I Have to Go


I have to get on BART.

God, I hate saying that.  I dislike not being able to do things I normally used to do after work and doing the deal.  I miss the time seeing friends.

Friends who are already asking, “hey aren’t you gone yet?”


“What are you still doing here?”

Bothering you apparently.

Though it feels like it is still far, far away, in a fairy tale place, The City of Lights, it is coming closer and closer and closer.

I got overwhelmed today trying to figure out what to do with my bike.

Then my co-workers said, carry it on the plane, don’t risk shipping it, bring your invoice from when you bought the bike and you won’t have to pay customs and then you have it ready to go when you arrive.


Great ideas.

Things I do not know.

Like how do I put my phone to sleep?

Still have not figured that out yet.

“Figure it out is not a slogan,” I can hear John Ater in my ear.


Yeah, well, then…


I toss a prayer to the ceiling of the bike shop then I  saw Jessie on the street walking Zelda and I ran out the shop and after her.

She’s Juno’s aunt, my companion from the Burning Man ride home from playa in the the big white terrorist van.

I should begin the not saying terrorist right now before I get anywhere near the International terminal for SFO, shouldn’t I?


I hollered out, “JESSIE!”

She stopped, turned around and came back with her lovely companion, a bright blue eyed husky with a diffident yet graceful dispostion, who deigned to lick my hand, but warmed to me and kissed my cheek by the end of the conversation.

“OH honey,” said Jessie, “I know, I read your blog.”

That still weirds me out.


According to my stats I do not have the same readership I used to, but then according to how many people I see now following my blog, I actually believe more people are reading them than ever before.

I just don’t know how to read the technical parts of the blog yet very well, there are probably fifteen hundred things about the back-end part of my blog that I have no idea how they work.

I just sit down at the key board and start typing and see what comes to mind.

Apparently what comes to mind is readable, as 111 of you are now following my blog.

Who are you and where did you come from?

What is also interesting is how often my own name pops up in my statistic searches.  Carmen Regina Martines.

I feel like I am a character in my own life.

You do understand, don’t you, that this is not the full me, there is a lot more going on behind the sass of these pages.

Lots of fear.

Lots of fear.

Lots of fear.

I keep flying into the future where I do not have enough money and I am cold and lonely and the wolves are after me.

There are wolves in Paris, right?


Stay present.

I kept saying that to myself today, stay present.

Jessie exhorted me to do the same and also to get a hold of her and do some hang out time.


Fuck if I know.

I feel like I could happily quit the bike shop now and just take the next few weeks off.

But mama ain’t got that kind of money.

And that much time may make me go temporarily insane.

Sex and shopping would probably end up filling the void, oh and other things, let’s not be dishonest, I would get to a few other things, but work, despite being a nuisance, is good for me to have for a little while yet.

If only from the stand point of getting my bike prepped for the road.

I had myself a moment tonight when I was leaving from Church and Market and seeing everyone standing around talking to each other and I was the outsider, I was already left behind.

The I need to catch BART syndrome tugging at my sleeve.  I need to go get on BART to get back to Fruitvale to ride like a bat out of hell past the crazy so that I can get to Graceland, strip off my clothes, put on my pajamas, it’s a Hello Kitty kind of night, and put on the kettle.

I will take care of the cats, wash the day from my face, eat an apple, drink some tea and write my blog.

As the self-pity tried to creep in, an acquaintance said to me, “that’s pretty cool that you give yourself the time to do that, you know.”

I looked up askance at her as I tucked my two bike locks into my messenger bag and affixed the light onto my handle bar.

“Not a lot of people actually take time out of their day, every day, to do something they love, you know,” she added dragging on her cigarette.

And there.

It was gone.

The I have to go, became I get to go, became I really do get to go do something I love.

I love writing my blog.

It does nourish me in some way that is ineffable and unfathomable.  I feel better when I see the word count tick its way up and I feel like I do a kind of daily inventory, of myself, my situation, and where I am in my life.

It is a valuable record.

One which I may wish to re-read somewhere down the line.

I don’t read my blog.

Oh, I edited it, I spell check it, and once in a while I will go back and look at it briefly for a moment or two if I feel especially proud of it, but for the most part, I write it and let it go out into the world.

I have to go catch BART so that I get to do what I love.  I have to go catch a plane so that I get to do what I love.  I get to get up to my alarm in the morning three hours before work to let myself do what I love.

I get to shower myself daily with presents.

Words are gifts to me, they are how I paint the world I see.  The words I use are not always as ripe and full as the figs I pluck from the tree in the front yard of Graceland, but each is a unique fruit I eat and suck the flavor from.

My life a story.

My time a gift.

I get to go.

I get to have writing to do.

I get to have words.



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