Night & Day

I was down at the beach not once today, but twice.

Both times a surprise.

Both times smitten with the air, the waves, the sky, the sun, or the last streaks of it heading into the night.

During the day I went down with my housemate and her boyfriend after a quick trip to Trouble Coffee and Coconut Club for an Americano.

They went running on the beach.

I stayed behind with my hula hoop.

Hoop

I hooped.

I watched the waves.

Grand beasts they were.

Few surfers out, but there were some very experienced riders making it out past the break point.

I saw amazing technique and not a few times a surfer go flying over a trough of water, the board flipping up into the air with the force of the wave moving through.

Despite the sun and the lack of fog, it is winter weather and the waves are already so big I don’t foresee doing much more surfing at Ocean Beach.

Fingers crossed I will get in another few sessions, but I think I will be heading to Pacifica or possibly Santa Cruz for a better break point.

It looked like a gigantic washing machine of froth.

I would have been overwhelmed in minutes.

But it made for great watching as I set myself up on the beach.

The hooping was lovely, worked off the turkey pretty quick, not that I over indulged, but you know, and when the hooping had gotten my body warmed up I did some stance work–kung fu–mainly horse stance and some basic front position.

Ah, kung fu, it was nice to meet with you again.

I was really happy to go over my blocking sequence, it actually happened from holding my arms up in front position while I was hooping as my arms started to get tired from how I was holding them.

I naturally just fell into it, the muscle memory coming to me unbidden and strong.

Eight hard block, eight soft blocks, and the corresponding throws and elbows.

Then I added in some kicks–front ball kick, back kick, side thrust kick–left and right sides alternating with a few combinations worked in.

I was happy to see that my form with some of the strikes was still really on.

And as would be obvious, I was quite rusty as well.

But once I warmed up I was doing some nice side thrust kicks, getting myself in stance and really going through the blocks and the strikes until I moved an elbow just a little too aggressively and oh, yeah, take it easy lady.

You are not 29 anymore.

The age when I got my black belt.

You are 40.

41 next month.

Which reminds me I am supposed to make plans to do something.

I tossed about a few things with my friend as we walked upon the shore this early evening as the last bits of the sunset were melting into the ocean.

Repeating almost exactly the routine I had this morning.

Go to Trouble.

Get Americano.

Go down to the beach.

However, I did not do any kung fu or hula hooping.

Just some walking and talking.

And some photographs.

Sunset

Dusk

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was nice to go out for a stroll under the stars and chat about this and that and holidays and birthdays and my friend suggested I definitely make plans and he book marked my birthday and that was sweet.

I don’t always care for making birthday plans.

My birthday is so close to Christmas that it feels an imposition to do so, everyone has their holiday plans tied up so quickly.

However, I know that I will want to do something and I thought about what I really want to do.

I want to go horseback riding on the beach and I want to do a bonfire.

Now, I realize the horseback riding is a little on the pricey side, it runs $40 to go out to the stables that are by Fort Funston.

So it may not be the event to invite a bunch of my friends too, but I will probably put it out there that it’s what I am thinking about doing.

I am not 100% sure, but I like the idea of doing it and then a little dinner close to home or thereabouts.

The bonfire would be awesome, except, well, I just realized after getting excited about it that I will be house sitting that night in the Mission and do I want to haul between the two places.

Something to think about.

I may just see about getting a table at Samovar and having friends drop by for evening tea and do something simple and easy.

Things to ponder.

Not going to worry too much about it right now.

My thoughts drift toward the conversation that occurred after the walk.

“I am really attracted to you as a person,” he started.

“But not romantically, and I want you to know that so you can be free to pursue other options,” he finished.

And then there was that.

Small pang.

But not bad.

Thank God we are friends, and honest, and it was sweetly said.

I was startled to feel a little welling up of tears, but breathed turned my face and it drifted off.  No need to cry here, there was not a relationship happening, just some recent history being cleared up and a deepening understanding of our friendship veering solidly into friendship land and out of romance land.

Good to know.

Thanks.

Free to whore about the city.

Haha.

Just kidding.

What I am grateful for is that stuff like this comes up and goes away so fast.

Clarity is lovely.

Oh, there is a little sadness there, I think it could have been fun, but you know, that’s my fantasy.

Reality stepped in and said, nope, just friends, but thanks for playing.

Heading into the holidays with no solid plans, birthday, romance, travel, or otherwise.

No anxiety either.

What I have discovered with this time off is that the things that need to happen, happen, the insights occur, the work coalesces, and I see where further work has to be delved into.

I see that I am capable of further intimacy and I was given some great information tonight.

I choose to take it, be grateful for it, accept it, forgive myself for being single, take care of myself in the meantime and when the morning comes I will be still with me.

In my cozy studio by the sea.

Building big castles way on high.

Or at least hula hooping in the sand.

At the edge of the ocean where everything is possible and I am complete.

 

 

 

Now What?

So, this whole “holding space” thing is starting to make me wonder, what for?

What am I holding space for, or whom?

I turned down a nanny gig for tomorrow.

I turned down a house sitting gig for this weekend.

I don’t have plans people.

I have three days off, three days into the six-day staycation.

I have a lot of “selfie” photographs from the beach.

I have slept well.

I have cried a little and drank a lot of coffee.

A lot.

I am like a recreational coffee drinker.

Sure, I’ll have a cup.

In fact, I had two tonight after the six o’clock point, which is so rare as to be a phenomenon of sorts for me.  I might be up to go clubbing, hit me if you want to go dancing, I am jacked up.

Unlike the fellow comatose friends who I just recently left.

I just got in from Marin.

From a house full of people I did not know.

But with a standing offer to come back anytime.

I think I got along well.

No doubt that my friend’s friends were going to be good people.

And they were and it was really nice to be a part of a gathering, to help out here and there, to chase the two-year old around the living room and snuggle with the dog.  To talk with the mom who is expecting and the dad who had the worst best holiday sweater that promptly came out once the dessert was being served.  To help wash dishes and to smell the smells of Thanksgiving.

And actually watch some football.

“Why are you crying?” My friend Wilmein asked me last year in my French class in Paris.

I was looking out the plate-glass windows at the mottled dark sky leaking rain, the inside of the windows starting to steam from the bodies in the class room, and the various voices, German, Japanese, South African, South American, and me the American, practicing our “futbal” excercise.

I had been struck by the worst homesickness I have ever had on Thanksgiving last year in Paris.  I had just been in the class room a couple of weeks and had already been making friends and Wilmein was such a pumpkin.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I whispered under my breath, “I, I am supposed to be home watching football and eating too much pie.”

Although I had done neither of those things in years, that was what I was supposed to be doing, not studying a soccer composition for a rhetoric lesson in French.

“What is Thanksgiving?” Wilmein asked.

Jesus.

Of course, like they celebrate an American holiday in South Africa.

I told her.

“Oh!  You’re homesick!”  She said it sweetly and patted my arm.

Indeed.

I was.

I was not tonight.

I was a little uncomfortable every now and again, but for the most part, I felt quite warmly welcomed and it was nice to be in a group of people celebrating their friendships and connections, listening to stories, though not mine, still stories, of home, and I like me a good story.

I like to tell myself some “good” stories too.

That I am alone or unwanted or not loved.

Such bullshit.

I am loved.

I love, there for I am loved.

I had wonderful texts and messages and phone calls all day today.

I got to talk with my mom for a little while, I sent my little sister a message, my grandmother, my aunts, I got phone calls from dear friends, and I got to spend some time down at the beach walking in the tides.

The waves so mighty and gigantic, I saw very few surfers and it was wild.

The sun was warm and I felt really blessed to be down walking the shore and listening to the lull of the waves.

My brain said I was alone.

But my heart said, no, you are confusing “alone” with “lonely”.

Yes, you are alone, but you are not lonely.

I had the song of the sea and the memories of past Thanksgivings keeping me company on the shore.  I had the love of friends old and new reminding me that I was thought of and often.  I had my own good company and that of the wind and the ravens on wing in the warm air.

I didn’t really feel alone.

And I didn’t feel homesick.

I felt at home.

I can be an isolated person and I work at rectifying that, but sometimes the deep serenity of being on the beach is a kind of company that I have only experienced by myself.

Sure.

When I saw couples walking on the beach holding hands I wanted that too, still do.

It is a bonfire scented night, the skies are clear, I have the next three days off, I want to walk on the beach and hold someones hand and be kissed under the stars.

I am a romantic at heart, in nature, and that is a want.

But it is not a requirement to having a deep and meaningful relationship with my community, my fellows, my friends, and frankly, with myself, or my home.

Or my city.

Seeing San Francisco lit up like a Christmas ornament tossed down from the heavens as we crossed back from Marin through the Golden Gates, I was so enthralled with her beauty and so grateful that I was home, again, here, now, not saying good-bye, but rather a new hello, a new experience, a new kind of life here in this city which I continue to get to live in, be captivated by, and romanced.

I was deeply thankful.

I am grateful for many things.

Not the least of all the time that I have over the next few days to continue my homecoming.

That’s what this Thanksgiving feels like to me, a homecoming.

I am home.

This is it.

From one side of the city with the Embarcadero One light up with Christmas lights to Ocean Beach with Orion rising over the black waters, shimmering luminous above me.

This is where I am meant to be and this is where I shall stay.

I have meaning.

Here, most of all.

I belong.

Life Is A Beach

And a vale of tears.

But I’ll get to that in a moment.

Day two of the six-day staycation.

I did not get out so much today.

Rather I stayed in the hood.

I relaxed in the bed a little longer.

Awakening at 8a.m. I thought, nah, I am allowed a few more minutes, and I just drifted off in the warm soft sheets and dozed for another twenty minutes.

It could have been two hours, it felt so good when I woke back up.

I got up without even consulting the clock.

I was shocked to see that I had only slept another twenty minutes, I really was prepared for it to be noon and not 8:21 a.m.

Up was up, however, and up I stayed.

A text from the housemate upstairs and a confirmation that she was around and was I around and that and we should go get into some Trouble.

Trouble Coffee and Coconut Club, that is.

Trouble Coffee

I had some breakfast, made my bed, did some writing and when that was complete I opened the door to my studio and met her and her daughter in the entryway and off we went.

Trouble was delicious, I had an Americano and it was dreamy.

After some coffee and catching up with her we went over to The General Store where her daughter explored the back yard and the succulents in the green house.

General Store

I had no intentions of buying anything and happily wandered around the back yard with her.

Then I had to, well, you have a bunch of coffee and you would too.

The bathroom was by the clothes rack.

And on the clothes rack there they were.

My bib overalls.

I have been looking for a pair of bib overalls for the last year and a half.

I actually found some at a Brocante in Paris, but the woman would not barter with me and was more than exceptionally French, Parisian, and rude (I actually only had one other interaction with a French person that was the cliché, in all the six months of being there really, two nasty “French” people.), she was also enjoying a cocktail brunch at the cafe with her girlfriends and had no intent on selling anything from her stall.

It was like a front to sit in the sun and get schnockered on a Sunday.

Which is cool, but I did not succeed in trying on or purchasing the vintage coveralls.

I did, however, today.

Man, oh man, they are cute.

I will be wearing them to all my holiday parties.

Why?

Because they make me happy.

Some clothes just do that.

They made me happy when I tried them on and I almost wore them out the store.

Holidays should be dressed in happy clothes.

And for me that is a pair of bibs.

Doesn’t matter that it is not traditional holiday garb, holidays are already a challenge for me, what ever I can do to make them less so is something I am going to embrace.

As I found myself crying over a pint of ice cream this afternoon.

No.

I did not eat a pint of ice cream.

But I did lose it over a text requesting that I pick some up.

I mean I lost my shit.

I went from being a fairly calm, rational, just went down to the beach and watched the surfers and listened to the waves boom on the shore, and hula hooped and eaten a kale and spinach salad and, what!

Napped.

Oh yeah, did that too, twenty-minute knock out in the full sun after my salad and banana.

Did any of that matter when my friend sent a text asking me to be a dear and grab some ice cream to accompany the pies he was bringing to the event?

No.

I, as I said, lost it.

I sat down.

I cried.

Then I got angry.

Fuck you God.

Fuck you.

I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, it’s Thanksgiving and I ain’t gonna eat get to eat any fucking pumpkin pie or whipped cream or strudel or gravy or cranberry sauce.

I hopped the self-pity train and rode it the fuck out-of-town.

I knew better than to respond to my friends message as the response was way out of proportion to the event.

So far out of proportion that I knew it had nothing to do with the request and was just the sign pointing the way to a deeper disturbance in the force, Luke.

The restraint of pen and tongue and text paid off.

I had to make some phone calls and follow through with meeting up some of the ladies this evening and I did both.

When that was finished, when I had a modicum of perspective I made the phone call and joked to my friend that it was sort of like asking me to bring a couple of grams of coke to the party.

I asked if there was anything else I could bring.

He was such a sweetheart I felt bad for even making a deal about it.

Asking for what I need is still so damn hard and it’s not the big stuff that gets me, I can handle the big stuff.

Births.

Deaths.

Accidents.

Evictions.

Getting fired from a job.

No problem.

Bring a pint of ice cream to an event and my entire world falls apart.

“Honey, it’s always the mouse in the room,” John Ater said to me, “it’s never the big things, the elephants are easy, it’s the mice.”

No kidding.

Holidays are challenging and feeling out of my league is standard for me.

What is not is saying yes to a new experience and going somewhere new to be with new people.

And an old friend.

A friend that I don’t get to see for long stretches of time and who will be away for a lot of time for the holidays, kind of gift, you know, to actually get to meet his friends and be invited to his high holy holiday.

He’s getting all my pie.

And the ice cream.

Knowing myself too, it’s the being vulnerable part, I want to be perfect and be capable and be on top of things, but sometimes I have a hard enough time just getting to the point where I know what it is that is troubling me.

Having open time to spend with people and develop intimacy is one of the things that I want the most, yet shy from when it’s presented.

I have been gifted with some perspective around this and when I can sit still and allow the feelings to come and go, I am better for it.

Much better.

Here’s to not sabotaging my abstinence or my holiday.

Here’s to showing up with my authentic self.

Shy, scared, a little anxious, but happy to be included and grateful to have a place to be this holiday.

Grateful to have friends who want me to spend time with them.

Thankful beyond words.

And happy I get to do it dressed in bib overalls.

Not the bottom of an empty ice cream container.

 

 

I Raise Your Black Friday

And up you a Tuesday.

Today was my first day off in seven days, my first day of six days off, and my first day of not knowing what the fuck I was going to do.

I knew I needed to do some shopping.

I did not get it all done.

However, I did get more done than I would have suspected.

Even venturing downtown to pick up a bottle of my favorite perfume.

Egoiste pour Homme, by Chanel.

If you have any concept of French you may have sussed out that my perfume is actually a men’s scent.

And I like to think it funny, especially where I am at in my life and how far I have come, and all the work I do, that I still douse myself in something that directly translates to “selfish” in English.

Of course, I did not know this when I first saw the little bottle on the shelf at the half-price discount and over stock store in Newton, Iowa where I was living, working as a bartender at, wait for it.

Boots-N-Spurs.

Iowa’s Largest Country Western Nightclub.

That’s right.

It was sexy sexy times let me tell you.

Nothing says good times like underage bartending, teased hair, hot pink polo shirts (the staff’s uniform, a hot pink polo with Boots-N-Spurs crested over the breast and a picture of a bucking bronco tossing a cowboy in black ink over the back.  With this plucky little bon mot stitched into it: “and that’s no bull-shirt”), Budlight on tap, Budweiser in bottles, the “import” was Coors, ‘cuz it was from like the other side of the Rocky’s, pool tables, jukebox with loads of Alan Jackson, Patsy Cline, Billy Ray Cyrus (yes I knew how to Boot Scoot and Boogie and if you ever ask me how I will have to punch you in the face), and various other Country/Western/Country Pop singers and bands.

I had just gotten paid.

The rent was paid and there was a little left over.

I was living in this weird little two bedroom on the main strip with my sister, her husband, their baby daughter and we were just trying to make it all happen.

Two young girls, one baby, one ex-con shifty motherfucker and some pluck.

I wanted to get something pretty for myself and had succeeded in not finding a thing at the mall.

We were wandering through this little discount store when I saw the perfume.

I don’t know why I took it down and smelled it, but it blew me away.

It was the most amazing thing I had ever smelled in my life.

It was half off and though above my budget, I had to have it.

I sprayed myself down.

I probably hosed myself down with it.

It has a sharp citrus, grapefruit smell to it edged with a little deep rosewood.  Which is probably why it works well with men and me, I tend to have a strong chemistry that eats up perfume.  Then it mellows and develops into a smooth floral almost to my nose a tuber rose, but not as heavy, then it gets spicy and woodsy like wild geranium, and it finishes warm on the skin with a semi-sweet vanilla nose.

It is astounding.

I have had men and women stop me on the street and ask me what I am wearing.

Sometimes I like to spray a little on the base of my throat before I go to bed and just smell it wafting over me as I pull up the covers.

It is intoxicating and I have never had anything else work quite so well for me.

Oh, I have tried, Issey Miyake’s Feu D’Issey (Fire), came close–but it was discontinued within a few years of its release.

I wore it when I could not find the Egoiste any longer.

It was pulled from normal stores and became a boutique only scent in the United States.

Meaning, you can only buy it at Chanel boutiques.

In Paris, where I got my last bottle, you can get it in the Marionnaud’s which remind me of an upscale Walgreeens pharmacy, as well as the boutiques.

I sprayed my last little drops onto my neck this morning and after the teary bout I had upon awakening, yes, I cried this morning when confronted with free time.

Isn’t that just fucking ridiculous?

Most people are starving for free time, down time, relax time.

Me?

I can’t get enough of pack it in time, make more happen time, get it done time.

Rest?

Relax?

Who are you talking too?

Jesus H. Christ on a fucking raft.

I got a glimpse of the inside of the thought though and that was interesting.

I was unwilling to get out of bed, it was warm and soft and snuggly, but I was wide awake and knew I was only going to lie there and think and well, the thinking is not a good idea.

So I popped up out of bed and got my day started.

Shower.

Brush the teeth.

Strip down the bed and wash the sheets.

Kneel down beside the bed and say some words and read some stuff.

And then ask for direction, because I don’t have any and the idea of a whole day of free time is freaking me out and cue tears.

I realized as I got anxious and it threatened to swallow me up that I am always trying to make up for lost time, that if it doesn’t get done now it never will, I am always trying to make it happen, when most the time, “it” just needs me to get the fuck out the way.

Selfish.

Yup.

That’s me.

Selfish, what do I have or think I have that I am trying to hold onto?

I am trying to be perfect, not need your help, and keep it all together.

I am trying to hold onto doing it all on my own, all alone.

Of course to no avail.

And it isn’t what I really want anyhow.

But seeing that I was castigating myself for not getting more done made me laugh, out loud.

Oh, for fuck sake, I had already accomplished a load of things this morning.

I added to that list by making a really awesome breakfast, having a couple of mugs of fresh ground pour over Stumptown Coffee, then writing three pages long hand, paying my rent a week early, balancing my check book, cleaning my kitchen and bathroom, sweeping the floors, shaking out the rugs, taking out the trash, pulling in the garbage cans from the curb, doing another load of laundry and meditating.

All before lunch.

Yeah, I don’t do anything at all.

I said I am done being silly and I am allowed to splurge and buy myself a new bottle of perfume, I helped out this weekend at the Makers Mart and the money felt like it should spend joyously.

I eschewed my bicycle, rode the N-Judah downtown and went to Maiden Lane where the Chanel boutique is and bought my bottle of “selfish”.

I picked up a few other things on my way back to the Inner Sunset where I had a tea date with a friend and a manicure appointment.

And I had a really nice day being down in the shopping district before it was Black Friday.

I won’t go near that or any other shopping district this Friday.

This Friday I am hoping will be blue.

As in surfing the ocean blue.

That’s how I am going to celebrate the day after Thanksgiving.

Not trying to mash my way into an electronic store or shoe store or what ever other store the rest of the world is trying to mash into.

I think I will opt away from that.

Tomorrow, another long day with almost nothing planned.

Maybe I will cry.

But it will be ok.

Letting out the grief helps me let in the love.

And that’s the best smell of all.

Look At That!

I have no plans for tomorrow.

None.

I have six days off.

I have a few little things to do here and there, Wednesday I have two back to back meet ups with some lovely ladies at Trouble Coffee and Coconut Club, then nothing else until Thursday.

Which is Thanksgiving where I will be the orphan plus one guest at some one’s house in Marin.

“You know you always have a place to go,” my dearest friend in Wisconsin told me tonight.

Yeah.

I do know, but the cost of a plane ticket to Wisconsin is a big one around the holidays and I am loath to drop that on a plane ticket because I don’t feel comfortable not having plans.

I was directed to do something so when the invitation was made I said yes.

I didn’t want to.

Although I love spending time with my friend.

The thought of meeting new people and spending time with them on a sacred holiday feels overwhelming.

But then too, the idea of not doing anything is not good for me.

My friend is looking out for me and I wouldn’t do anything less for a friend myself.

Considering, too, how many times I have hosted gigantic groups of people in my home for years and years and years, I think I am ok with being a guest versus being the host.

I will bring some nice coffee or flowers and wash dishes.

And my friend is my friend, I know him and love him and his people are bound to be great.

Just got to get out-of-the-way of my own head.

Show up, be of service, bring something to the event rather than take.

That is what it is all about anyhow.

What can I bring?

To any situation, not just a holiday party or a special occasion, but all occasions, that’s where the growth still is coming from.

Other than that, I want to do some more surfing this week, I was really happy to wake up without being totally wiped out.

I did go to bed about a half hour or so early last night, I suddenly bonked out, I was done, shut down the computer, washed my face and was out solid until my alarm went off this morning.

I had a later start then normal on a Monday, but I wasn’t even going to be working today, the family asked me to help so that errands could be done before the family left for the holiday.

I was happy to help.

And it was nice to not need to be there until 10a.m.

I actually caught a ride into the Castro with my house mate as her commute took her right by my family and she was walking out the door when I was walking to my bike.

I asked and she said yes.

I could have ridden my bike in, but it was nice to have the day off from the two wheels, I have ridden a lot of extra miles over this past week, add the surfing yesterday to the mix and I was grateful for a rest.

I did notice the same ache in my shoulder when I was pushing the stroller, so I was careful and slow, but the arms other wise felt good.

Tired, yes.

But not nearly the aching sore lackluster limbs I had the last time, the first time, I went out surfing.

Of course I didn’t struggle nearly as much with the board or getting up onto it and the water being much easier on me, well, there you go.

I am pretty damn lucky when it comes down to it.

I live by the beach, I have a wetsuit, a boogie board, and now my friends long board.

Just need to get me some flip-flops again.

I ran into an old friend I had not seen in years at 7th and Irving tonight and it was really good to see him and take a moment and catch up.

I remember when I asked him to teach me how to surf and I realized that I was not ready for it, though certainly intrigued, I had no idea what I wanted.

Sometimes I think that is still true for me, but things seem to be clarifying themselves and I keep practising this honesty thing.

“I want to you to pick a principle and practise it everyday and tell me what it is,” she said to me.

Ugh.

Ok.

Today was honesty.

I asked for what I needed, let go of the results, and did my best to show up for the day.

Doesn’t always happen that way, but more and more I see myself acknowledging that I do practise a lot of honesty in my life.

Really, the one person I lie to most is myself, so when I can get out-of-the-way of that, it is an overwhelming gift.

Letting the love in and the grief out.

I admit, I am nervous about this time off, my experience over the last few weeks is that down time leads to me crying, but if that is what happens so be it.

I will take the time to allow that.

I will give myself the space to say yes to the unexpected.

I will save room to spend time with people I love and care about.

I will say yes to getting up early and staying up late to connect and form intimate relationships.

When else am I going to do that?

Granted not knowing what tomorrow will bring could be the cause for some consternation, but I know I am taken care of.

And really, when have I really known what the next day will bring?

I could go to a coffee shop and read all day.

Walk on the beach.

Do some grocery shopping.

Actually, I have to do that last one, the pantry is getting bare.

I could make some soup!

Oh.

Lovely hot soup.

The weather has turned chillier, and eating soup is such a cozy thing.

I could make chili!

I haven’t done that in a bit.

Oh, the things I could do.

Whatever happens will be what is supposed to happen.

Just got to relax into the down time.

Six days!

Holy cats.

I have a feeling this is going to be epic.

One More Day

Then six days off.

I celebrated the near epoch holiday time off with an early morning surf session with my dear friend.

Who true to his word, texted me at 6:32 a.m.

Oof.

My alarm had gone off at 6:30a.m.

I went to bed around 12:30a.m.

Six hours.

Not horrible.

Oh, I could have easily slept longer and when I swiped off the alarm on my phone I thought, I will just lie here a second, just a moment.

Then the text.

His arrival time was due at 7a.m.

Trouble Coffee.

Ok.

Up, out, and moving.

I got washed, pulled out my wetsuit from the closet, grabbed a towel, pulled my hair up into a bun, slapped on some sunblock, and pulled on a swim suit, yoga pants, and a hoodie.

By the time my bed was made and I had done my morning routine and reading practise it was just shy of 7a.m.

I walked up to Trouble.

Which had this apt little sign in front of the cafe:

Shred

As I was taking the photo of the sign my friend pulled up in his car with the boards strapped on top.

“Just getting to Trouble,” he texted.

And I am already there.

We hugged, then ducked in the warm cinnamon toast scented cafe and hugged Julietta, the owner of the cafe.

We talked about open ocean swimming, she and I have been trying to get out schedules down so that we can go out together for a swim, sans wetsuit, at China Beach.

She introduced us to a woman who does a lot of swimming, has even gone so far as to go out swimming with a small group out around the Farallon Islands.

Which sounded like a horror movie to me.

I cannot imagine.

From the seasickness of boating out there to the shark infested waters.

The Great Whites feed out there, seals all fresh for the snatching.

After that enlightening conversation and my friend asking if I had checked out the Jaws video he shared with me I was more than ready for the shot of caffeine placed in front of me at the polished wood bar.

One Gibraltar later, two shots of espresso topped with gently warmed milk, I was ready to get the show on the road, or into the water, as the case may be.

We popped over to my place and I clambered into my wetsuit.

I think clamber is the proper adjective here.

That or shimmy.

But my clumsy self was clambering.

I did succesfully get in and realized I had lost a little wieght since I had bought it, which was something I suspected, but was not sure of.

Despite the slight roomier area in the tush, it was perfect across my shoulders and I just hitched the crotch up a bit and was in.

We got down to the beach, parked across from the Beach Chalet in between the two windmills and talked about surfing.

He pointed out the swells, which were small, about two foot, maybe three, and how to paddle in, turn, pop up, and turtling the board through a big wave.

I was nervous, excited, and eager.

So about 1/3 of what he was saying may have made it into my brain, probably less.

I stood surveying the ocean in front of me, my heart so full and my body so alive, I felt a sense of serenity that doesn’t always come to me that deeply.

I can see why people get addicted to it.

I can see it in myself.

Surveying the Sea

My friend snapped this shot of me from behind as I inhaled the clean ocean breeze and felt the warm sun on my back rising behind me.

There were already quite a few folks out in the water and more pulling in.

The weather astoundingly clear, no fog, light breeze.

Yes, the swells were small, but that was just fine for me.

I got out past the break!

Last time I went out I was unable to get out of the rough and got smashed around a lot.

I took to it a lot better this time, as I said, the sea was far more gentle, but I also felt a little more secure in what was happening.

I paddled better.

I figured out where the spot on the board is that I need to keep my head aligned with to not pearl in the water.

My friend taught me how to sit on the board and turn around on it.

I could not do that the first time we went out.

I was so pleased.

I was pleased as punch.

The windmills, the sun, the other surfers quietly bobbing in the waves.

Snatches of conversations, “the swells are not coming in well here, let’s hop in the car and head down to Sloat.”

The paddle boarders out.

The water was cold, but I did not mind.

Even my bare feet were ok.

Yup.

I got in barefoot.

I may not always, but I was really ok with it.

Although by the time we got out I was feeling like I was walking on stiff wood blocks rather than feet.

My hands were colder than I realized as well, and yes my shoulder was a little sore, but not bad, I also took ibuprofen and I kept my strokes far shorter than before.

Which actually helped.

I realized I had to adjust my arm stroke for maximum efficacy and that the stroke I was used to using in the pool when I swim is far different then the stroke I need to use to maneuver a surf board.

I fell off.

I got wet.

I also dove straight through a wave.

I got over the swells, past the break point, sat on my board, and then my friend pointed out the dolphins.

Dolphins!

And they swam past me.

They were so close.

I was just astounded.

I was paying such attention to them that I didn’t even realize I was drifting.

“Carmelita!”  My friend shouted, “watch the beach, you’re drifting!”

Holy shit.

It wasn’t much, but I had not noticed and I was getting further out then I really needed to be.

I paddled in.

Grateful to be with a friend who could shake me out of my reverie.

But really.

Dolphins!

Right there.

“I wish I had a camera in the water,” he said later, “you looked so beautiful sitting out in the water on the board with the porpoises jumping around you.”

I felt beautiful.

How could I not?

Looking at the goofy photos I took when I was back on land I can see it shining out of every pore in my skin.

I was alive.

Cold.

Worn out.

But so exhilarated.

And with one day of work to go and my friends long board now in my housemates garage, I have some ideas what I might be doing in the very near future.

Until then a mellow night to unwind and have a little more hot tea, maybe another ibuprofen dose and some stretches.

My smile muscle, though, is the one that hurts the most.

Hurts so bad.

Yet it feels so good.

 

Surf’s Up

In less time then I would ideally like I will be getting into that cold, cold water, wearing my wet suit for its virgin run.

Yes, that’s right.

I am going surfing tomorrow morning.

“I will send you a message around 6:30a.m., that’s when I will leave the house,” he said to me tonight on the phone as I was walking my bike up one of the few hills in the city I have to walk my one speed up.

I had just gotten down with a full day at the Maker’s Mart down at the Old Mint building on 5th and Mission.

Come by tomorrow!

I will be there again from noon until 5:30p.m.

I am honored to help my amazing friend and artist Arin Fishkin sell her prints from her quintessential San Francisco Series.  They are a series that speaks more to the native San Franciscan, using iconography that someone who lives here would really appreciate.

I have my eye on a particular one that I want most bad, Baker Beach, it’s just gorgeous.

I rub my greedy paws together with glee.

Yes, it’s true, I will work for art.

Especially when it’s this good.

Plus, it’s nice to spend some time with a dear friend, check out some local art and have good coffee from Blue Bottle which is located just behind the Mint building.

So I had a full day when the offer was made and I have a full day tomorrow.

But.

“You make the time,” he said, “the swells have been perfect, I have a ton of stuff to do but I am going to make the time,” he paused, “and you can too.”

Yes sir, yes I can.

I will be up at 6:30 a.m.

That’s when the alarm is set.

I don’t think I will have breakfast, just some coffee.

I will make breakfast after the surfing.

I will still need to shower and change and haul my butt back over the hills and valleys to downtown but I won’t need to be there until noon.

The event opens at 11a.m. but since we were able to leave the gear all set up there won’t be much to do in the morning, so I have an extra hour.

I doubt we will be in the water more than two hours.

“I want to be in the water by 7:30 a.m.” he said and I agreed.

Oof.

The Dawn Patrol.

Making it happen, however, and saying yes to spending time with my friend.

Saying yes too because I know I will sleep when I am dead.

Ok.

I don’t necessarily mean that, but I will have six days off after I get done with work on Monday.

I feel I can push it a little tomorrow.

I will get to have my inaugural dip in my new wetsuit.

I will bring my boogie board too.

Might as well.

I am excited.

I don’t know that I will have much of a restful night.

I feel pretty jacked up after my bike ride home.

It is a blast to hit the long down hill stretch along Lincoln, but I find that after the steady up hill climb from the Mission, or the long drop into the Mission from Noe Valley, where I was at this evening, to the Castro, up the Wiggle, through the Pan Handle and onto Lincoln, that I have gotten all pumped up and warm and adrenalized.

It is a challenge to settle back down when I get home.

Plus I needed to take care of a few things before getting my blog started, it’s 11:15 p.m. and I am going to easily take another hour to an hour an a half to wind down.

Another hot cup of tea.

Some time to breathe.

Some time to kick out the last few words for this blog and to dwell on my life for a moment.

It’s a damn good life.

I got to see a lot of dear people tonight.

I got to ride my bicycle a lot.

I rode from my house at 46th Ave and Judah to Mission and 5th Street.  Then from Mission and 5th up to Diamond and 24th Street, back from there to home.

Round trip not sure how many miles that is exactly, but I clocked in over an hour today on my bicycle, probably closer to an hour and a half.

I have the thighs to prove it.

Strong, healthy, fast.

“You should have seen her,” he exclaimed to his friend around a mouthful of hand rolled cigarette as I was bidding my adieus this evening unlocking my bicycle and putting the lights on the handle bars and seat post.  “She turned that corner on Valencia and 16th like a bicycle messenger!”

“She’s fucking fast.”

I smiled.

Sometimes I am fast.

But I often get passed by other bicyclists, I think that what looks fast to another who is on foot feels quite slow to me.

Then again, I do take corners fairly quick, I lean into them and the connection to my bike is such that I take certain streets fast, nimble and without much thought.

My body becomes the bike and the bike my body.

It is just an extension of my thoughts.

When it is really good.

And often of late, it has been really good.

“I am getting OLD,” my friend complained to me.

“Old.”

I kicked him and smiled, I am older, although you wouldn’t always know it.

But I do know that feeling when your body is doing something that it is not used to.

You walk many miles after driving around in a car your body will be sore.

You ride a bike up and over hills you are going to be tired and you may feel old.

But I have gotten used to the commute and what used to horrify me now seems sort of second nature.

This is just the bike ride I do and it takes about this much time.

I can feel my body adapting to being in the saddle a little more and my legs getting stronger, my lungs pulling in air more efficiently.

Tomorrow, though, I am sure that I may feel, well, old, after some surfing.

But I am willing to have the experience.

Not just of getting up early when I could sleep in, but saying yes to spending time with a friend and making space for another new experience.

New experiences are pretty awesome even when I think they are not.

Spending time with friends is always worth the time.

Is what I am finding more and more and for that I promise to make the time.

And with that, time to get what little beauty rest I can wrest from the rest of the evening.

No rest for the wicked.

Or, perhaps I should say, the “old.”

 

The Perfect Autumn Day

For chasing leaves around the park.

The grass was an emerald-green that defied Technicolor and the leaves falling from the sugar maples on the edges of Duboce Park flashed and flew and we chased each other around stomping our feet.

CRUNCH.

CRUNCH.

Crunch.

Ah leaf pile fights.

How do I miss thee, let me count the rake pulls.

It’s been a good while since I have handled a rake, but today I was remembering autumn days and though the sunlight belied the calendar, I knew that riding home tonight it would be cold and I would be grateful for the extra layer of my hoodie under a jean jacket.

But until then.

CRUNCH.

Leaves

My little charge and I had a splendid day today.

We do not usually see each other on Fridays and it was interesting to be in the neighborhood as it headed into the weekend.

The excitement in the air, the joy that was tinged with a tiny thread of bittersweet, everyone seemed to know that days like this are rare, far between and must to be enjoyed.

I was barely at my charges house before tucking her into a pullover and putting her hair up in pig tails.

I was out the door and into the sun.

I am no fool.

Though I may have looked like one at times chasing her around various parks.

I could have cared less.

The thick sun light dying at the edge of Alamo Square park as we made our last stroll around the top of the hill was like honey in her hair and I could not stop taking photographs of her.

Mom is off at a conference all weekend and I sent her loads of photographs.

As I was looking at the down loaded shots tonight while sipping my tea, I noticed that I now have over 6,100 photos in my computer.

Where do they all come from?

My god.

I don’t necessarily have an idea as to what to do with them, but I am fond of having them.

I don’t go through them after I down load them except to post a few to my photo blog or maybe put a couple in an album on facecrack.

Just like I don’t go through my blogs after I write them.

I have thoughts about doing it, but never really do.

Once they are typed they go off to the world and who knows where they shall land.

Little messages in a bottle piling up on some digital shore somewhere in the universe.

Maybe they go back to some constellation of stars at the edge of the universe made out of alphabet letters and when the time is right they fall back through the black skies to land in the head of another writer somewhere looking for just that word there.

While the little one was napping I finished Tom Robbins Still Life With Woodpecker, wrote three pages long hand, had some tea, meditated for a half hour and started up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

I have never read it.

There are so many books I have never read.

So many ways of saying something that I have not even experienced.

Yet the words danced on the page and I was suddenly on the road with the narrator.

That was awesome.

“I see one of those in your near future,” my friend said acknowledging a motorcycle just in front of us on the street.

Yes.

I would like.

And the surf board.

But the cycle was calling to me.

One of my favorite childhood memories is riding on a motorcycle with my dad.

Magic.

I don’t know that either of us was wearing a helmet, I just remember how present I was and how utterly safe I felt and I wanted the ride to go on forever.

I remember seeing fireflies in the meadows of grass along the road at the twilight hour and the scent of a late summer night alive with sounds and insects, the swoop of barn swallows the song of lush life asserting itself.

The opening of the novel talks about the sloughs and marshes and I could see them, the lines of cattail and weeds at the marshes, the Great Blue Herons and their royal bearing as they sat silent in the reeds waiting for just that tasty slim minnow to flash by unsuspecting.

The thin leg steady and reedy looking.

The fish darts between the legs.

Flash.

The head ducks down, stabs the fish, the throat warbles, the crown of feathers shakes, ruffles of water ripple out, then in moments, silence.

Stillness.

The bird resumes its stance.

Reading it made me think of what I had written in today’s morning pages.

I have always written about being a world traveller and the last few months I have been thinking that I could stand some travelling in my own country.

I would like to do an extended road trip.

Now is not the time.

I am aware of that.

But some short jaunts.

Places I have not been and want to see.

Whether on the back of cycle or riding one myself.

In a rental flatbed truck with a sleeping bag to spread against the cab and look out the deeps of the prairies and see the stars spread like a quilt of eternity above me.

The Grand Canyon.

I have never seen it.

Yosemite.

Nope.

Appalachia.

No to that as well.

I thought about finding streams and wading in them, cold feet, rushing water.

The smell of campfires.

The deep quiet satisfaction of building one yourself and setting it properly.

The sleep of the outside world.

It was a seductive morning.

I live in California and there is so much I have not seen.

Or haven’t seen in a while.

Time for a day trip to Muir Woods.

Time for a drive out to Marin.

Time for a ride up the coast or down the coast.

I ride my bike past the park every day and there are certain parts that smell more wild and natural than have any right to smell deep in the heart of this urban landscape and I feel that pull to get out to it and be in it.

The perfect autumn day, in the park with my little charge, crunching leaves, thinking of apple picking at Sky High Apple Orchard outside of Baraboo in Wisconsin, climbing the Rock of Gibraltar in Columbia county, camping in the Upper Peninsula and long road trips to Door County at the tip of the state, memories of the great outdoors that never fail to stir something up inside my soul.

A little travel bug lit on me.

I am not intending to go anywhere wild and wooly or foreign, but I think once I have gotten through the holidays and all that they entail, whether or not I have plans yet for any of it, matters not, rather that when the new year rolls around I want to devote a little energy that way.

Until them I am off to prepare for a work day tomorrow at the old Mint downtown at 5th and Mission–Makers Mart–helping a friend sell her prints and art work.

Two days of that, one day of nannying on Monday, then six days in a row with not a whole lot to do.

Maybe I will go for a hike a long the sea cliffs.

I haven’t explored the Sutro baths.

I can start my little exploration in my own back yard.

Swim in the ocean.

Get together with anyone and go surfing.

Get the boogie board out.

Or just walk on the beach.

I may be in the city, but the outside is just there, a stones throw to the edge of the world, waiting for me to come join it.

To crunch again through the leaves and scuffle in the smell of all that is alive.

 

An Unremitting Gift

Grace.

I have been graced.

I was thinking as I held her little paw in mine, how lovely to walk these streets of San Francisco with my small charge in pigtails, crunching the leaves and feeling the sun on my face.

Grateful, too, that the rains eased off today.

I got to everywhere I needed to go dry.

That is a huge gift.

We walked around Alamo Square park, climbing the hill not once but twice.

Our first visit to the park was short as it was still quite wet after the last two days of wet weather.  But later, in the late afternoon, the park had dried and much sliding was to be had.

I admit I was walking a lot today partially to wear down my charge and guarantee a long nap.

Partially because the neighborhood is so lovely and I wanted to explore it, look upon the houses, see the colorful Victorian ladies marching up and down the hills with their gay frocks and bright ribbons of gold leaf and purple scrolls.

I actually think the Painted Ladies are way over rated and indulged myself walking about the other blocks that encircle the neighborhood gazing upon this one there and that one here, the glorious houses in along the streets.

I am going to own a house one day.

In San Francisco.

I hear you scoffing.

Scoff away, Scoffer McScofferson, scoff.

I will.

I don’t know how or where or why, I just know that this here is home.

I am lucky to call this home, this my city by the Bay, my lover, my secret fetching mistress who bestows windy kisses on me and gifts me with views I did not even know existed.

From one side of Alamo Square you get the spread of downtown, the Civic Center, the Bank of America Pyramid, the Bay Bridge.

Then walk around to the other side and gaze over to UCSF and its steeples and there off in the distance the Golden Gate Bridge, or to another side and there is the Haight and Cole Valley and Twin Peaks rising majestically in the near distance bestowing a knowing benevolence upon the city when not shrouded in fog.

In between the duo trips to the park we also walked around the NOPA neighborhood.

I popped us into BiRite and my charge nibbled on sample brioche bread and I bought a couple of Taylor Gold pears from Frog Hollow Farms, an heirloom varietal apple, organic of course, please, and some Stumptown Holler Mountain coffee, blessed again with good food, good coffee, good company.

We then swung into the Mill, scented with hot fresh backed loaves of bread and the alluring smell of caffeine.

I got an Americano from Four Barrel roasters and we walked some more.

I took pictures of her.

Hand Print

Her little pigtails golden antennae of love sprouting from her head.

Her little smile a delight.

This could be our last week together.

I told her mom today I had to bring my rates up.

She completely understood, but has to discuss it with the husband and I may not have much work with them left.

They are the least well off of my clients and I said I understood, that I would of course continue at my normal rate for this week and please let me know by next week what you decide.

They may just keep me through the New Year as it stands.

Either way, it’s been a gift to hang out with their little girl.

Any child really, it is a gift, but I feel lucky to have had the interactions with her that I have gotten to have.

Poor doll has been getting over a cold and sounds like Sophia Loren has taken over her voice box after a long boozy night smoking cigarettes in after hours clubs.

Husky, sweet, and congested.

We read her teddy bear stories.

“ALL THE HIPPOS GO BERSERK!”

And had a great lunch together.

I felt at ease having said what I needed to say and having also let go of the results of the conversation.

The difference for them is one day a week they would pay an extra $16.

I don’t need to point that out to them.

If they are concerned, they are concerned.

Not my money, not my budget, not my business.

What a relief.

I thought that again as I sat in the Crepevine at 7th and Irving having a large salad as a family across the way had their dinner–a large “comfort food” platter of deep-fried goodies (fyi, the comfort food is not my wording, it is listed that way on the menu) with extra ranch and blue cheese dressing to dip it in.

Fried mushrooms.

Fried wings.

Fried onion rings.

Fried french fries.

You know, comfort food, rolled in flour and deep fat fried.

Mom had a couple of glasses of red wine, mom is also a mom in bloom again, six, seven months along I would hazard, and grandma chucked back a couple of glasses when the other mom was not paying attention, outside the restaurant on her phone while her child played choo choo train in the middle of the restaurant barefoot.

I don’t remember exactly when it dawned on me, but dawn it did, that I did not have any judgements about the scene in front of me.

It was none of my business, nor my place to judge.

I mean, I would not handle myself that way and I would do things a lot differently, but that is just my choice at this point in my life.

How lucky that child to have a mother, a grandmother, a large plate of food, a restaurant to run around in.

I sat, ate my salad and thought, holy shit, I might be growing up.

I was not involved, annoyed, or anything, other than present.

I enjoyed my salad and when it was done finished my water and got up to go next door to grab a cup of tea before going to further my connections with my fellows.

This whole day, this experience of being in San Francisco, the realization, again, that I am privileged to live here, really hit me.

I also was able to get in a long meditation while the napping helped and that certainly did not hurt my outlook on the day.

I could have sung with joy on my bicycle ride home.

The smell of the air.

The sea ahead of me.

Grace.

Pure and simple.

Grace.

My livf.

An unremitting gift.

One in which I have no intention of giving back.

Only playing it forward.

Saying thank you at the end of my night, crawling into my warm bed with soft sheets and big pillows, thank you for this life, this gift.

This grace.

Thank you.

Over and over and over agin.

And What Did You Do Today?

Not much.

Came home and ate a roasted Japanese sweet potato.

Took a hot, hot, hot shower.

Masturbated.

Yeah.

I know.

What ever, it’s there in my “about page” it happens.

Don’t tell me you don’t.

Liar.

“Oh where did that come from?”  I thought,” then, “whoa, who cares, that works.”

And let’s get off.

Ah.

I was going to go do the deal in the Inner Sunset, but I got done with work a bit earlier than I expected, I was in the Castro and I turned down 18th toward Good Vibes, I had an errand to do that had been on my plate for a little while.

Well.

Hello.

Aren’t you all clean and tidy and re-arranged.

The store has been re-organized since I last visited their outpost on Valencia.

“Oh that’s a great one, but don’t put it in your mouth,” the clerk said, “it tastes horrible.”

Good to know.

Not that I have ever squirted any lube in my mouth.

Yick.

That’s what saliva is for, people, duh.

“Have you tried,” insert some name I have never heard before, “it’s great!”

The clerk, a young gay man, blonde hair, horn rimmed glasses, tidy little beard, jeans with a slight sag, but skinny at the ankles, your basic “gipster” look, gay hipster,  showed me another little bottle at the register.

We talked shop for a few minutes, but I was in and out, no pun intended, heh, and just got what I needed.

I am pretty set up at home.

“Uh, yeah, I saw a light on in there,” he said with a nervous laugh underneath the words.

Oops.

I just was directing him to the condoms, but he stumbled across the rechargeable vibrator.

God bless the Germans, kinky fucks they are, rechargeable and with a handle.

“Only the Germans would come up with the idea of putting a handle on a vibrator,” my lover said to me once, half-joking, half serious, insert dash of admiration.

I suppose I should have put my disclaimer in at the beginning, but…

IF YOU’RE RELATED TO ME STOP FUCKING READING.

Thanks.

I have been debating on and off for a little while about starting another blog, just a secret say it all blog.

But then I realized I just don’t have the time.

Or the energy.

That’s what my morning pages are for, the absolute honesty, although, even there I find myself lapsing, as though if I write it down I will be discovered.

Oh, I still have feelings for…

Oh, I want…

Oh, I don’t want to think about that…

I sometimes don’t write about something as well because I have such a solid picture of it in my mind that I don’t need to.

I can look at the date or the page and know, just know what happened and how I felt.

This afternoon as the rain was falling and I was sitting scrolling through my old Instagram feed, I looked over all sorts of photographs I took while I was in Paris.

Home of the sexy sexy.

Although I never did hook up with a Frenchman.

I had a crush on an English man and a Scots man.

There was that.

And another American I met right before I left.

The possibility of hooking up was often negated by living in such a close space with my room-mate.

Though I know him pretty well and I hazard had I asked he would have vacated the premises to give me some privacy.

It never happened though.

“French men just don’t know what to do with you,” an acquaintance said to me, “you’re too much, so colorful, the tattoos, the hair, I think they are just too afraid to pursue it.” He was occupied in a relationship with a, in his words, challenging French woman, but I knew he had always admire me, and I him.

I suppose that may have been true.

I think that’s just the aura I put out there which, face facts, is just subterfuge.

I am just a big scared pussycat.

But as I scrolled through those photographs I wondered how many other things marked me the way those photos do.

Music.

I also set a tone when I take care of the self and I like to listen to some music, some times it’s rock and roll, I don’t know why, but Rolling Stones Emotional Rescue album gets to me.

Underworld, Dubnobasswithmyheadman, is also a hot standby.

Brings all sorts of old dreamy fantasies to mind.

Music, photographs, love.

Sex.

All wrapped up in piles of words as I sort through them and wonder when, and if that, then, or could be, or hmmm, how about.

The weather did hold on my ride back to the Sunset, although the fog was dense and heavy, the rain did not fall again and were I not carrying precious cargo with me and pre-occupied with what I was going to do with it, I was tempted to walk down to the ocean.

I could hear the ocean crashing from the street and the wild smell of eucalyptus from the last arm of the park mingled with the dark ocean scent was über compelling.

I slowed for the last turn on Lincoln Avenue, thinking suddenly that I was going to get hit from behind, a car sliding on the wet pavement, making that sound, that squeal that seems to presage hydroplaning and I felt my stomach clench.

“I don’t want to die before knowing love,” I thought.

A voice sang out in me, “you have experienced more love than you know what to do with, love of parents, father, mother, love of a sibling, sister, love of grandparents, love of boyfriends, lovers, friends, self, the children you take care of, how many have had the love you have had?”

I could not argue with that.

I felt blessed suddenly and slowed a little to take the turn in a safe way.

I still did not cotton to the idea of being hit on a fog slick street with the high-beams of the on coming traffic gliding up Lincoln, but as  turned, the truth of the wind at my back and the flat pockmarked street on 46th greeted me cheerful even in the waning light.

Here to live another day of love.

What I had meant, and the little voice knew it, but I needed to hear what had been said in my heart.

What I meant was.

I meant I want to be partnered before I die.

Is that a lot to ask?

But then, too, I realize I have known so much love that to foolishly believe that just because I was coming home alone to come alone, ahem, did not mean that state was a permanent state.

It is just a way to care for myself while in this hallway.

“Have you thought about forgiving yourself for being single,” she asked.

It just is an act of self-love and it just meant that I was in for the night, safe to take a hot shower and have a hot meal after a little hot action.

Heh.

Anyway.

Before this heads further south, oops, uh, I should sign off.

Make some tea, relax with my music, go to bed a little early.

The rain is passing for the rest of the week and I look forward to being busy.

Not just getting busy.

Filling my life with more love and taking it, gratefully, greedily, and thankfully, from where ever it comes from.

Me.

Myself.

And I.

Or from you.

And you and you and you.

And yes, oh yes, you.