Of Course You’re Not Going


As a nanny.

You are going as an artist.


That is right.

I am not going to nanny or be an au pair or a teacher or an academic.

I am going to Paris to be an artist.

What do artists look like?  I have a pre-prescribed idea of what an artist looks like, how one moves about, what one does.

Funny thing this.

My idea of an artist does not include a writer.

I consider artists to be painters, photographers, even actors, I consider artists.

But writers, nope, not so much.

Then I pause, insert pause into my own thought, Shakespeare not an artist?  Neruda not an artist?  T.S. Elliot not an artist?


Alright then, Miss Logic Pants, than a writer is an artist.

And by such definition I am an artist.

I write that every day in my notebook, “I am an artist”.

Matt said it to me today when he dropped off his grandfather’s overcoat.  Which, I am loath to admit is too big.  I threw it on hastily in the shop and said it would work, but after numerous trying on of the coat, it really is too big.

I am not happy wearing it.

I would be if I was with a gentleman caller and they draped it over my shoulders.  I would be most happy wearing it; but as just my own over coat, it really is much bigger than I realized.

I still see things out of proportion.

Just like my travelling, my writing, myself, who I am what I do, where I go.

Speaking of going, can all the cars go the fuck away from Valencia Street?  I am glad to be moving out of that neighborhood.  The valet parking, the people looking for parking, the constant flow of traffic right at the time I get off from work, it is disconcerting.

There are so many new things happening in the neighborhood.

Not the Mission I moved into ten years ago.

Or even five.

I find it only slightly ironic that I am moving out of San Francisco after it was just named the best place in America to live.

Well, then again, I won’t be living in America anymore.

Mrs. Fishkin said to me, “how long, how long really, do you think you will be gone?”

I don’t know.

How long does it take a person to allow themselves their own artistic expression?

How long does it take to get myself out there?

I do not even know exactly where out there is.

I saw Sunshine on Tuesday and he told me that the album, with my featured piece, will be released to the public on October 18th.

There.  I can say, there, that is evidence that I am an artist.  There it is.  I have a piece  of my writing that is being used by a musician for his album–and my vocals too.  Let me not to forget that I did perform, that is art.

Of course, there is evidence everywhere that I am an artist.

It is not just in how I write or what I write.  I still am not so certain that blogging is an art.

There are many mediums of expression and I am not sure that this medium is of artistic relevance.

Then I look at some of the pieces I have written for this blog and I know hands down I have written some really lyrical blogs.  I have posted poetry here.  I have expressed myself and my personality here.

That is art.

I inform my art.

I pay attention to my surroundings, I watch people, I look at their clothes.

Young black woman on BART, early twenties, so magnificently put together I was quietly in awe.  She had the fawn colored booties that look like the rounded hoof of some forest creature bundling her feet, coltish long legs, a slick pair of faded skin-tight denim jeans on, tailored button down shirt in a safari hunter green paired against the color of her skin it reminded me of dark wood with soft moss on it.

Her mouth looked like a ripe squashed plum and her nose albeit upturned was not turned up.  She had neon yellow nail polish and long flat ironed hair, a purse of kid leather in cream with gold accents and her Iphone was the new 5 with a hard pink case and SkullCandy ear buds.

The way her eyes lowered and hovered over the flicker of the screen reminded me of a cautious animal picking its way through the underbrush.

Every thing about her read expensive, quiet, sleek, elegant.

I have no idea where I will go with that image and those thoughts, but she is populated fully in my mind and I can almost hear what her voice would sound like and just like that a character.

Or the character on the corner.

“Bitch be crazy,” she said snapping her gum as I rode by on my sparkle splattered bike.

I was the crazy bitch she was talking about riding along International on my bike weaving in and out and around the street pedaling as fast as my legs would go.

Thursday it is the beginning of really getting it on.

It is always being gotten, and thank god it was not blocking the driveway tonight, but it was going down on the street right in front of the house; every night, but Thursday, it is the beginning of the party for sure.

I am not  a conceptual artist and I do not paint and I do not sculpt, I do take a photograph or two, but I don’t know that I would call that art either.

Is Instagram art?

But I do know this, I am a writer.

I write.

Therefore I am an artist.

And with that I will take artistic licence.

I will steal you words, I will beg, borrow, and take when you are not looking.

And I will go to Paris as an artist.



But going nonetheless.

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