Betwixt and Between


“I am fucking terrified,” I said to Joan in the car as we wended up the California One and were passing through Devil’s Slide.

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

There was much spilling of tears today.

None of which had to do with the wedding I was at.  Which was beautiful, the bride took my breath away, the location was stunning, the dinner scrumptious, the decor beyond, and me, well, I was way beyond running around in a bad neighborhood, called my head.

“Honey,” Joan said to me, patting my hand, “if you weren’t I would be worried.”

I am going to make it in Paris.

That is what terrifies me most.

Joan asked me today, as I was waxing on about where I am in my life, what is happening, and not happening in the dating life.

“Does he read your blogs?”

My heart rose into my mouth and I thought, “oh fuck, does he?”

Well, that could explain why I have not heard from him.  Does someone want to date a known out and about sex fiend?

Oh, ok, I exaggerate, but what if he had read my walk of shame post, which, I still defend, was NOT  a walk of shame, I had too much fun for it to be shameful.

But what if?

I was in a dither for a moment.  Then I took myself to the facilities and told myself that it does not matter.  It does not.  I will not manipulate by writing about it, I also said, and here I am writing about it.  But I am writing about my process, myself, and my feelings.

How to express to myself how I feel about what is happening, then add-on to that the obvious–I am just having sex with some one and it is not going anywhere.

How could it?

And it is not for me to know ever anyhow.

Besides, said partner, though lovely, though a good egg, though a brilliant mind, is definitely not looking for a relationship and if he were, I doubt it would be with me, we are at two very different places in our lives.

Not that the thought has not crossed my mind, it has.  It may continue to do so.

However, what I want is what I have gotten from Mister Busy Pants–courtship.


Hand holding.

And one sweet, consuming kiss.

Die you damnable romantic.



Fly to Paris.

The most romantic place in the world.

And it will happen, you will happen, you are happening.

Joan said  I was ‘betwixt and between’.  Actually slowing down before I go.  I have too much time on my hands and yet not enough time.  It is a seriously awkward place to be.

I have to be ok with that and I have to keep myself grounded in my routine–which this action of writing my blog is such a huge part of.

I wonder, sometimes, often, all the time, too much heart on the sleeve?  Too much over sharing?  Too much Carmen Regina Martines?

Then I walk back out of the bathroom, tell Joan that my head has been obsessed now with the “he read my blog” and now he must know I am a great big hooker and of course he will not want to see me again and, and, and.


IT does not matter.

I am going to Paris.

Where I will find a cafe.  I will make it mine.  I will write.  I will be my Parisian self.

And he, it, whatever, will fucking find me.

I am going for myself.  I am not going for anyone else or to illicit a certain response.

Yes, I am still beyond terrified.

Terrified, also because I feel like life is about to get wildly big, something enormous and huge and unexpected is about to happen.  I feel at the nexus.  And it is not my place to step back or to step down away from that.

I rise to the occasion.

I welcome the challenge.

I admit that it will be hard and I will have moments, days, perhaps, of self-doubt, and I will get home sick and have many thoughts of what the fuck am I doing?

What the fuck am I doing?

Embracing my destiny, reaching for my life instead of running away from it.

I am destined to be a great writer.

I am in the process of getting there and  I know that it will happen.  And perhaps this is pompous and arrogant and I am deluded and mislead.  Then I remember all the people I hear that say, ‘I wish I had half the discipline you do or I never write, but I think about it all the time’.

I write twice a day.

There are people that spend their entire lives talking about doing the writing, but they do not actually do it.  I do not have to have that be my experience.  The gift to myself is that I let myself write.  I over ride the fear of it not being enough and just do it anyway.  I get past that point of it is not what I should be writing or how I am writing or that my writing is not published and I just let the process happen.

I show up for it.

That will make me as a writer.

That will get me published.

“I am afraid that I will come visit you in Paris and you won’t have space for me,” Joan said.  “That your life will have gotten so big and brilliant and amazing, that you won’t have room in it for me.”

That will never happen.

My life will get bigger, and wilder, and stranger, weirder, and full, that is certain.

I say yes too often for it not to.

I say yes to trying new things.

Nudist colony.

I say yes to new experiences and places and people.

I say yes.

But I will never not have room for my beloved friends.

The Universe puts things in my way or I get onto that path and go, but I go with a friends hand in mine, regardless of whether or not they are actually with me, I have amazing friends and I know they support me and love me and are inspired by me.

Like I am inspired by them.

My life is blossoming out and instead of trying to pick at it, I will leave it be to further grow and bloom.  For the time now, I slow down.  I pause and I continue to practice what I am doing right now.

I once spoke with a room-mate who was impressed that I had picked up the cello again (I put it back down and do flirt with the idea here and there to pick it up again–writer, cellist, Parisian).  He said that it did not take talent to become a master, it took time.  That it was a pretty known fact, how known, fuck if I know, but he sounded assured, that all it took was time.

50,000 hours of practise is what it takes to master something.

I do not know how many hours I have spent writing over the last few years, but I do know that this is blog post number 646.

I do know that every morning I wake up and I write three pages long hand.

I do know that I will continue to do so.

I feel bound by the words and within that self-imposed restraint I have the freedom to express myself and my being and my artistry.

Some times boundaries allow for more freedom.

I cannot fuck this up.

The only way I fuck this up is if I don’t get on that plane.  But every day I cut a little more out and prepare a little more–mostly mentally, there sure are not a lot of details left to cover materially–I know that I am severing any thing that holds me here.

I will not be held by the possibility of a relationship.

Nor the impossibility of a relationship.

I will not succumb to the terror of being successful either.

I allow myself to feel overwhelmed and scared and I do not roll over to it.

I just keep moving forward, riding my bicycle down International Avenue in Oakland, right up until that moment when I roll my suitcase onto the plane.

I just have to go get one first, a suitcase that is.

I already have the dream.

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