beverly hills hotel

[creativesoul]

we flew down for her wedding, she married a beautiful man that had spent a long time cultivating his own garden, there would be plenty for everyone. The flowers were every where, shrimp, lobsters on ice, wine, champagne, and parties, alot of parties to go to, for four days. Girls from Oregon do not have evening gowns, so my sister from Australia came and I went down with my Oregon nails, and my other sister took one look at me and dragged me to the beauty parlor. It is amazing what a los angeles nail technician can do. Then the feet. those indian feet, those feet that pray hard and drink no water or eat for four days, those feet that carry my prayers, have red nail polish on them. Then my sister Tara bought me some shoes, because flat footed girls do not fit in .... Beverly hills has a stlye. The deal is that you have to learn to walk on pegs six inches high and smile alot. You must never appear to want or need anything.
I usually cannot stop laughing, and my sisters and I laugh alot. we were trying to figure out how much this one woman s plastic surgury had cost.
When the ring was placed on her finger, my sister made a hissing cat sound. We love the bride beyond belief but we have to laugh. My boyfriend stole a bathrobe from the beverly hills hotel. he told me he had to have it. Geez after the rent a car and the marina hotel before the beverly hills hotel, I had 67$ on my credit card, so we started joking about how we party for food. it was not really a joke.
My beautiful son came by car to the 'California love in" party where we all dressed like hippies, and go go dancers, and the tye dyes came out in droves with odd wigs. My boyfriend wore a wig and started talking like an old stoner, My son and him got along really well. that was a first. I was so happy that they met while he was wearing a wig, I guess some things are meant to be. once he said "I am going to have coffee because I have money" which was so much a part of the place, because with out it, you get zero.
so he bought us some.
It is wierd in the Beverly Hills hotel, it is all so perfect in some ways, and so wrong in others.I felt I had to leave soon or the roaring noise would take over. There is some movement like distance and velocity that seems to stretch all the coordinates into an illusions of grandiosity and depression. there can be only one queen and one king at a time. All else are loving subjects.
i felt that the luggage being dragged from one hotel to another, from one brunch at one country club and a party at a different hotel every day was enough to stretch my elastic.I think I may have busted a snap. Today while being the coffee girl that I am, and making great chai and lattes and mochas for people I felt humble and grateful for my simple little life
I am so happy I got to see my sisters, and my brother and my mama too. I am just busted tired and need a moment of down time.
i even saw my dad. I feel full and loved and like the whole experience is one of many beautiful experiences in my future. I loved going on the ferris wheel at the Santa monica pier with my mother on a most beautiful day in LA.
As we were leaving I went to the UCLA sculpture garden, where I used to go when I was a child and I climbed on the brass sculpture I have always liked the best and felt my little girl sitting there a long long time ago, thinking how one day I was going to go to UCLA and study, and how that and many other dreams have come true.
When I hear myself talking, about where I have lived and what I have doneI realize that I am a very lucky and loved woman. My son was brillant like a light in the confusion, the happiness I see in his face of peace and the face of hope.
I listen to my mother, and I see her skin and wonder about our transparent visions of color. She is an artist, and I need to see her being creative. It sooths my soul.

[joel]

universal and beautiful--but in that kind of pretty universality that not everyone experiences. parts of it are m story; parts are the stories i need to claim through others. it reads like a conversation, like an inner monologue...the kind of thing i would hope i would listen to if someone were saying it under his/her breath on the subway. if i were homeless, begging on the street--i wonder how i'd hear it? i'd like to think it would be soothing and creative for me--even if i had never known what any of it meant myself. the little match girl. the kind of pretty that kills. but then again, 'i'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?' instead of postmodernism, can't we just loop back on the romanitcs for a year or two--long enough to fill up on hope again?