The following are all taken from Anntelope's book in progress "Whoremoans" ©1986 to 2003


"Of Course I'm Stephen Stills"
© 1999 Anne Lombardo Ardolino

The air was alive with sexual dust, fertile, you could actually
feel the tiny whirlwinds of testosterone and pheremones passing
over the hairs on your face, all pastel and electric; yeah, it
was Spring and life was in love with itself again. I too, drunk on the
energy, actually got up the nerve to sing once more after nearly a decade of
depressed silence. Make no mistake, it wasn't simply the time of year, it
was because I'd given in to my love of speed after fighting it for what
seemed like too long. And with the speed, of course, my inspiration was born
again, the flaming desire to sing (along with my voice) returned in it's
full glory, and so there I sat, leaning against a low brick wall on Geary
Street in San Francisco, Fisherman's Wharf to be exact, loaded out of my
mind and gittin' down like a mothah fuckah, I MEAN I WAS DOIN' IT BABAH,
LIKE HOWLIN WOLF, LIKE JOHN LEE HOOKER, A WHITE LADY SINGIN' THE "WHAT'S
GONNA HAPPEN TO ME BLUES."

And boy oh boy, had I ever been wondering what was going to
happen to me. My life was in a shambles; I was afraid to even
leave my apartment because I'd begun to suffer from some kind of
weird ass seizures and no one, not even the doctors could figure
out what was the matter, meanwhile I was petrified I was going to
die, but then, just as suddenly as they came, the seizures disappeared and I
was nearly my old self again except for some lingering problems with my
memory. For instance, I'll never forget one afternoon, I was downtown
shopping at the five and dime when I found myself face to face with a
pleasant looking fellow who seemed familiar enough, but as we exchanged
hellos, I could not to save my soul place him and so, finally, unable to
conceal my confusion another second, I was forced to admit the truth. "I
know that I know you sir, but I can't for the life of me remember from where
or what your name might be." His expression ran the gamut from bemused to
pitying as he gently stated, "Anne, I'm Pete, your downstairs neighbor for
the last five years." It could have been a lot worse, far more awkward, but
in my favor was the fact that he too was afflicted with seizures and very
familiar with the after effects, thus he wasn't at all insulted by my
"amnesia." However, I certainly felt foolish.

Tapering off of Methadone had become nearly impossible because of those
seizures, and it was only with the help of a very empathetic genius of a
doctor who juggled with several experimental and obscure medications that I
finally and successfully managed to withdraw from this highly addictive
substance. And so, after being convinced it was "all over but for the
shoutin'," life had re bloomed glorious, even my sexual nature awakened,
turning me back into a hot blooded woman on the prowl - a little red rooster
- loose in the barnyard once again.

As in the past, my music served as a great tool regarding my sexual
communications, one I took full advantage of, used as a hook to "go fishin'
with," catch me a good one when I desired, and so there I was, right out in
public on the city street, watching the passersby watching me, and although
I wouldn't turn money down, neither was I exerting myself to get any, I mean
there WAS a basket sitting in front of me, but that was just a sham, you
see, like I said, I wasn't there for money, I was there to "do it", looking
for energy to grok, glom up, fuel my inspiration, anything and anyone fair
game as I sang this song I wrote about being a hooker, nothin' blatant mind
you, but sly and sneaky, lookin' at ya sideways and merely insinuating "my
little secret;" that was the fun of it. Hmmm, let's see now if I can
remember some of the words.

"Money,
has my baby
lovin' baby
mad at me
So I'm standin'
here on this corner
just to see
whoa whoa
what I could see."
But of course the words alone don't do it justice, you have
to hear it to really get the feeling, a laid back, slighty be-
mused, wise ass attitude, but anyway apparently someone heard me all right,
got sucked right in by the "flies" I was CASTING ACROSS
THE WATER WITH MY EMOTIONAL FISHING LINE (and don't you be naive,
I knew exactly what I wanted to catch) and by God, for once it
worked, when out of no where, A FAMOUS FUCKING ROCK STAR, STEPHEN
STILLS HIMSELF - WAS SO MOVED BY MY THANG HE JUST HAD TO PLAY RIGHT THEN AND
THERE, AS WITH FINGERS ITCHING AND VOICE MUSCLES STRETCHING, HE WAS
COMPELLED TO STOP WHAT HE WAS DOING, HUMBLE HIS GREAT PERSON RIGHT OUT THERE
ON GREASY GEARY STREET AND ASK LITTLE OLD ME IN HIS WIMPIEST VOICE, "KUD OUI
PWAY YER GITAWR?" ("COULD I PLAY YOUR GUITAR?")

I didn't even recognize him, but truth of the matter is, at
one time Steve and I actually worked together, way back in the
old days of "THE VILLAGE," (Greenwich) during the early sixties,
neither of us rich or famous yet, but we did share a mutual
liking and respect for one another. Right from the first time I
heard him sing and play I thought he was FANTASTIC and I know he
dug my sound, matter of fact, I knew he liked my ass too cause I
caught him looking at it a few times, once in particular, the
sexiest, hottest look I ever saw anyone give anybody. (gulp).
It's nearly been thirty five years and I can still remember
clearly the steam hissing as he branded his desire across my
butt with his hot look, shot me in the ass with a visual bullet he did and
sorry to say but one of my deepest regrets is that I never got to take
advantage of the opportunity; I was madly in love with someone else and
married at the time, pregnant besides, and wouldn't it be my bad luck I
never did get to check Stevie boy out cause I just know he would've been a
pistole - ssssssssssssssss.

And so, though there was no romance, at least we did manage
to hook up a few times musically, practiced doing a few songs and
then performed together at the Cafe Wah, in fact, we were doing
that number "Money," you know, "MONEY DON'T GET EVERY THING IT'S
TRUE, BUT WHAT IT DON'T GET I CAN'T USE, I NEED MONEY," and so we
were gettin' down correctly, people were diggin' us, when all of
a sudden, disaster struck, the amps blew out, right in the middle
of our piece, but we kept going till our set was done, Steve a
true trouper, even then.

As every one is well aware, Steve went on to become a world
famous rock and roll star while I? I became the has been who never was, but
anyway, here I sat on Geary St, Springtime San Francis-co, where everybody
leaves their heart, and so I guess it was some deep inner gut level antennae
that picked up on the frequency, internally he recognized the old stir I had
caused in his cock years ago, the piece of ass he never got to have, and so
he, drawn like a magnet, saunters over to where I'm singing and began to
stare, in fact it was quite distracting, because to be honest, the whole
while I was playing I could not ignore his presence, he was so ready to
leap, I sensed it from the corner of my feelings and I was right, because as
soon as the song was through, without waiting a second, without even saying
"That was nice," he did leap, immediately requesting to play
Rosie, my guitar.

Now I never let any one play my guitar, leastwise a perfect
stranger, but for some reason my heart was calm and steady; I
understood immediately that I was helpless, THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN; IT WAS
SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN and so it did, more than me giving it, this man took my
guitar and sat himself down and began to play, rather sloppily I might add,
I guess because he was used to electric, while "Rosie" is an acoustic jazz
guitar with a much higher action, far more difficult to deal with, and so he
was making lots of mistakes, but no matter, I could still tell he was good,
real fucking good, and with no pretentiousness I said so, told him, "You're
a little out of practice but even so, you're really good."

Well, that must have riled him up, raised his ire, after
all, HE WAS STEPHEN STILLS, and so, probably incensed at my audacity, he
ignored my statement and began to sing. He hadn't finished hitting three
notes when I realized for sure who it was, recognized that old familiar
growl, that marvelous creamy scratch few white boys can manage, and I grew
excited to see my old friend, now famous and successful. I exclaimed
wildly, "I KNOW YOU, YOU'RE STEPHEN STILLS."

There was no response. He just kept singing and playing as
if I weren't even there. It was then I noticed the white gook
gathering at the corners of his mouth, the same kind I was
plagued with after being loaded on speed for a while, you know,
it happens to the best of us, you're so tweaked out you forget to
swallow your own saliva and as you talk and whip your tongue
around, you whip your spit and it turns to foamy cream and so as I noticed,
it dawned on me, "This mother fucker's just as fucking loaded as I am" but
no big deal, far be it from me to judge anyone harshly for the taking of
their pleasures.

So here I was, ready to explode, trying to find a way to make my old buddy
acknowledge me, I mean I was not concerned with being self contained or
politically correct, because you must take into
account, I ALSO WAS LOADED ON SPEED; I'M TALKING ABOUT PUMPED THE
HELL UP AND OUT TO SING, NOT LISTEN, NOT TO HIM OR ANYBODY ELSE.
Biting my tongue I once more waited but the instant he finished his song I
immediately implored him, "Aren't you Stephen Stills?" Once more he ignored
me, began to play and sing another tune.

This was too fucking much, the last straw, I didn't give a
shit who the fuck he was, HE WAS PLAYING MY ROSIE AND IGNORING
ME AT THE SAME TIME AND THAT WAS GONNA STOP REAL QUICK. I bellowed, "YOU ARE
STEPHEN STILLS AREN'T YOU?" He stopped playing. He leaned back and said with
huge annoyance, "OF COURSE I'M STEVEN STILLS!!!" Not one bit fazed, I grew
even more excited, words spilling like alphabet soup from my lips, "STEVE,
DON'T YOU REMEMBER ME? WE USED TO PLAY TOGETHER IN THE VILLAGE, DON'T YOU
REMEMBER, WE WERE PLAYING THAT SONG "MONEY" AT THE CAFE WAH, DON'T YOU
REMEMBER ME AND THE AMPS BLEW OUT WHILE WE WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF OUR ACT,
DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

Not a spark of recognition appeared in those cool blue eyes,
not until I mentioned "DON'T YOU REMEMBER ME, I WAS MARRIED TO
SAL LOMBARDO?" That did the trick. I guess being reminded of the piece of
ass he never got to have was what made it stand out, as finally, he was able
to place me. I watched as his pupils grew pinned and his eyes focused for
the first time and he said, "Oh yeah, I remember you."

No, "How you been," no, "Gee, it's good to see you, glad
you're still alive; we had some good times back then in the old
days didn't we," just, "Oh yeah, I remember you."

Okay. He remembered me. That had been taken care of. Now back to what he
really was there for, just like me, he wanted to jack off, he was loaded and
away from his guitar when he came upon me, never expecting to be struck by
the immediate need to musically masturbate in public. But here was a white
woman, SINGIN THE BLUES AND NOT HALF ASS BAD EITHER AND HE WAS INSPIRED TO
SHOW ME UP RIGHT THEN AND THERE, TEACH ME A LESSON IN HUMILITY.

And so he began to play again, but not before he banged my
Rosie against the wall he was leaning on at which point I chided
him, said in a not too friendly voice and quite loudly besides, "HEY, BE
CAREFUL!" That was when he made one of the most omnipotent and inappropriate
remarks anyone has every made to me in my entire fucking life. He said
quietly and steadily, "I can replace the guitar." Looking deep into what I
began to suspect might be very shallow eyes I stated, "OH NO, YOU CAN'T
REPLACE THE GUITAR, THAT'S ROSIE, SHE WRITES MUSIC."

Okay, enuf said. Even though I was not pleased at the bemused expression as
he "humored me" and nodded "okay," I didn't protest as he continued, playing
about two more songs, still pumped the hell up and although I was polite,
behaving like a good little audience, what I really wanted was to either
sing WITH him or have him listen to me play too, TAKE TURNS while "I show
him something," then "he shows me something," you know, "musical fencing,"
and so I said after what I thought was a fair
enough amount of time, "Let me do a little piece I wrote, I'd
love to show it to you."

Reluctantly he hands me the guitar and I begin to play while
looking down at the fret board, my mind deep in the garden of my
music, wondering which flowers I should pick for him and believing I was
getting the chance of a lifetime, plucked the biggest
and best blue rose I had, THEN SANG MY GUTS OUT FOR THE BASTARD,
I mean, don't get me wrong now, nothing too dramatic, blues is
never about overkill, but when I looked up, there was nothing, only a void,
one empty black space where he had been standing moments before.

He was gone. He'd left with not even a goodbye, left so
completely, there was a pull in the atmosphere, threatening to
suck me along with it. I put my guitar down and sighed, which was when I
noticed, "Oh no," there was a hole in Rosie. STEPHEN STILLS HIMSELF HAD
BANGED A HOLE IN MY BELOVED LITTLE GIRL, DAMAGED MY BEAUTIFUL PRECIOUS
GUITAR, FOREVER INJURING HER. Not only that, it was all my fault I had
failed to protect her and instead handed her over to him without even a
feeble protest. Needless to say, I sure didn't feel like singing anymore. I
tenderly and gently put Rosie in her hard shell case where she'd be safe,
the one that was supposed to be strong enough to keep her from being smashed
even if she was dropped out of an airplane, after which we sadly went home.

It's been nearly thirty years and the hole is still there. I never got
around to having it fixed. For one thing, it's in a delicate place and in
the process of repair she could be hurt more than helped. Another thing, I
am really fussy about who works on the baby and I just haven't run into any
legendary guitar repairmen lately - not since Charlie Le Bow (sp?) died
(RIP). Thank heavens it never noticeably affected Rosie's sound but I know
it hurt her self esteem. I myself had never handled her roughly, although
when I found her it was evident she was well broken in, all scratched up
from the brutal use of a savage pick, but I adopted her anyway because I
like scars, having quite a few of my own, my badges of honor and courage,
and besides, no matter what her appearance, she is alive, the second I
touched her I felt her spirit swell under my hand as to this day she's still
bursting with energy. And so I rescued her as she rescued me and promised
the plain little brown sparrow that no one would ever hurt her again.

But Stephen Stills did, he hurt her; I watched him do it
right in front of me and I didn't even realize. That's the part
that makes me feel the worst.

While I've got your attention (hopefully) I'd like to tell y'all a little
story about something very special that happened between me and Rosie. A day
or so after I bought her, I got the deepest inclination, like a voice from
out of the clouds commanded me; there was no question; HER NAME WAS TO BE
ROSIE. And one year later I found out - ROSY IS MADE OF ROSEWOOD. HOW DO YOU
LIKE THAT? A coincidence? I don't think so.

Meanwhile, wherever you might be Stephen Stills, IF YOU'RE
READING THIS, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED. YOU KNOW DAMN WELL YOU
BANGED A HOLE IN MY ROSIE, THAT'S PROBABLY WHY YOU SNUK OFF LIKE
A THIEF IN THE NITE. YOU PROBABLY THOUGHT TO YOURSELF, "SHIT,
NOW I'LL NEVER GET RID OF THIS BITCH. SHE'S GOING TO CLING TO ME
LIKE AN ALBATROSS AROUND MY NECK; WANT ME TO MAKE IT UP TO HER BY
GETTING HER A RECORDING CONTRACT; SHE'LL PROBABLY INSIST THAT I
FUCK HER BRAINS OUT TOO," and maybe I would have tried, shot my
best shot, but I can take no for an answer...I can do it fairly
gracefully besides, but meanwhile, YOU BROKE MY GUITAR YOU INCON-
SIDERATE BOOB AND YOU DID NOT EVEN APOLOGIZE, NOT EVEN TO ROSIE
HERSELF. OH YEAH, ONE OTHER LITTLE THING. YOU CAN BET I'LL NEVER FORGET. "OF
COURSE, YOU'RE STEVEN STILLS."

the end.

Emerald Lagoon
© Anntelope 1985

There is this place I found, quite by accident mind you, and odd I even
noticed, because as human animal and partly predator, it is most often
movement which catches my eye. But this? This was the absence of movement,
a core of quiet, and stillness complete.

Flying from tree to tree, the birds give it perspective, while echoes from
their songs summon forth memories from the bottom of the pool, memories
caught since the beginning of time, held there fast by living roots and
mystical vibrations. But now, like a flock of scattering birds, this gift
is released to freedom, and briefly, my eye, when, as an echo to the ear, it
becomes to my sight.

I guess you might say I've been careless with my prize, after all, neither
do I worship it, nor do I make living sacrifices in its honor; oh, I wrote
it a corny song, a poem, now this story, but still, I can't deny a lack of
proper reverence since I do lose it often. Sometimes I even forget how
lovely it is. But you don't know what I'm talking about do you?

It's my lagoon I speak of, my "Emerald Lagoon". There's not really any
water, only the ghost of water, but when the light's right, and the heat is
shimmering, this mirage is as refreshing as the ocean's spray. And though
the scent may only stay for a second, like a drop of rose water to a slender
wrist, or a waft of Jasmine carried along on a passing breeze, once noticed,
it is never to be forgotten.

My lagoon can off-times be found drifting weightless over the graveyard on
Second St., right off First Avenue, one of Manhattan's oldest marble
cemeteries, an historical landmark. From an eagle's eye, the little lawn
might appear as a patch of green jewelry, maybe a ring for the city's
finger, but to me here on the ground, it is a "tree zoo", or maybe they're
free to come and go, and it's we who are locked up, but however you choose
to receive them, they're there, thank God, those trees are there.

Sometimes, like tall green witches, wearing long, thin peasant skirts,
magically and without moving, they begin slowly dancing, bending and
swaying, shaking their leaves, wiggling their hips in primitive healing
motions, wooden gypsy bracelets jangling from their limbs, all to silent,
ground rumbling music, when, wait a minute...shhh...there is it - I see it
- a luminous pond over the small clearing in this tiny faeries' forest -
it's the reflection of water, I swear.

I don't know how I ever found the vision; perhaps she found me, just sort of
"getting there" one morning, doing tricks in the corner of my eye, turning
sideways, giggling, playing peek a boo, flattening trimly against the close
horizon and disappearing, then playfully erupting like a joyous shout, gaily
flashing her brightest parts and twirling like a ballet dancer.

Other times, as water seeks its own level, she seeks the groove of my
awareness, settling in the V of my sights and hovering there. Then, for as
long as I can fully concentrate without even a mental blink - keep her
focused dead center and straight before me - I can hold the visual prize -
my "Emerald Lagoon".

Her perfume rises in ever expanding and graceful circles, straight to my
nostrils, flaring them wide. They shiver as it slips down the back of my
throat like a spoonful of green Summer, a lovely desert of jade chiffon,
topped with sprinkles of damp chartreuse and shaves of lime, the sparkling
freshness spinning on my taste buds.

My lagoon is edged by tiny beaches, these decorated with intricately layered
sand paintings, lavender, green and red. Watching me back from the tree's
tallest limbs sit huge blazing parrots, their flaming plumes setting the
wind on fire.

It only lasts a few minutes - the fading always saddens, but even as the
bright colors pale, there is other loveliness to distract me. So what if
the tropical birds have turned to city sparrows, do they not reflect
rainbows on their oily feathers? So what if the shiny black hawk has become
a crow and an angry one at that? His cry still lends a slanting cut to the
many facets of beauty, the warning of his caw crackling as it skips over the
atmosphere like a storm across the ocean, like lightening might sound.

Having much to learn, I often lose focus, but when I'm lucky, I can catch
it back, grateful to see it, if only for an instant, the pond, the pool, the
clean, quiet lagoon, at least, I thought I did, till I realize I've
misplaced it once more, and it's gone, and I am left to wait, to long for
that moment, when I too shall become of the spirit. It will be then I shall
leap off the edge of my roof, as across the air I stride - right to that
exact spot where her mouth is smiling. There I shall dive into the face of
this loving water, beneath her surface without a ripple I will spear. And
when I rise, I will be cleansed of my earthly body, which has become
burdensome, and soiled and heavy to lift. Finally, weightless and painless,
I shall be happy forever in the tops of trees.
The End.

"The Perfect Squelch"
Anntelope ©1998

The End