It Is All A Matter of Perspective


Yes, I could be mad that I just had the uncomfortable experience of having lost my Clipper card on BART.  Especially as I just put twenty dollars on it.

Or I could look at it like, hey some one needs it more than me, I hope they enjoy the ride.

Especially since I got to ride home and not work a corner.

Insert the spectacle of the baby working girl.  It is down right painful to see girls out that young on the corners.  She could not have been fifteen and she is obviously young and very scared and my heart just broke when I rode my bike by and saw her standing in a long safety orange sundress.

She was baby faced and had large coke bottle glasses on and no make up.

And there was no other explanation for what she was doing on that corner at this time of night in this neighborhood by herself.


Fuck my lost Clipper card I am not hooking on the street right now.

I also just feel in a good space, a good place, a settled spot.

I am done with work for the week and I have another date with the Mister tomorrow.

I was disconcerted to discover that I had lost the card when I got off the BART, but the message on my phone asking if I was available to hang out tomorrow more than made up for it.

Plus I was grateful to be off the BART with its weirdness.

There was a homeless woman with a dog stashed in the back corner who was trying to lay down low enough below the line of the seats that the camera would not catch her with the dog.

There was a young man who did not give a fuck about the camera and openly rolled a blunt which he sprinkled with some cocaine.  Well, it may not have been cocaine, but it sure as shit was not powdered sugar.

There was the quiet, studious middle twenties Asian guy who suddenly sprang up as if stung by a bee and slammed all his personal belongings on the floor of the train.  Then slowly picked them back up and got off at the next stop as though nothing had happened.

So, overall, in the grand scheme of things, a lost BART Clipper card?

No fucking big deal.

I can say that economic insecurity is leaving me.

I still have moments of feeling like it is not going to be enough, I will go to Paris and something will happen and I will not be taken care of and I will be homeless and alone and abandoned.

Then, I think, nah.

I will be just fine.

I am just fine.

Paris is, as my friend pointed out to me today, 32 days away.

I have 32 days to see my friends, catch up with people I do not see very often–Andrew Sweeney and I are having brunch tomorrow, my AIDS LifeCycle Yoda, and I ran into one of the baristas from the coffee shop I frequented at my last nanny job tonight outside of Rainbow.

She asked how I was and I said great and she asked what I was up to and I told her moving to Paris.

She looked incredulous for a moment, then broke out into a grin, “you said you wanted to move to Paris, and look at you, you are!”

I do not even recall telling her that I wanted to move to Paris, but apparently I did.

Over a year ago when I was still nannying over in China Basin.

There is another thing to be grateful for, not being a nanny, nor being stuck in China Basin.   My god, I was so isolated over there, it was not a fun time.

Though, it was a necessary time, it was important for me to see that I had come to a dead end with the nannying and that I had come to realize how important my writing practice was.

Not that I took it all together that seriously, or so it feels, until recently.

This move, this leap, this country hopping really has brought it home to me how important the words are.

I was talking words with a co-worker today, describing the word tomato and explaining that I was going to become a tomato after all the tomatoes I have been eating out of Graceland’s garden.

Then I paused, reflected, and said, “actually I already am a bit of a tomato,” and I explained the slang meaning of the word.

I think of the slang as being used as a seductive woman, voluptuous, ripe, ready to be plucked.

I do not know that I expressed that last part to my co-worker, but definitely did impart that a tomato was old slang for a woman.

I like the words.

I was also thinking about how I want to write another children’s story.  I wrote one up a few years back about Shadrach, called “Shadrach and The Plum”  which was basically about a little boy learning how to share.  And I got another idea last night.

“What’s in Thomas’ Pocket” about a little boy and the magical things that he finds in his pockets and how the little odds and ends come to help out others.

I will sketch it out.

Lots of writing ideas.

Lots of things to take to Paris to work on.

What if I spent three months just writing?  What about that?  What if in the first month I am there I just take it, the time, and just really get into a routine?

I have a great start here.  I have a practice.  I have my twice daily writing sessions.

What if, since I won’t be working and I give myself that first month off to get adjusted, I also take that first 30 days to establish a third writing practice?

My first is my morning pages.

My second could be my book projects.

My third, is my blog.

In between, I get about Paris, find places to hang with my fellows, eat a little lunch, go to market, meander through a museum.

I like it.

I can say, fuck, I don’t have a job, I won’t have the money, how is it all going to come together?

Or, a matter of perspective, I can gift myself the time and believe that no matter what is lost, there is always so much more to gain–especially when losing my fear of financial insecurity.

And there is so much more to be revealed.

So much more.

32 days until the curtain rises.

I feel like the show has already begun.

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