kathleen has been spending a lot of time left to her own devices and this is what we know she's been doing : painting, wearing fake 90s punk rock nose piercings, running around like a crazy, casting spells, maybe doing a little bit of ze white powder and, of course, writing her new book. the last one i'm sure she does all the time as she clearly cares a lot about us fans.
...she looks over at him, driving as always; safely guiding the metal mobile in and out of highways, scenic byways and city streets. it begins to drizzle a bit and she looks in the backseat for their parkas. as it is a vacation, there is no rainchecks here. it's either go or watch the day go by.
he makes a various set of turns until they end up on a street called northwest oceanview drive and she looks up from rolling a joint of dispensary-grade sativa to see a sign that reads : PRIVATE DRIVE / PRIVATE BEACHES / LOCAL ENTRY ONLY.
her brow furrows and she looks again to the loving driver. he peers down at his phone quickly and makes a decided right turn onto a narrow street lined with beach houses.
in a way, she knows what he's doing, as he does it all the time. one time, on the way home, he took a detour to show her massive turtles in a hidden cut. she knows he's got something up his sleeve and it's not just a walk on the beach. but then again, she doesn't know. which is part of his allure.
she finishes skinning up the joint, finishing it off with her signature : a piece of rolled-up cardboard from her parliament cigarettes to create a crutch. "you ready, baby?" she asks, lighter in one hand, joint pressed between her lips.
he looks around the area and drives up a bit, then snaps back into focus to her. "light it up baby, we're here."
"but where are we?" she motions to grab her phone and he snatches it away playfully, shaking his head. "ok, ok. i don't want to ruin anything you have planned. you know i'm #1 at ruining stuff sometimes."
he laughs lightly - lightly enough to show he knows it's partially joke, but partially truth. "not even the rain could ruin this one."
the two exit the car, one faster than the other and one more bogged down by purses, hair ties, chai teas and the like. her hands are full, but she's here, reporting for duty. he helps zip her raincoat up and pulls the hood over her hair. "you know i love you very much - i'm glad we could be here together."
"there's no one i'd rather be here with and no place i'd rather be right now." the joint, now finished, disintegrates in the parking lot from the rain, the blue cardboard crutch becoming more and more visible with each raindrop.
"come on," he says, grabbing her hand, "let's pitter patter."
he takes the lead onto the beach because, as the approach narrows to the sandy entrance, another sign reading : PRIVATE BEACH / NO TRESPASSING stands menacingly in front of them. "are you sure this is cool?" she asks, still walking in full trust, but asking in a cautious manner. she is much like the coyote - always on the move, always watching, always analyzing for something...anything.
"you worry too much, baby," he says, reassuringly. "besides, aren't you a punk rocker?"
she thinks for a second - thinks of iggy pop, the ramones, henry rollins - and mumbles under her breath, more as a reminder to herself than in answer to his question, "i am punk rock."
finally, they come around the hill of beach grass and the ocean is once again visible. not the atlantic as they are used to, as he was born by, but the pacific this time around. they stop, taking it in; a storm is brewing out in the distance. a bolt of lightning races through the sky. it must be near sunset, but unlike the immense oranges and purples of florida, the oregon coast feeds the two incredible shades of blue. the water crashes on rocks in the far distance.
she lights up a cigarette, punk rock style, and he grabs her hand, steering her to the left. they walk, in silence only to take in the moment and do their best to cement the memory. the silence breaks only for her voice to speak, "wow, this is really beautiful. i really love storms like this." boom. clap of thunder.
he smiles and the two continue on. she finishes her cigarette just as he stops, turning towards the ocean for a moment. he's thinking about something but she doesn't quite bother him. sometimes a person just has to be in their head, you know? talk to themselves. you know yourself best, after all.
he turns to her now, back to the ocean, and points behind her. behind her is a small, purple-colored beach house with a little white gate and a hanging plant in the bay window. "look at that!" he exclaims, turning her attention away from him and the ocean, "what a funky little house."
she turns around. it is funky. it's a faded lavender color, beaten from the sandy wind and salty air. there are porthole windows upstairs and a little balcony, just big enough for a small cafe table and chair. through the kitchen window, a full crop of small plants take up the space. as it is october, the chimney is puffing out smoke, indicative of an evening fire just probably lit.
she turns back to him. but now, instead of standing, he's on bended knee.
ummmmm.........ok? what the hell is this book going to be about? trespassing? marriage? surfing?? i'm lost. maybe if i was an eight-ball deep and caressing a bottle of jack daniels, the above might appear as a story and not just random words. hopefully this is just the rough draft version...i mean, come on! remember when kathleen used to be our girl, our brat, our babbling baby full of million dollar story ideas? she used to write these powerful, raw essays about life, sex, love and all the adventures of being a woman...
but now? not only has she lost her edge - i think she's just straight up lost it!
