Tender Toes

by

I have been walking so much the bottoms of my toes hurt.

No a bad pay off for being in Paris.

Tender toes.

Tender heart.

Tender arms.

Sore.

I feel a little heart sore and a little more broken open and up and surrendered.

Just another letting go of inventory in a coffee shop somewhere in the world.

Paris.

It was a brief inventory, the smallest one I have written and the same things still come up, yes, yes, they do.  However, I catch them faster and let them go quicker.

Catch and release defects of character.

I remember once catching a monarch in a jar and wanting to keep it forever.

I wanted it to live forever.

I want to live forever.

First, I must forgive.  Second, I must let go of this strangulation ideas of who I am and what I am and where I am going.  They do not serve, these ideas.  I am worth more than the sum of these paralysing items.  I can go further, I am allowed.

Third, I have another ideal to write.

An ideal I have never had suggested to me before.

I told Corinne to, “fuck off.”

John Ater, would say, you have chosen well.

I always know when someone has me caught.  When a suggestion is such that I react so to it.  My entire body tensed and I did not know whether to burst into tears, which I did, or tell her to fuck off.

I did that as well.

Twice.

She laughed.

Ah.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Living in the 9th arrondissement of Paris.

Working part-time as a nanny for a family in the suburbs.

Yup.

I got the job.  I start on Tuesday.  It will just be three days a week for four hours a day.  Small pay.  But money coming in.  And such sweet children.  So beautiful–Black and Irish.  Oh the dreaminess of their skin, soft caramel, dusk rose cheeks, dark eyes, their hair, I could have just played with the little boy’s curls the entire time.

Sweet children, little boy will turn 4 in March, little girl is 2.  Darlings.

It is not enough to live on.

It will not pay my rent.

Nope.

But it will put food in my fridge.

And it was there, easy, available.  Nice parents, sweet children, I am obviously helping them out and they trust me and they trust my reference who bragged me over the moon and voila.  A little gig out in the suburbs.

Plenty of time to write and walk and forgive.

Forgive myself.

For not being what or where or whom I am “supposed” to be.  For being in a foreign country with scratch to live on and no foreseeable income coming in.

That I can see.

And I know that I already live with blinders on, so there is something, there are lots, loads, abundance, prosperity, out there, streams of it.  I just seem to keep falling out of it.

Victim.

God.  I need to drop the victim shit.

I read my ideal to Corinne.  It was good.  There was not much on that part of the inventory.  There used to be quite a bit more in that neck of the woods.  I am still working on the part of I am more than just for sex.

I am allowed relationships.

Romantic relationships.

I will see myself as more than just a sexual object.

Corinne said, “write a Carmen ideal.”

Cue waterworks.

Fuck.

What the hell would that look like?

Now, I am not saying this is my ideal, these are just going to be random ideas that I float out there, more for me to see and ponder.  I will write-up my ideal of myself another place, another time–tomorrow, after I have meditated and done my Sunday commitment and gone to free day at the museums.

For now I think the following are things I ideally want for Carmen to be, if I speak of myself in the third person I think I may be able to visualize it better.

Sobriety. Abstinence. Size 8. Financially successful–pay off those fucking student loans.  Easy in my own skin. Healthy.  Involved in either yoga or martial arts.  Published author with book deals.  World traveller.  Married.  Home owner.  Health insurance. Wearing nice clothes that fit, especially my shoes–I need to stop buying shoes that don’t fit right.  No wonder my feet are sore.

Able to sit with myself.  Read an hour a day. Write three to four hours a day.  Have sex at least three times a week.  At least.  Good I miss sex.  I am diverting off my ideal.  I am tired.

I am emotionally worn out.

I am physically walked out.

I got out and about today.

I am going to get out and about in London next weekend.  I will do the same things there.  Maybe when I celebrate my anniversary I will write out my ideal for myself.  I won’t meet with Corinne until after I get back from London.  I can spend some time letting the idea sink in.  Right now, it seems silly, and too self-reflective.

However, I am willing to try something different.

How many inventories have I done?

A few, yes, yes, I have.

I will go to museums and let art sift through my eyes, into my blood, into my soul. I will sear myself with statures and sculptures, photography and paintings.  I will wander and, of course, you know, I will get lost in London too.

I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.

Perhaps I will also plan another trip.

I met someone yesterday who told me today I should come to Rome, sometime between February and June.  The lease is up here at the end of April.  Is Rome next?

Who knows.

I don’t know right now.

Although, it would fit my Carmen ideal, she is a world traveller.

She does like to get out and about.

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