It Is A Spiritual Axiom

May 25, 2015

So “they” say.

That whenever I am disturbed by any person, place, or thing, I am at fault.

Well fuck me.

There it is.

Who here has heard of the “no response response?”

Raise your hands.

Um yeah.

I got it.

I called.

I left you a message.

You don’t call back.

That means no.

But I mean.

Uh.

Wait.

FUCK.

I want something out of this, I want a result, I want a response, I want, I want.

I want to shut the fuck up about it.

I want to move on.

And with that.

Yes.

I pulled a hair geographic today.

Hot Hot Pink

Hot Hot Pink

I mean.

If I can’t beat them, join them.

Or whatever the hell that means.

I am ok with not getting a response.

In fact, last night as I was masturbating.

Oh yeah.

It’s going to be one of those blogs, if you’re related to me, you can just stop reading it right now.

No holds bar.

This is a “I should probably,” but won’t at all “regret,” blog post.

While I was taking care of self, proper self-care like and having a great time with it, I realized.

Oh.

Well, there you go.

I’m not fantasizing at all about the ex.

Despite having given over to him, or perhaps to the fantasy of him, the majority of my brain space yesterday after I called and left a message about getting together to have coffee, I was not in fact, fantasizing about him at all.

Oh.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Suffice to say, it was not my ex.

And it was good.

Mmmm hmmm.

Then I slept like a baby.

Slept so well, I slept until 10:37 a.m.

I can not remember the last time I slept past 10:30 a.m., let alone 9:30 a.m., even on my weekends I tend to be up by 8:30 a.m. at the latest.

Look at me.

Sleeping in.

Yes.

I had a late and leisurely breakfast and even skipped doing the normal load of Sunday morning laundry I typically do (although, I will admit, I couldn’t put it off all day and did in fact, do a load, it’s in the dryer now) and the house cleaning.

Sometimes a girl just has to really take the whole damn day off.

No cooking.

No grocery shopping.

Well, light cooking, oatmeal with apple and blueberries and a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, lots of lovely Ritual pour over coffee, and lunch as well as dinner was homemade “fried” brown rice from the leftover vegetable stir fry I made yesterday with scrambled egg and avocado and tomatillos (note to self, tomatillos are hella good!  I never have cooked with them before, they added a nice flavor to the rice).

I did meet with two ladies and do some reading and writing and sharing of the stuff.

Then nada.

I had my lunch, put on some jazz, Miles Davis, Relaxin’ With The Miles Davis Quartet, drank some tea and read my book on the chaise lounge for two hours.

I had plans.

I was going to go out and do stuff and things.

But the fog was heavy and the air chilly and I just wanted to curl up and stay where I was.

Sometimes, though, I have to go somewhere.

So I went to pink, I mean, really pink.

I picked up some Manic Panic at the salon yesterday when I went to get my nails done, just because I wanted to try one last color in the trio of pinks that I have been recently experimenting with.

Each of which, note to self, must get myself to an event with black light soon, glow in the dark.

Seriously.

My hair will glow in the dark, under black light.

Get thee to a night club lady.

Not that I have any plans to go hit the club circuit this weekend.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (the SOMA) I would have been rejoicing at a three-day weekend, I would have been at least three bags deep into it and looking to score more and be at the door at the End Up ready to make the most of the holiday weekend.

Not so much now.

And I find this much better.

In case you were wondering.

Anyway.

I went radically pink.

It is startling, fun, eye-catching, I won’t be missed.

“You are not easy to miss,” he told me, “even if I didn’t say anything, I knew when you showed up, where you were, I would sit and stare from a far.”

Oh lovey.

I don’t want to be stared at though.

I want to engage and I did have a moment of thinking, am I self-sabotaging, going this crazy hair color?

And then.

NO!

I am fucking having fun and to top it off I threw on a little pink glitter to make me feel better.

I don’t dress for a man, or to get a man, or to have a man, or get asked out on a date.

Nope.

I dress for myself.

I love that.

Being authentically myself is one of the best things I have discovered about living my life with a clear head.

Oh.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind at some point.

But right now.

I’m in the pink.

And I’m not mad at him.

I got, suddenly, how hard this has to be for him too.

I was reminded of the few times during the 90 days, twice, when he reached out via text and I did not respond.

Now I know how it feels.

Sucks.

But it won’t kill me and as I was more than happy to supplant the fantasy in my head with a fantasy of another, I knew in my underneath all that pink hair, my brain was slowly coming to terms with my heart.

And I could walk away and not text and not call back and move on.

Frothy, pink, emotional appeals seldom suffice.

I choose today to act like a woman.

To not just talk the talk, but to walk the walk.

Which meant today, hopping on my bicycle in the gloom and getting out of dodge, my brain, for a little while and riding out to Saint Gabriel’s up on Ulloa and 41st for an hour.

Where I was reminded of the spiritual axiom and laughed out loud when it was mentioned.

Then I blushed as pink as my hair.

But I got the message.

Sometimes it just takes a day to sink in.

From my head to my heart.

By way of a small hair color geographic.

Tickled pink to be back home.

Happy and free.

In my own self once more.

Nuthin’ But Fun

May 24, 2015

I inadvertently just had a date with myself.

I was only going down to Java Beach to get out of my house and read a book over tea.

I had done the unexplainable.

I went to the library today and checked out books.

Look at the old lady go.

“Your principles today are fun and flexibility,” she said to me as I explained the trepidation that comes over me when I don’t have things planned out.

“I know you need to feel like you are doing something constructive, just let the day unfold, have fun,” she finished and smiled.

Who are you smiling at lady?

I put my head down on top of the book and sighed.

“Ok.”

I did alright.

Not the funnest day ever, but really, not a bad one at all, and there was some fun in there, inadvertent, as I said and tongue in cheek for sure, the name of the band that was playing at the cafe?

Nuthin’ But Fun.

Ha.

Ha.

God is funny.

I had fun too.

Sipping my tea, reading my book from the library, people watching.

I like to people watch.

I liked watching the inexplicable interaction between the counter girl and the man whose sandwhich, a big goopy ham and cheese, explain that it was not the vegetarian grilled cheese he had ordered and the girl responding by offering to pull the meat off the bread.

I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

The look of incredulity on the man’s face, the look of annoyance on the girl’s face for obviously having fucked up the order and now she had to take it back to the kitchen and it was probably a habit, this fucking up orders, and then, “or, I suppose, I could ask them to make it again,” came out of her mouth.

She hadn’t picked up the plate, she, I, the elderly vegetarian man who was flummoxed by the interaction, we all stared at the thick swath of ham on the plate with cheese congealing over it,  “um, yes, please, I”m a vegetarian…..”

Big long pause.

Sigh, almost audible, trying hard to not roll her eyes, the young woman picked up the plate, and turned it around, “I totally understand!  I”m a vegetarian too.”

I just about snorted hot tea out my nose.

I was at the cafe, Java Beach, for nearly two and a half hours.

I watched, the scene, the community of families and moms and dads and friends, kids, teenagers on dates, old codgers in knit caps, bicyclists fueling up on soup and coffee before getting back out on their fancy touring bicycles, the people come and go, little waves of neighborhood ebb and wane.

It was sweet.

And I got lost in my book.

Lost to the point that I found myself laughing out loud at a funny part of the book and completely tuning out the music coming from the band.

Which was louder than you would have thunk and the manager had to ask them to turn down the volume after a very boisterous rendition of “They Say It’s Your Birthday,” for a friend in the audience.

I was a fly on the wall.

But at least I wasn’t a fly on my wall.

I got out and I was out a lot of today.

After I left my person this afternoon at Tart to Tart to go off on pursuit of fun, I decided a mani/pedi/waxing session was needed.

Especially since I will be flying down to San Diego on Thursday and suspect that the weather there will be more conducive to sandals then the weather here has been.

At least the gloom lifted for a while.

The wind came in around 3 p.m. and pushed away the clouds, it was clear, sunny, bright.

Breezy as fuck and still a bit chill, but sunny.

I decided to treat myself to a lady’s lunch after my mani/pedi/wax session and went to Pacific Cajun on 9th and Lincoln Avenue for a Wasabi bowl with brown rice and Hawaiian Poke.

So freaking good.

I did some window shopping after and then strolled over to Green Apple to grab a book.

But.

I wasn’t feeling it.

Green Apple.

I don’t know if it was the loud conversations that I kept stumbling into, but I wasn’t comfortable browsing the stacks and decided that though it was not much fun, it was necessary, I was going go grocery shopping.

On my ride back to the Outer Sunset I saw the Sunset Branch of the Public Library.

It’s been a minute since I have checked out a library book.

And the nice thing.

Checking out books is cheaper than buying them.

And I still get that nice cracking open a book feeling.

I got there fifteen minutes before the branch was closing, grabbed a couple of books and hit it home.

Some shopping in the neighborhood, some cooking food for the weekend–vegetable stir fry and sautéed ground turkey with Bragg’s Amino’s and brown rice, and fresh ripe, organic, gorgeous, sweet red cherries.

Then I called my ex-boyfriend.

Bahahahahaha.

Oh.

The gift that keeps on giving.

I stopped and thought about it.

I’ll send a text.

I’ll not.

I want to get this over with.

I don’t have to do anything right now.

Pray.

Write it down and drop it in the God box.

“Why don’t you put the weekend in your God box and see what happens,” she suggested to me.

I wrote down my ex on a scrap of paper.

I said a prayer and dropped it through the coin slot of my hot pink bunny bank, aka, my God box.

Then I wrote “the weekend” down on another, said another prayer and did the same.

Then I ate my dinner.

Never call on an empty stomach.

Texting is childish, act like an adult, call.

So I called.

It went to voicemail.

I asked him out for coffee sometime over the weekend if he was free.

Then I decided to get the hell out of the house.

A friend text’ed me to say hello while I was packing my bag to get out of the house and I told him what I did and it felt fine.

And I feel fine.

I don’t feel bad at all.

What I have realized is that I want things to go my way, I want to control how I am seen and what happens next.

I keep expecting to bump into him, he lives in the freaking neighborhood for Pete’s sake, but our schedules were wildly divergent when we were dating, why would that have changed?

I haven’t, with the exception of once, seen him.

I have walked past his house twice since the breakup.

Really.

Not bad, when you consider it’s four blocks away.

I actually felt ok with the message and the call and when it’s all said and done, it’s said and done.

I walked to the cafe, the sunset spreading in spectacular manner over the ocean (I would have walked to the beach to catch it, but the wind was just too fierce) and into a jam space, the locals all gathering for the blues cover band and I got my tea.

I found a place in the back by the bar and sat with my book and let myself have fun getting lost in the book and the small world of community unfolding before me.

I even forgot about the phone call until I booted up my computer and the Facebook feed featured a photo I was not expecting to see.

“I’m not looking at his feed at all this weekend,” I told her over the coffee at Tart to Tart.

And I haven’t.

Then this photo popped into my news feed.

It was sort of like getting punched.

Grr.

Maybe I will take a break from ye old FaceCrack entirely for the rest of the weekend.

I have books to read.

And fun to be had.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

More fun.

I suspect.

I am wide open.

Available.

Let the fun begin.

Cold, Grey, Foggy

May 23, 2015

But not lonely.

Alone.

But alright with it.

Not whistling in the dark.

Whistling through the dark.

The buffalo paddock was glowing with mist as I rode my bicycle through the depths of Golden Gate Park on my ride home this evening, the bounced back light from the underbelly of the low-lying clouds and the thick fog swirling in from the ocean, made the meadow look as though it was laced with snow.

And it felt cold enough on my ride home for me, for just a moment, to actually think that the field was full of snow.

I did a bit of a double take and then chuckled at my misperception.

I should always chuckle at my poor perspective, my inability to ever see anything quite clearly.

It does seem like so much is shrouded in fog and mist.

I can be magical though.

The ride home, especially the stretch from the waterfall through to the buffalo paddock always does it to me, especially when there is little or nor traffic on the road and the glimmer of the lamp posts marching stolid through the dark makes me feel like I am on the cusp of the wilds, that I am in that in between land.

Could be fantasy.

Could be reality.

Sometimes I call it Narnia.

I am reminded of the Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, the lamp-post in the woods, the snow flurries around the halo of light, I feel like that when I ride through the mists and fog and head home to my small spot by the sea.

“You’re all the way out there,” my friend said to me as we caught up hanging out on the side-walk across from the SafeWay in the Church and Market neighborhood.

Three more blocks and I would be at the sea.

There’s a special kind of absence of light when I turn off Chain of Lakes and make my final descent down Lincoln Avenue to 46th, cornering like I’m still riding my bicycle in fixed gear, there is a blackness, a lack of light, that even should I not know the sea was there, is indicative of the ocean being there.

The edge of the world.

I could just drop right off the edge.

Not that I plan on anytime soon.

I could become morose, I could wish for more than what I have, but that is just a misty shroud of self-pity that doesn’t serve me or my fellows.

It’s really just selfishness masquerading around in fancy pants clothes.

I love my warm little space.

It is exactly as it should be.

Pretty and quaint.

My life is exactly as it should be as well.

And I have a three-day weekend.

That is nice.

I did have a moment when I was in the middle of the day, a stretch that is not always relaxing, but heralds that it is closer to the end of the day then the beginning, and I thought, I am just not going to make it all the way to the weekend.

And what do you know.

I did.

And it’s here.

And yup.

No plans.

Get excited.

I remind myself.

Things are going to happen.

Stuff is happening things are brewing.

There is not a single reason in the world to be troubled.

Just because I can’t see through the fog doesn’t mean that something fabulous.

Amazing.

Astounding.

Miraculous.

Out of the ordinary.

May happen.

I have a confession to make, now that I am through a good chunk of the blog and have lost a number of readers, I mean, how long can you wax poetic about fog and mist before someone decides to go watch some down loaded porn?

FYI.

I write about working for love and being a nanny and I get like zip reads.

I write anything about sex.

I get reads.

I know what you all want.

I know my audience.

But do I know myself?

Here’s one.

I need to stop looking at my ex-boyfriends FaceBook page.

I’m about to unfriend the man again.

It’s just about to start taking too much time of mine.

It’s just about to start.

Ha!

I make myself fucking laugh.

It is taking up too much of my attention.

He posted something and I found myself reacting and I was like, no, no, no.

It’s not my business where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s hanging out with, but, dude, we’re supposed to be doing that together–fucking jealousy.

Didn’t I already work through this?

And then I knew I have not, not completely,  there’s always a little more work I get to do.

I have to stay away.

When I go down that road it isn’t shrouded in mist.

It’s a bright fucking light that says, you’re not good enough, he didn’t want you, nobody wants you, might as well go cry in my tea.

And then I focus on all the things that are lacking in my life.

Which is nothing.

Once I get disgusted with myself and tear my eyes away from the stream of posts, that are.

NONE OF MY BUSINESS TO BE READING.

Ugh.

So.

Maybe I’ll try that this weekend.

I won’t check his Facebook feed for the rest of the weekend.

That will probably help me see what is actually happening in front of me.

Maybe I’ll actually be available to the man I’m supposed to be with instead of focusing on the one who didn’t want me.

Good rule of thumb.

Focus on what’s in front of me, rather than focusing on what I do not have.

That whole compare and despair thing.

Because I am enough.

There’s not a thing wrong with me and my ex and I aren’t together because we’re not suppose to be.

That’s all.

It’s not some big mystery.

It’s just life.

It’s just an experience.

And the nice thing about coming in from the fog and the chill, with my fingers stiff from riding in the misty weather, I can always warm up, change my perspective, get cozy, and be happy that I’m not having a mystical experience.

I’m just having an experience.

It’s called living.

And it’s pretty damn good.

Especially when I mind my own business.

It’s good then.

REALLY.

REALLY.

REALLY.

Good.

Heading Into The Weekend

May 22, 2015

Wondering what I am going to do.

I have three days.

I don’t have a lot of plans.

There are times when not having a lot of plans can make me crazy, or better, I make myself crazy with the thinking and the trying to figure it out.

I live in San Francisco.

There is always something to do.

Saturday, I am happy to report, I will finally be having dinner at Cajun Pacific.

A small restaurant in my neighborhood, literally, around the corner a block away, UGH.

NOOOO.

They’re closed for a private party on Saturday.

Damn it man.

I was thrilled when my friend suggested it, they are only open Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, very small, limited menu, always changing.

I have walked past it a number of times and drooled over the menu.

As I would not be able to partake of a number of the dishes there, but you know, I would enjoy smelling it.

Sigh.

Oh well.

I guess my Saturday won’t be including Cajun food.

I will probably still play catch up with my friend, it just won’t be over a bowl of gumbo.

“I’ve been reading your blogs,” the text read, “you sound lonely.”

Ayup.

But.

It’s not so bad at the moment.

Most of the lonely sneaks in when I am under the weather and my defenses are down.

The cold that I have had for the last two weeks seems to be waning and I am glad for it.

I don’t have plans, but I will do something fun for myself.

Probably go to Free Gold Watch and play some pinball, maybe wander around the Haight a little, perhaps go catch a movie, I’m down for Mad Max, although, it feels like it would just be a preview of Burning Man, but that’s just me.

I have my usual commitments to do and folks to see, but yeah, I do have a bit of down time and since Monday is a holiday I can act like Sunday is not the early to bed day for me it typically is.  Monday mornings are my earliest start of the week and I am up by 6:30 a.m on Mondays.  Which means in bed by 10:30 p.m. on Sundays and then usually my brain is too busy chatting at me to actually fall asleep until midnight (like this past Sunday, that was obnoxious) and I drag a bit at the beginning of the week.

Anyway.

I am wiling to suspend the belief that I won’t have a thing to do and will mope around and be lonely.

NO MOPING.

I really do feel better.

I’ll go to the salon and get my mani/pedi/wax game on.

That’s always a treat.

Hmmm.

In fact, maybe I should do a session at Kabuki or get a massage.

I can’t remember the last time I went to Kabuki, it’s been over a year and a half.

I wouldn’t mind going out to the Banya either, but Kabuki makes better sense for me travel wise, the whole not having a scooter thing, which I thought would be more on my mind than it has been.

I have forgotten it almost completely.

It was just last Friday that I signed over the paperwork to have it recycled and my brain has not had any discomfort around it.

None at all.

So nice.

Not to be obsessed with it.

In fact, I’m not particularly obsessed with anything at the moment.

I don’t have anything that is bugging me or nagging at me.

I just feel like I’m swimming a long.

There’s plenty happening over the next few months, only three months before I start graduate school!

And the not having a lot to do on a three-day weekend is absolutely ok with me.

First, it makes room for me to relax and second, it makes room for surprise and spontaneity.

I’m going to practice saying yes to things this weekend.

I’m going to not plan anything and see what happens.

I bet I can say yes to a lot of things that haven’t even occurred to me to do and I will have a terrific weekend.

No worrying allowed.

Which is a good rule of thumb for me anyway.

“Thank you, we received your addendum to the Diversity Leadership Scholarship, we will be in touch with you in the next two weeks,” sincerely….

Whatever happens, it will be alright.

I felt completely free of anxiety.

I haven’t been brought this far a long to be dropped now.  I am going to graduate school and the money will be there, whether via scholarships or grants or financial aid student loans, however, whenever, I know it will show up.

I have utter faith in it.

I have felt led and ushered along this path and once I surrendered to going to graduate school and pursuing something completely different from what I thought I should do, the path was revealed.

I can have that same faith in the rest of my life.

The relationships with friends, family, with my future partner, with employers with whomever, will happen exactly as they are supposed to be.

I don’t have to look for something or someone to fill the hole of extra time.

It will fill itself without my worry.

There is nothing to miss out.

I don’t have to have FOMO (fear of missing out) in my own life.

I do plenty.

Instead of trepidation I choose excitement and eagerness to greet whatever comes down this weekend, what ever comes to me in this life.

A large raven circled over my head as I rode my bicycle down John F. Kennedy Drive in Golden Gate Park, the gloaming of the clouds, the twilight fast approaching, I saw its heavy wings flap over me and circle.

I was reminded of my friend who passed and thought.

What would he do?

And I knew that in my being alive, present, here, doing this thing, that I will get to continue having experiences.

There is no running out of them.

That’s just not what I foresee for my life.

Even if I can’t see where it is going.

I know that it is happening.

And that is exciting.

Anticipating a bright forecast for the weekend.

No matter what the emotional weather bears.

This experiential creature will be living.

As fully as I can.

Saying yes to everything.

Things That Are Taboo

May 21, 2015

Wanting to have sex with your ex boyfriend.

Or maybe, you know, just um, cuddle.

Yeah.

That.

My motives are shit right now and I know it and so I won’t be seeing my ex boyfriend any time soon.

It’s just in the air, the fog, the mist, the shiny, slippery streets–it’s so foggy out there that when I left the Sunset Youth Services a few moments ago I thought at first that it was raining.

But no.

Fog.

It’s lovely though and put me in the mood for snuggling.

I choose to snuggle with myself this evening.

Being in communication with my ex has been interesting and I have done some more work around me and how I respond and feelings and all that and why, gosh, it just turns out that I am human.

“You obviously had a strong bond,” he said to me over tea at the Church Street Cafe, “girl, you too were electric, there was chemistry there.”

“And that doesn’t necessarily go away, connection is connection, it’s when the instinct gets blown out of whack, that’s the problem.”

Yup.

So.

No calling up the ex, not inviting him over for a late night cup of tea.

If I were to see him it would best be in daylight across a table in a busy cafe.

No touching.

Ahem.

God.

I miss being touched.

I met someone tonight who I have seen around a little and we recognized one another from a different part of town.

He shook my hand and I just stood there.

Human contact.

Such a small thing and yet, so necessary.

I think about the failure to thrive orphanage video I watched in psychology class years and years and years ago, about the babies that had everything they needed, food, nutrition, a bed to sleep in, clothes, but no love.

And what happens?

They die.

I mean.

That’s serious.

I’m not there.

And I love myself enough to know that I won’t let myself get there.

But I can still get caught up in the what to wear thing and the being attractive thing and I was going to head out this evening after work and go straight to my place and do the deal in my pajamas after coming home from a long day at work and taking a smashing hot shower, but I got it in my head I would bump into the ex and boy, I better look cute.

Thanks brain.

Now I need to wash off the makeup.

But.

In reality, it helped, I like looking cute and you never know who you might run into, who might take your hand and squeeze it tight.

Of course.

I don’t remember his name, but the kind eyes were bright and the hand was strong and the arm covered in tattoos.

I like all of these things.

I like that he said he was in the neighborhood too, 48th and Kirkham.

I like that my brain also wondered, is he gay?

‘Cause I can pick ’em like that.

I like that he said, my class is done, I’ll be back here on Wednesday nights again.

Good.

So.

Something, someone to look forward to.

That’s been the other thing.

With the exception of someone from absolute left field who as it turns out, though attracted to me, though someone who has had a crush on me (!) reached out to me, he’s not available and I haven’t had anyone that I have been crushing on.

I haven’t had any zing.

Anything or anyone that makes me get all a quiver and excited.

I miss that feeling too.

That nice shiver of anticipation.

And kissing.

Oh.

I miss kissing.

I need to be kissed.

For reals.

It’s been four and a half months since the breakup.

There’s been no kissing, no sex, no snuggling, no cuddling, no nothing.

My bicycle seat’s been getting all the action.

And I look, good damn it.

In fact, I look better than when I was with my ex.

I dropped about five pounds and tightened up a bit, all the extra bicycle riding, went down a dress size, got my hair shaped up, and colored a fabulous pink, and I haven’t gotten any play.

Granted.

I could have.

That whole trying Tinder for a day was enough to let me know there are plenty of guys out there who have no interested in whether or not I can read a sentence in a book or carry a conversation, as long as I can bend over and lift my skirt.

Please.

You have to try a little harder.

I ride by Good Vibrations every day on my way back to my house, the one on Valencia at 17th, and I keep finding myself wondering if it’s just time for a new vibrator.

Sigh.

Nothing wrong with a new sex toy.

Let’s be adults here folks.

But my dildo can’t kiss the back of my neck while I play the soundtrack to Amelie and listen to the whisper of the fog horns off the coast herald the misty night swathing the neighborhood.

I wonder then if it’s time to climb back into the dating websites or if I just hold steady for a while yet.

See what happens when I’m not looking, just keep going about my day and my life and someone will notice, step forward, and say, yes, let me kiss you in the door way, press you against the orange painted gate of your house and run my hands though your wild pink hair.

I will here Yann Tiernan in my head and sigh and melt into the air and the fog will swirl my heart away out over the ocean.

I don’t want sex.

That’s the real taboo thing.

I can talk sex all day long, and I do want sex, don’t let my words mislead.

But I want the courtship first, the date, I want to pick up a book and hold his head in my lap and read to him and I want to be wrapped, tucked tight, really, in the crook of a man’s arm and held, guided, led through the mists out to the beach, where the love smashes itself on the sand and the electric blue jellyfish flay themselves on the sand, melting into the tide line like mermaid tears.

That’s what is taboo.

Wanting love.

To be loved.

To want romance.

That is the real deal breaker.

I wait for it.

The carousel will stop turning and I will grab the brass ring and sail around the perimeter of the square, while accordions play and the sun sprays on my face a calliope of desire and love.

Until then.

Another cup of tea.

A few more words on this page.

I open my heart to give and receive love.

I shall start with me.

Always Stop For Love

May 20, 2015

I had to.

I saw it there.

On the side of the road, up in the gloaming of the meadow, flowers blooming in the trees, small candles lit and spread across the ground, a string of white circus lights strung in the tree, and LOVE glowing in the back ground.

I mean.

I had to stop.

It was a tiny wedding happening underneath a flowering dogwood tree in Golden Gate Park in a little meadow just across the way from the Stow Lake parking entrance.

I was riding my bicycle and coming up the only hill on my ride through the park, thus a place I would not be inclined to stop, not up hill, not on my stride.

But.

Love.

Glowing in the trees.

Love

Love

You can stop.

You have to stop.

You are stopping.

I mean, sometimes I just gotta stop, hop off the bike, let in the love, bask in the reflection of warm lights and blossoming trees, of love so soft and pretty and pressing, there, just there, against my heart.

Don’t roll along so fast, it says, slow down, lovely girl, wake up, look around, there it is, all around you, just waiting for you to let it in, see it there, just in the trees, glowing warm and cozy, entrancing you to stop and look around.

My heart just opened and I took a very discreet photograph and left the couple to their vows and their own private love and looked up at the sky, the stars hanging low on the horizon, the last of the light from the sunset lingering in the tree tops and I thanked God for letting me stop, see, and open my heart just a tiny bit more.

It always hurts, that opening up for love.

Being vulnerable.

“Where’s your heart, Carmen?”  My littlest charge asked me.

“On my sleeve,” I replied.

Literally and figuratively.

I am wearing a cardigan with hearts all over it.

And well, I always break my own heart, again, and again, and then again some more.

“I love when you are here, when I wake up, I love you, I love you, I love you, Carmen Cat,” he said to me today when he woke up from his nap.

He rolled over and snuggled into my side and I stroked his small warm back.

“Meow.”

I smiled.

My heart squeezed open some more.

I shared with the mom today that my mind was a little pre-occupied with the task at hand for later tonight–not this blog, but writing in general–getting out the addendum essay to my application to the graduate program at CIIS for the Diversity in Leadership Scholarship.

I had made some phone calls during a small break at work when all the planets aligned and there was a nap happening and both mom and dad were out of the house and I was caught up on the cooking (cheese tortellini with pesto sauce) and cleaning and was about to go on my own lunch break, and I could reach out.

Talk out my crazy.

Talk about how I am not paid for 12th step work and how I was afraid that discussing myself as a sober, clean, recovered woman in my community and what that looked like and how in its own quiet way is a way of being a leader.

What does that look like and what do I mean and how can I be certain that I am not manipulating what I do for my own personal ends?

One of my people chuckled at me, “Carmen, it sounds like this is a gift and you’re afraid to accept it.”

Bingo.

Oof.

Yeah.

And I want to self-sabotage by not writing the essay on some grounds that I don’t have what it takes, when in fact I do and in fact I know that by my own example I lead.

That doesn’t mean I’m a leader, I am but another trusted servant, a worker amongst workers, a fellow amongst fellows, there is nothing unique or special in me that qualifies me to be anything other than that.

But to disclaim the work I do, the way I take my recovery seriously, the things I do, the amount of time and work I put into it, it would be false humility to not recognize those assets.

Yes.

What I have been given is a gift and should I try with all my hardest I won’t ever really be able to repay it.

However, I acknowledged that what I do is important and that I walk the walk, that I don’t just talk the talk.

I am my actions.

Not my thoughts.

So I accept the wisdom and guidance of those with much more time than I living this way of life and wrote the essay.

I wrote it immediately upon coming home.

I asked to carry the message and not the mess and let God speak through me and for me, or write though me, if you will.

Which is what always happens when I let God in.

When I let love in.

The words come.

Some artists call that a muse, I call it love, I call it being a conduit for spirit and I let in that love, those words, and the things that come out often astound me.

Where did that come from?

I stopped asking that a long time ago.

Most of the time I say my prayer and just let it go.

“Thank you for what you said, I can so relate, I really needed to hear that,” she said.

“I have no idea what I said, but you’re welcome,” I said in response and hugged her.

Hugging strangers.

Stopping for love.

Accepting that I am worthy of love and lovable.

Showing up day after day to the feelings.

Potentially lonely/perpetually human/suspended and open

Oh.

OPEN.

Open your eyes and then.

And then.

The love will shine in.

I promise.

I Don’t Know What To Write

May 19, 2015

I mean.

I do.

I always have something to write about here.

Sex.

Not enough sex.

Dating.

Not dating.

Breaking up.

Being single.

Love.

Work.

Burning Man.

My bicycle.

Rent in San Francisco.

Recovery.

I mean.

I have a lot to write about, not including what ever peccadillo is under my hat at the moment.

“You have a really interesting life!” A friend of mine exclaimed to me tonight, “you do so much.”

I don’t even think about it, is my life all that more interesting than any one else’s or is it that I just write about it well, or is it interesting?

Or perhaps a little mix of both.

I mean I feel like, as another friend in the neighborhood expressed to me once, “you can be all dramatic about buying a loaf of bread at the store….and then the bread, it was AMAZING, and I had this insight and wow, bread.”

I told him to fuck off and punched him in the arm.

But.

He’s right.

I can write a hell of a story about nothing at all, it seems.

So.

The title of my blog has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I have nothing to write about.

Plenty happened today.

I worked, I played, I got some recovery, I rode my bicycle, I ate some nice food, I went to BiRite and bought some nice food, I made a beef stew for the family I work for, I played with the boys, I went to the park, 826 Valencia (the only independent pirate supply store in San Francisco, thank you very much) and viewed the fish and dug for treasure in sand drum, I saw a friend and caught up and browsed through all the goodies at Paxton Gate, I finished up at work, covered my commitment, rode my bicycle home, took some time to read a message I got in my e-mail, refused to dwell on it–what am I going to write–took care of some business end of things and took a shower.

Now I am here.

Writing my blog and wondering what am I going to write.

Because it means a lot.

I mean.

A LOT.

Like $30,000.

I don’t know that I have ever had so much hinge on an essay.

Congratulations on your acceptance to the ICP Fall 2015 ICP program!

I’d like to invite you to apply for the ICP Diversity Leadership Scholarship that will be awarded to three eligible students in the Fall 2015 ICP program. This scholarship provides recipients with $10,000.00 each year of the program, a total of $30,000.00 awarded over the course of your ICP education.

The scholarship hinges on three things: financial need, person of color (Latino/Hawaiian Islander or Pacific Islander, check and check), and demonstrates leadership within their community.

I have the financial need.

They received my FAFSA although at first it appeared that they, the school had not, I received a previous e-mail prior to this one asking that I send in my FAFSA post-haste as I was being considered for the scholarship.

Huh?

What?

I sent that sucker in months ago!

I messaged back a few times with my advisor who forwarded my information to the financial aid office and they found it.

Thank you Jeebus.

And despite not speaking a lick of Spanish, I am Puerto Rican and despite not speaking a lick of Hawaiian, I am Polynesian.

The name, hello my name is Carmen Regina Martines, you drank my milk, prepare to die, says it all.

So.

The diversity part is covered and it’s helpful that I am a woman, I mean, it’s not always an advantage to be a woman (though I stridently disagree and could imagine nothing better, I truly love being a woman and I think men have it a lot harder, emotionally anyway, than women do in the areas I find most important–you know all the touchy feely things), but in this case it adds to the cache of my name.

What is tripping me up is the last part.

Demonstrates leadership in community and will continue to do so upon graduation. 

I mean.

I know what that contribution is and I have been contributing to my fellowship for over a decade now and I intend to continue to do so after I graduate and while I am in school and I can’t do school, or anything else in my life that is worthwhile unless I continue to keep giving away what I have been so freely given.

But how the hell to write about that?

I think it’s the “leadership” thing.

I am not a leader in so much as a mentor, a teacher, a person who leads by example, share’s her experience, strength, and hope with another woman and I do loads of service.

But.

I do loads of service to stay sober.

Serene.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

But I don’t head anything up.

Nobody relies on me that way.

If I did something stupid, God please never no, but if I did, there would be someone else to pass the basket and put the money in an envelope, there would be someone else to unlock the doors to the church or start the coffee urn percolating.

There would be someone to unfold the chairs and put out the literature and hug the new person hiding out in the corner.

I cannot put on the title of leader.

I do, however, know that I am important in my community and that I am loved and I feel needed and seen and I want to continue helping and being of service and a part of that is having experiences, sharing them with others, letting people see that I walk through the fear and get to the other side and it’s gorgeous here and you deserve to be here, so come on, let’s go get rocketed into the fourth dimension.

Let’s trudge that happy road of destiny.

Let’s.

I listened to a message when I got home from the commitment before I hopped into the shower; the e-mail taking a back burner–to bear witness to a ladybug and a big interview she had today and how she let things happen and asked to be of service and to let God speak through her and for her.

And there it was.

My answer.

I don’t know how to write about what I am in my community.

I don’t see myself with clear perspective.

But if I can get out-of-the-way and carry the message, not the mess (myself), and write with being of service in mind.

Well.

I might have something.

And it might very well help me pay for school.

If it’s God’s will.

I just take the action and let go of the results.

Pretty simple.

I don’t know what to write.

But.

I do know.

The words will come.

They always do.

That Sounds Like A Really Nice Day!

May 18, 2015

She exclaimed to me over the phone.

We have just started working together and she’s got exuberance, that’s for sure.

And she was right.

As I sit here listening to “Bye Bye Blackbird” with John Coltrane and Miles Davis, it was a really nice day.

It didn’t exactly start that way.

I woke up with a headache.

I don’t often and when I do it’s usually due to being sick and so, the cold lingers on another day, I thought to myself as I looked at my phone, it was still early, go back to sleep.

I managed to get another little sleep snack in, but the head hurt and my stomach was saying hello, wake up, feed me, coffee me, let’s go!

Up I got.

Three ibuprofen, strip the bed sheets, toss laundry in the wash, fresh sheets on the bed, dress, read some stuff, kneel down and say some stuff, start the coffee, start the oatmeal, boil an egg, eat.

I could feel the edges of the chair and wished fervently that the head ache would dissipate and that the coffee ibuprofen combo would allievate the tightness in my skull.

Fortunately.

They did.

But I was sad.

With the sickness hand in hand the “sads.”

Not horrible.

But there.

I was just finishing up my oatmeal when my girl friend called and I got to check in with her and cry a little on the phone, I am just such a sad sack when I am sick.

It happens so infrequently that I have little humor with myself, or ease of being in myself, I want to be on the go, I want to be doing things with my time off, I don’t want to always be preparing for the work week.

I want.

I want.

I want.

And.

I want it my way.

Damn it.

My friend gently reminded me that I was ok, to stop beating myself up and then told me about the work she had to do today and what she wouldn’t give to have a down day, a day to sit and be cozy and read a magazine, to cook, or go for a walk on the beach.

Hmmm.

She has a point.

The grass is always greener on the other side, she added.

Yup.

That it is.

I had my cry, I got my friend check in on and then, oh, the head ache, I could feel it easing.

I made another cup of coffee–pour over Ritual, “San Jose” grown in San Jose de Pedregal, Colombia (so much better than the other addiction I used to have to another Colombian import), varietal, Caturra with the following flavor notes: blackberry, black currant, muscat raisin, and dark honey.

I couldn’t tell you if any or all of those notes are inherent.

It just tasted damn skippy good.

I savored it and flipped open my blue sparkle notebook and wrote four pages long hand.

By the time I finished the laundry was done in the dryer and I was folding up the wash as I heard the first knock on my door.

A cup of tea with a ladybug, some checking in, some reading.

Then a second knock an hour later.

More tea, more reading, more get right with God.

I felt fantastic.

Ha.

Screw you sadness.

I’m ready for the day now.

I had a quick snack and hopped on the bike, riding over to Noriega Produce–in the opposite direction of the Safeway and anything to do with the finish line of Bay to Breakers.

Aside.

It was not nearly the shit show out here that it was last year.

I’m pretty sure the grey cold weather had a lot to do with it and despite wishing for the sun to come out a little more today, I was grateful that the neighborhood was not a vomitorium nor a tipped over garbage can of wastrel and people pissing in doorways too inebriated to use the port a potties lining the way.

End aside.

I came home from the produce market with lunch stuffs and proceeded to enjoy my little lunch, homemade humus, raw veggies, hard-boiled eggs, and the first of the season’s organic cherries.

Luscious.

Then the cooking.

Italian white bean stew with crushed fire roasted tomatoes, zucchini, celery, garlic, onions, chicken, basil, oregano, parsley, sea salt, black pepper, set it all on low and let simmer.

I also made my stand by pot of brown rice and by the time I had finished eating my lunch and washing up the dishes, the rice was done and my stew was percolating nicely.

I turned down the heat on the stove to its lowest, threw on a hoodie, grabbed my bag and headed out the door to the beach.

I was banking on the cold and the grey to discourage away all but the most ardent of beach goers.

I was right.

It was deserted.

With the exception of sea gulls and sand plovers and a pod of very serious Outer Sunset surfer boys.

I walked and stuck my toes in the surf, it was freezing, but its such a habit to walk the tide line.

The water was grey, but smelled fantastic and I felt energized and also, yes a little sad, a bit lonely.

I made a phone call and had a check in.

“Get into the discomfort,” he said, “it’s uncomfortable being alone at first, and lonely and alone are two very different things,” he added as I choked up on the phone, the tears floating down my cheeks and mixing in the ribbons of pink hair flying about my face.

“I find that this spot is where God gets in, there is God in this, there is God there, sit in it,” he said, “find a bench by the sea wall or go sit outside of Java Beach and just sit in the stillness.”

Java Beach was too busy for that kind of solitary contemplation, I knew from the walk down to the beach, the cafe always does a brisk business, even when the weather is not accommodating, but the ocean side where I was walking would do the trick.

I got off the phone.

I looked out.

Sunshine broke through a grey bank of clouds.

Ensorcelled in the sunlight for a moment, I took off my glasses, stuck them in my hoodie pocket, and raised my face to the light just letting it soak into me, while the tide washed over my feet and splashed my ankles.

When I opened them.

The sea was grey again, but I know that sunshine was there, behind the clouds.

I am alone.

Not lonely.

The company I keep.

The woman I am.

I am my own best friend and I am never alone.

I always have that sunshine within me.

Once again finding the reality of God deep within.

God.

Love.

Same same.

You catch my drift.

I am not alone.

And.

It was.

A really nice day.

Yearning

May 17, 2015

This is not a post I am interested in posting.

It steers a little too close to self-pity land.

And nothing, truly, nothing, do I find more objectionable and heinous.

I had an ex in my twenties who was amazing at self-pity and I remember realizing one day how very selfish it was.

I don’t like it when my selfish tendencies arise.

Yet.

They do and when they do I just get to roll with them.

I had hoped I would be feeling a bit more sprightly today and that is not the case, the cold lingers and with it comes those feelings, oh feelings, of not being enough or doing enough or whatever it is that wants to get under my skin and rub the wrong way.

What I want is a snuggle.

Someone to rub my back and my shoulders.

Someone to cuddle with.

That’s something that I long for when I get sick and well, being a single gal, that’s nowhere in the offing.

It does not help that I have had some contact with my recent ex, nothing in person, but some lengthy texting and my fondness for him knows no bounds, but we agreed that it’s too close to the bone, too close to discomfort, too much potential for creating unnecessary wreckage that neither one of us wants to create.

I mean.

Sort of.

I know that road.

Once broken up with an ex I have stayed broken up with an ex.

With the exception of a near black out late night emotional booty call to my ex-boyfriend in my twenties a year and a half after we broke up.

I think I knew I had to see him one last time (ended up being one more time after that, which was sweet and tender and it was the last time and weird enough we went to Monty’s Blue Plate Diner the next morning for breakfast and the waitress remembered us even though we hadn’t been in together in almost two years at that point) and wanted to say a proper goodbye before moving back to the state of my birth, California.

But the tendency does tend to be no contact after a break up.

Not that there have been a whole lot of relationships since I moved to San Francisco, let me be frank, I’m a loner.

I didn’t intend it that way, but somewhere down the line, it happened, despite the longing or yearning for it to be otherwise I have just marched, bicycled, briefly scooter’ed (and with a little help from a friend I may well soon again), and danced to my own personal drummer.

I have rarely been partnered up in my adult life and I am not complaining.

It’s not on my time.

I have tried to make it on my time.

I have written reams of blogs and I used to write just the worst sappy ass poetry about it.

I mean, whatever to get it off my chest, but I know this is more a symptom of being slightly under the weather than anything else.

So.

I can weather this one out.

This too shall pass they say.

I realized I was being a bit moribund when I hopped in the shower to rinse out a freshening up of my hair dye, I picked up a pot of Manic Panic Cotton Candy Pink at the salon today when I got my nails done (the color I had in my hair was Cleo Rose, that’s what I got at the salon when I went to get it done, but I wanted to see what the Cotton Candy Pink would look like, so I picked it up, I mean if I’m going to have clown curl explosion on my head, may as well be cotton candy) and my thought was, “I wish I was going to see my grandmother with my boyfriend.”

Uh oh.

I am feeling “not enough.”

I am feeling the “another person completes” me baloney happening here.

My grandmother doesn’t care if I’m single or dating, or at least she has never said anything to the effect and I can’t imagine she cares one way or the other.

It’s me who cares.

I’m “less than” for not being in a relationship.

Nope.

I’m just me.

And me is pretty cool.

I called my grandmother today to check in about my upcoming visit to Chula Vista at the end of the month.

I had some concerns about putting any one out, she is 87 after all.

But she would not hear of me staying anywhere else.

My favorite uncle is going to be coming into town too from Nevada City and I’m super excited to see him (although we do usually have a family reunion out at Burning Man) and get to hear about his newest projects for the playa.

He’ll be staying with my grandma as well.

“You’re Uncle Boy can stay in the garage if we need to make space,” she said.

I laughed.

“Don’t tell him that!”

It felt good to laugh.

I’ve been nervous to reconnect.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just family.

And I love my grandmother.

Despite not having had much direct face to face contact we have stayed in touch all of my life and she is my last living grandparent.

I want to make the effort and I am delighted to get to stay with her.

I have no idea exactly what we’re going to do, but she did say that one night there would be a big family dinner at her home and I just had this sudden and overwhelming joy fill me with the thought of being surrounded by this family, that I know so little of, but care so much for.

I think that’s what they mean when they say blood is thicker than water.

I have made my own family out here in the big bad world.

Amongst my friends and fellows and there are people in my life, some in Wisconsin, some here, that I could not, nor will not do without.

“Yo.”

The messenger read on my phone this morning, pinging me awake, “are you planning on coming out this way, the middle part, this year?”

I want to.

I realized that I may not be able to until Christmas though.

And there it was again, that longing for a person to be with me.

The longing for someone to go with me to Burning Man, to travel with me.

I am sick.

Not sick in the head, or wrong for having these feelings, they just don’t usually get to me unless I’m not feeling 100% myself.

I can and have ridden out the feelings before and as my hair dries, it’s still just pink, the difference in colors is too subtle, but it’s fresh pink pink pink, so that’s fun, I know that I’m ok and that yearning for something is a part of life.

I don’t have to get what I want to enjoy what I have.

And I can snuggle with myself tonight and roll out my shoulders with my roller and make some tea and be cozy and rest.

Nothing wrong with that.

And be grateful that I get to see my family in two weeks.

Grateful I have family to travel to see.

I belong to these people and they to me and I am yearning, really, to be connected to as much humanity as I can be.

That’s the good stuff.

That’s the jelly in the donut.

The bees knees.

The cat’s pajamas.

The stuff of life.

I suppose you could say.

Oh.

Yeah.

It’s love.

Sweet, tender, vulnerable.

Love.

The Day The Scooter Died

May 16, 2015

The day the music stopped.

The day I said goodbye.

The day I handed over the keys to a good friend who gave me a really big engulfing hug and said, “I’m so, so, so very sorry, I wish you hadn’t had this happened to you, and when you are ready, for a real Vespa, I will help you find the perfect one for you.”

I hugged him back and we signed over the papers.

No.

Not to do what you think.

Because, well, because further developments they developed.

I was going to give the scooter to my friend and let him and a mutual friend tinker with it, play with it, do what they would with it, maybe keep it, maybe fix her up, maybe sell her, but you know, just hand over the keys and say, have fun and I’m done and thanks for playing.

But.

As it stands that did not happen.

My friend went to Scooter Centre and talked with his mechanic and a bunch of other folks and listened for me where I was not able to listen–I was too busy crying last weekend in Scooter Centre to really get the gist of it all–and to ask the questions I do not have the knowledge base with Vespa’s to be able to ask.

What he ascertained, what I had gotten too, but he really got to hear, was that I was not the first person, or the second, or even the third person who had brought that same scooter into the shop and asked for help fixing it to be able to ride it again; nope.

I was the FIFTH fucking person to bring that self-same scooter into their shop.

The fifth person that they knew of and who knows how many others have had the scooter and tried to get something out of it aside from the feeling of having been duped.

“I paid $4,000 for it,” my friend said to me over coffee at Trouble on Sunday when I relayed to him what the issues seemed to be and how really, I took full responsibility for purchasing something that I did not know how to maintain.

But the facts are that it wouldn’t have matter if I did have the capabilities to deal with it.

There is nothing salvageable on the scooter.

Nada.

So.

I wasn’t handing over the title and the keys to my friend tonight who stepped in to assist me, who really wanted, as much as I, if not a bit more, for the damn thing to work, “it is such a beauty, I understand how you could not want to let it go,” he said patting my shoulder.

“But you really are doing the right thing, and ___________ should pay that $2650 back to you, he owes you, he knew.”

You know who also knew?

I did.

I knew it was too good to be true.

I knew when my friend hustled to the nearest Wells Fargo atm to deposit the check I wrote him for the down payment, I knew, something is off here.

But god damn.

That scooter was so damn sexy.

So cute.

I pushed aside those feelings.

I ignored my gut.

My bad.

Buyers remorse.

You fucking bet.

However.

I have compassion and sympathy and I can give my friend the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, he did so much for me at a certain point in my recovery, I hold no resentment, I hold no grudge.

Ultimately it was not that much, I didn’t really get hurt.

Much.

I mean I fucked my ankle up on it, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise, so even there, I can’t harbor any hate.

Besides, self-righteous anger does not serve me, nor does moral indignation or being right versus happy.

I want happy.

And free.

And joyous.

Those are the principles.

My side of the street is clean, the title has been signed over, and the other paperwork signed and now it’s done.

The scooter will be junked.

Tomorrow it gets recycled.

I signed the paperwork to junk the title and they will cut the scooter in half and recycle it where ever they recycle scooters that go to die.

No one else is going to get duped, no one else has to go through it.

There does not have to be a sixth person that shows up on the doorsteps of the Scooter Centre who gets to find out they got fucked into buying a lemon.

And a vehicle that is and was unsafe to ride will not be ridden again.

I could have gotten really hurt riding it, when I reflect on some of the harrowing experiences I had riding it, the night in the fog coming home from Noe Valley when it died on my 12 times, nothing like trying to kick start something in the cold on Laguna Honda with no visibility.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” The driver asked from the car window of a Porsche.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I said.

And I am fine.

Free.

Done.

I have been released.

What is nearly as good as knowing that I did the “right” thing, not selling it, not being duplicitous, not taking money for something that I knew in my heart was not going to be a fun experience for anyone–unless they used it as a lawn ornament or hung it from the ceiling in an Italian restaurant–is the feeling of freedom I have from obsessing about it.

I don’t have to think about it anymore.

One week from dropping it off at Scooter Centre and it’s done.

Tomorrow she’ll be put down.

And it will be done.

They even offered to let me come in and shoot at it.

Literally.

The owner has a gun at the shop and he said I could come in and shoot it up to feel better before it gets sliced in half and recycled.

I laughed.

But I declined.

I don’t need to ever see it again.

I gave away the spare set of keys, signed the paper work and tomorrow I’ll call my insurance guy and cancel the policy on it.

Done and done.

Making room for the good stuff that God wants for me.

Not holding onto the stuff that doesn’t.

Whether that’s old ideas.

Or an old Vespa from Vietnam.

God’s got better for me.

I am ready to receive.

Space has been made.

That is the best feeling.

Really.

The best.


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