01 April, 2007

California Dreams

Over at the sadoldgoth, the thoughts have turned to times long past in California.
His tight prose rattled my soul and I was drawn back in time to write of Renee and this place:
Remembering Renee

In the rundown old town section of Orange, CA, a shabby and dirty pink stucco home stands entrapped by vines. The greenery has blurred whatever defining features the old house might show. I just know it feels ancient. It is September, 1968. Evening wanders up Almond Street, hot, humid and dark. I open the door of my old, rust bound Mercedes sedan and with a tentative sigh, step onto an alien sidewalk. "801 W. Almond, yep, that's the address." I whisper to myself, trying to crank up my courage.
No need, for she has opened the front door to the house. Light shines around the tiny woman, a halo of blonde welcome, her whole body smiles under thin, clinging, cotton print. She waves slowly, beckoning me.
Renee is her name. Her family has owned this house since the 1940's...and here I am, not more than 8 months out of Colorado.
One week ago, at a gathering of young hipsters, she sought me out, took my calloused hand between her soft girl fingers and pulled me into the darkness, pulled me deep inside her slippery, hungry woman's well. She told me she had been waiting for me....She whispered that I lived in her dreams.
Now, this night, I chose to respond. Dreams or no, I was accepted and engulfed in her sweet selfless hunger. Darkness covered us that night, a blanket of sweat and passion.
That was the way of her. She welcomed me whenever, wherever and held me close... no questions, no expectations, just quiet and deep.
Less than a year later, I left California, burned out, disillusioned. Renee didn't cry. She just smiled her shy smile and turned away without looking back. I often wonder, almost forty years later, what became of her. I have attempted to contact her through old friends. She seems to have disappeared. And the house, so long in her family, has been sold.
Perhaps she and the house were just the fevered dreams of a stoned and lonely young mountain man who found himself in that hellish paradise of SoCal in 1968.
I think not. I can still taste her sweet kiss.