we live in a one-bedroom manor in Santa Barbara—no howling flutes or squealing trumpets, just the sound of this old piano I play just for her.
I met her on a Tuesday, among the shores of Montecito, the artist with long black hair and pale-blue eyes; I had crawled through swamps of sugar-coated cities to find her; then we drove into the desert, up a two-lane highway with King Henry VIII, swam where immortals drown in the harbor of felines.
we strayed among the twenty-room manors half the size of ours, over to the wrong end of Sunset Boulevard, down to the chaos of a very orange county with crowds of drab untameable beasts.
now she sits at her table stained with authenticity, drinks coffee with Frida and Norma Jean. In our one-bedroom manor with no blood-curdling trumpets or bellowing flutes, just the sound of this old piano I play just for her: my blue-eyed goddess,
and her curly-haired muse.
**art byAlycia Vreeland,