Super vegie hippie girl wearing a thin blue Indian gauze skirt and misty blue lacey t-shirt standing on her head in the corner talking about how her organs are finally getting some rest. That girl was crazy and beautiful in her own way.
Awareness and loneliness seeping through to the bottom of her shoes so she could look up and you’d recognize her pain and see yourself in the darkness emerging out of a festering wound finally brought to sunlight. You’d place your hurt alongside hers and you’d know someone in the world really understood.
She was like that. New agers called her a good old soul, kind hearted to a fault. I once watched her give away a handcrafted velvet one-of-a-kind hat that even now, forty years later, she still can’t find one similar. A wiz on the Internet and helping friends get government benefits, she failed miserably in matters of the heart, placing her faith in one ungrateful miscreant after another.
She wore a smile on her face that made her seem beautiful. She wasn’t really beautiful but her inner beauty shined though her smile. She smiled at everything and everyone when she wasn’t busy crying.
Crazy hippie vegie girl took everything to heart.
If you looked at her cross or had a mean tone she’d analyze the words you said for days on end crying about her loss.
When she speaks about her childhood she cries with a passion that will never end. She cries when men on helicopters shoot down on helpless wolves and wild horses with high-powered rifles and when she learned about canned hunts and how they kill penguins and seals just born, she said she couldn’t understand why anyone would kill just to kill and why are there wars by the way.
If you get her temper up she’ll never stop talking and she could probably win a war with her mouth if anyone would listen.
Her tears fell easily over a few unkind remarks or mistreatment. I don’t understand how someone can be so sensitive. Her therapist told her it was because she was stuck at the age of an infant and lacked impulse control like infants do. Generously she gave away things she’d barely used behind her husbands back, gave them away like pieces of herself floating away.
Crazy hippie girl listening to Bob Marley before he was famous, hooking her cheap stereo to her cheap microphone while she dusted her old broken furniture and mopped her scratched and damaged wooden floor, singing "No Women No Cry."
It makes me wonder if some are born to be tortured to hear the same words set to fifty different songs with so many suppositions and fears, and by the way why are there wars?
