of glittery
guts.

Time is on my side
some days where I

pay all of my bills
and open a savings
account and

kiss my dog in
the gold sun.

I just wish
at moments that
it were time for

the time for
the reason why
I'm on this planet.

I didn't come here
to drink lattes and

pick out bracelets or
keep up with the
dollar rat race.

I paint with a smirk
lately because I had it
all wrong.

No line
is the wrong
line.

One to the whole
to the one back
to make up

the full
whole. What
mirror track

am I on when I
read about washed
up film
stars instead of

the practices of
Native American
tribes?

I always wanted
to be spiritual as

long as
it was something

I could just
buy

in a store.

Colored scarves
and thousand
dollar crystals.

Feathers and
books and
spiritual

music. Wind chimes.
Plants and

you should see
all of my

unicorns and
dream catchers.

Spirituality
is not

a concert
t shirt and I

do not believe in
sottered melting
clocks.

The tattoo
says

of
the

light and I

don't care
about why

that is

tonight.

With my
baby flower and

my
spirit

blood.

Farther and
farther and
farther

towards the
place she told me

I wouldn't ever
with my choices

end up.

I am a spell
cracker and a

fucking nut case
when I don't edit

what I say so that it
fits and that's

alright
with me.

http://losangeles.ebayclassifieds.com/dogs-puppies/malibu/beautiful-miniature-dachshunds/?ad=13877793

I think we found Penelope a playmate. He is blonde and from LA like Harmon.

There will not be a twenty one year age difference between our Doxies.

LV,
HL

"Enjoy your flight."

I wonder about that.
Who on Earth

enjoys
a flight?

Would you say
"Enjoy your

root canal."

"Enjoy holding
your hands up
without your shoes on,

banging your laptop
on plastic crates,
losing a shoe,

and almost peeing
yourself

when somebody
coughs or blows
their nose. Enjoy

eating
a sixteen dollar sandwich
from Subway
that tastes not only
like subway but also

strange. Enjoy your
hours at a time
in a two foot space."

I laugh, and jump a
second, because despite
my headphones

I just heard
coughing.

As it turns out,
McCarren Airport
has greatly improved

for me throughout
the years.

For one, I just made it
through check in, bag check,
and security

in fifteen
minutes.

For two, TSA
did not confinscate
my crystal ball.

For three, there are all
sorts of shops in here
that sell all sorts of

skanky sequined
and mesh underwear.

But most of all,
I'm flying out of here
to visit for the Holiday.

Because I came here
and I built
a life. "Home' is a

perplexity of a an
idea.

"It's a whole lotta
feelings - all this
holiday stuffing" I said
yesterday.

It took a lot of
isolation and pain
for me for a long time

here to finally
have those people

that I call friends,
and not only know

but know
me
too. Barcelo

said to me
yesterday at the
wake

"It isn't about
who loves you.

It's about who you
love anyway."

Today I love this
airport.

But I will not
enjoy

this
flight.

I think about it
at times, what my life
would be like

if I were still
hip in a big
city.

In traffic and
on all those patio
bars with cool

music and
unique shoes

(My shoes were
actually never
really all that

cool.)

I live in this
small town now,

just off of Lake Mead.
Where the sunsets

are neon and I
eat pizza at Tony's,

where Tony
cooks
the pizza and they

play Elton John
and everybody

knows everybody's
name and what
you drink.

I haven't seen a
parking meter or
subway in

ages and pulsing
buildings stuffed

with bodies into
the sunrise is

something that
scares me.

But theres still
the music and

there are times I
guess that I can

speak that
language - of

frozen rain drops and
honking taxi's - where
they black iron fence in

every tree and there
isn't a cactus
for thousands

of miles and you
walk the Mag to
make yourself look

like the
windows. I swear to you

it's fucking
incredible,

how much
life changes but how
love freezes time and

keeps the best parts
the same.

How physically
different I know I
look and how it's

nothing compared
to who and what
the inside flipped to.

There are no
city streets to
walk here.

But I hear them and I
am grateful I got to

live all of that
hip, and how young
I was

when I realized
image was merely

based off of what you
consume.

"Nobody will remember what you did or said. They will remember how you made them feel."

I hope you all know that I love you.

HL