Do You Have A Swim Suit?

Pack it.

Already packed.

My friend’s text arrived via a flurry of getting the kids ready for bath, bed, and beyond, and what do you want to do?

Duluth?

Minneapolis?

Stockholm, Wisconsin?

Kayak.

Canoe.

Swim.

ARGH.

I want to do it all and I want to be wearing my sassy sandals.

Which have been banished to the corner of my closet as I was so tempted to pack them anyway, they are so cute, when am I going to have a week of sandal wearing goodness in San Francisco?

Never.

And I certainly won’t be wearing these beautiful shoes to Burning Man.

Oh well.

I knew it was too much to put my ankle through, so in the closet they stay.

I am otherwise just about packed.

I wanted to be proactive partially because I feel better having it all ready and partially, well, the lady moves slow like still.

I am getting around a bit better and last night for the first time I took some tentative and slow steps from the bed to the bathroom.

Woohoo!

Ten steps indoors without the walking boot on.

Huzzah.

Sigh.

I could probably swim, but I will most likely just float.

I won’t be doing some nice steady, smooth, strong kicking, not yet.  I don’t want to move it around that much.  But I can probably still do a crawl stroke, I’ll just let my legs go dead behind, sort of like when we used pull buoys on swim team.

The buoys were held between the legs for, yes, you guessed it, buoyancy, and one did not kick ones feet while swimming laps.  They were to help perfect your crawl stroke.

I would like to say that I will be doing lots of active things on my summer vacation.

But perhaps it will be the inactive ones that I get to enjoy the most.

There’s a possibility of going out on a pontoon boat.

PONTOON!

I can’t remember the last time I was on a pontoon boat.  Maybe when I was ten, twelve?

I recall a summer Lake Wisconsin pontoon trip outside of Okee.

Okee is a teeny tiny town outside of Lodi, itself pretty small (2,500 pop.), on Lake Wisconsin.

If you were headed to the ferry driving towards Devil’s Lake State Park or Baraboo, you would bypass Okee.

It was on the wrong side of the Lake Wisconsin for the ferry.

But it was where an aunt of mine lived for a while and briefly, if memory serves, my mom and sister and I stayed with her too.

I remember the hammock in her back yard.

I also remember that the part of the lake she lived on was shallow.  I could wade out thirty, forty, fifty yards, and the water would only come up to my thighs, my eight year old thighs, so it was super shallow.

I got tall, but well after eight.

I don’t know what the occasion for the pontoon was, but it was definitely a party, it’s pretty much an excuse to drift slow and lazy on the river or lake and drink a lot of beer.

Hell, any gathering of my family in Wisconsin seemed to be a ocassion to sit by a lake and drink a lot of beer.

I don’t think my family is anything special in regards to this.

Pontoons are great for picnicking on too.

They just move so slow.

It’s sort of like being on a parade float, except it’s in the water.

Speaking of parade.

Pride was today and the hooligans were out early.

I had an errand to run up to 7th and Irving and the packs of champagne swilling, mimosa monkeys in rainbow colors flying their freak flags high were huge.

One particular group of teenagers, twelve, thirteen of them, on the back part of the N-Judah at 11:20 a.m. had the bottles of champagne going round, the Gatroade bottles going round, the flasks of cheap vodka already having been dumped into the sport drink bottles.

Nothing says good times like smell of purple Gatorade and vodka in the morning.

Blech.

They were having a great time and all of them had on body paint and net shirts and rainbow striped headbands and wristbands and of the entourage, one guy was gay.

The Pride part of the party was underscored by the “party” part of Pride.

San Franciscans don’t need much excuse to bring out a bottle and some bright neon net t-shirt action, be it Bay to Breakers or Pride, or Tuesday afternoon for that matter.

It was quite amusing to watch the faces of a few tourists who didn’t know what Pride was and were out at the beach and heading in to the city to go do tourist type things.

I was not going anywhere past 7th and Irving.

I had a moment of desire to hop further up and drop into Cole and Carl–grab my nanny clogs from the house I work out of for my trip, but the amount of people already on the train was just too much for me.

That is a side effect of this whole thing that has surprised me a little.

I have gotten a bit overwhelmed by crowds on recent excursions.

I suppose that it’s a bit of being extra cautious about my ankle and also having spent a lot of time by myself over these last few weeks.

This trip to Wisconsin will be a nice easing back into the human world.

It’s a little slower in Wisconsin anyhow and slow is great for me at the moment.

I will sit on the porch with my friend and drink coffee in the morning and look out towards the lake and perhaps see an eagle fishing for breakfast.

I will sit in the car and happily go on mini-car trips to the wilds of the North woods of Wisconsin.

Or perhaps I shall meander along with her through down town Hudson and procure an iced coffee at a cafe.

I will enjoy whatever happens, I’ll be with my best friend, even if I can’t keep up with her three boys, I will bask in their energy and be happy to be a guest in their home.

Off now to finish the packing.

And try to get to bed a tiny bit early.

The alarm is set for 4 a.m.

My flight out of SFO is at 7:30 a.m.

Eesh.

Grateful for the travel pillow.

And with that.

I shall see you tomorrow from the bustling metropolis of Hudson, Wisconsin.

 

 

T-Minus Sunday

And counting.

One more day before I fly home to Wisconsin.

Not really home, this home.

Wisconsin ceased being home a long time ago, almost twelve years ago now, and I am not going back to the part of Wisconsin that I grew up in.

I am going to Hudson, Wisconsin where my best friend and her skulk live.

I am excited to see them.

And I realized today, anxious.

A feeling I am not particularly fond of and one I would prefer to not feel and also one that it took me a minute to identify that I was having.

Oh.

Hi.

I did not know that was what was happening.

This is actually astounding progress for me.

First that I identified that I was having a feeling.

And that the feeling was not “shit” or “fat” or “fucked.”

“Fat” is not a feeling.

Nope.

Inadequacy.

Oh.

That’s a feeling.

Some shame.

Yeah, there’s that too.

And then the anxiety.

The nice thing about feelings is that they pass.

By the time I was finished with my commitment for the evening it was gone.  I got to check in about it with someone and talk and of course there’s anxiety.

Duh.

Traveling is an anxiety inducing affair, even if I am excited about the trip.  Sometimes, too, I will confuse the excitement for anxiety or vice versa.

And I am not one hundred percent me, ankle stuff and all, and so yeah, this is all a different kind of travel than I am used to.

I also am feeling a bit of anxiety about returning to work.

Will I be ready?

Will I fuck up the ankle more?

Will I be able to handle the kids?

I believe yes to the former and not the latter, and I believe that the free-floating feeling of “there’s something wrong” is just a tendency of an ill mind to try to get me to fabricate a crisis where there is none.

There’s nothing wrong.

My bills are paid.

(Thank you friends again and again and again.)

My ducks are in a row.

I even have a TSA approved travel toilette bag.

And.

I investigated getting the wheel chair today online, to wheel me through the airport on the way to the flight.

Turns out that SFO won’t do it for you, per se, you have to contact the airline that you are traveling via, itself.

Basically I will request it when I pull up to check in for my flight.  I won’t go inside and print of my ticket, I will go curb side to Delta and request the wheelchair at that point.  I will also check into my flight there as well instead of checking in at one of the kiosks.

I may ask my ride to actually come and get me just a tiny bit earlier to make sure I sail through on time.

I don’t believe I will actually need more time, but I would rather have it than not.

Needless to say I will be requesting it, “the chariot” as a dear heart said I should think of it, and I will ask to be seated outside my assigned seat if I can be made more comfortable.

I don’t think I can get the extra leg room in the cabin by sitting in the exit row, you have to be physically capable of assisting others, and well, I would love to play hero, but perhaps not on this flight.

I have a feeling though that the flight won’t be packed, it’s an odd time of day to fly out and it’s a Monday flight to Minneapolis, I think it will be fine.

It feels fine anyhow.

I don’t have much to do tomorrow.

Take care of packing my suitcase, doing a little laundry, taking a shower, having a normal day, whatever “normal” looks like.

Today it was have tea with a confidant for an hour on the back porch and do a lot of inventory.

I also called a lot of folks just to check in and say hi and see how my friends were doing.

I got some sun.

I sat and flipped through a Vogue magazine.

I ate nice meals that I cooked for myself.

I drank lots of tea.

Oh!

I edited more of my book.

It feels good to have done some work on that and to be moving forward with it.  I can see the piece getting cleaner and the showing, not the telling is happening.

I also love seeing the comments from my friend, it’s great to have a reader who can point out, this doesn’t make sense to me, this works, this doesn’t, try this not that, this is awkward, this works, but not so much this here, “you’re showing, not telling” is a big one and it is a pet peeve of mine to be told rather than shown.

I want the experience to be like watching a movie, so the more I can show what is happening the better that feeling will come across.

It feels quite satisfying to have had some distance and some time and perspective away from it and to be reading it bound, my friend bound it for me when he edited the manuscript, I am making notes in the margin and finding fresh ways to retell it in the details rather than in the use of adjectives and superlatives.

Extraordinary too, to relive the story.

Because it’s not just a story, it’s my history, it’s my interpretation, really or my history at that time in my life.

My perspective on the time has changed seismically, however, in just a sentence or two, I can be right back there, in the meat of it, in the city, on the Lake, where a lot of the action takes place, down in the Florida Keys, in and around Homestead, Florida, I am right there participating in the action.

And I see it.

Now I just need to have you see it.

I don’t want to describe that feeling.

I don’t want to say I am anxious.

I want you to see me sitting and bouncing a leg or wringing my hands, re-tracing the lifeline on my right hand while holding a cigarette in my left, over and over again.

I want the description of the action to be palpable and thick so you don’t have to hear the feelings, you can see them loud and clear.

Show.

Don’t tell.

I wrote a book.

Anyone can write a book.

Now I want to write a book that is readable.

I want to tell a story that is consumable.

I want you to want more when you are finished.

I want to inflame the appetite.

Of course going back to Wisconsin is going to arouse anxiety.

I am heading back to that place where I vowed to leave twelve years ago to become the next great American novelist and I shall return not having published or finished writing that great novel of mine.

That is ego.

That is not why I am going.

I am not going back to prove a point or be anyone other than myself.

Because my friend wants me, not the idea of me.

The idea of me can stay home.

I have better things to carry onto the plane.

Or wheelchair on to the plane.

As the case may be.

 

We’ll Record When I Get Back

Holy shit.

I ran into a friend of mine.

A dear, sweet, darling man who has known me from the days of yore when I went to an event that he was playing at, his birthday party, and I danced my ass off while walking around with a cane.

I was in the last stages of healing from a really bad back sprain.

The music, his music, was so infectious though, I could not help it but to dance.

“You know, I’m playing one show here for Pride (tomorrow is Pink Saturday and the high holy holidays of queer are here in San Francisco), it’s going to be good.” He leaned in a subtle, conspiratorial manner and whispered in my ear as he gave me a hug good night, “I’d invite you but I don’t think you should be dancing quite yet, heal well, I’ll see you in seven weeks when I get back from Europe.”

Oh awesomeness.

He’s right too.

I would probably try to shake my groove thing.

I have been listening to a lot of jazz of late.

Smooth.

Mellow.

Sit still and heal, soothing.

I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the dance music when I took the train downtown today to run an errand.

I should know better than to run downtown during Pride Weekend when I am hobbling about on my walking boot.

But it was too late and I was there and as I slowly maneuvered through the crowds, I kept myself occupied by listening to a Green Velvet mix live in Dublin, Ireland, that was just smoking.

Best genre I can come up with to classify it is Retro-Electro/Ghetto Techno.

So good.

So dirty good.

I just wanted to shake my ass.

At least the half that wasn’t affixed to the boot.

So, “running” (I suppose wobbling is the much better adjective) into my friend the day before he’s off on seven week tour of Europe was great timing.

I told him about the epiphany I had at Lighting in a Bottle and how I love my writing practice, can’t get enough of it, doing it all the time, but that I wanted to expand a bit more and I wanted to record a full album with him instead of just one song.

I gave him some ideas.

I would love it to be called “Music of the Spheres” or “Jesus Was a DJ”.

Something spiritual, sexual, definitely a little retro and ghetto sexy, but with some sugar lip sass, I have to be able to dance to it, it can’t be too slow.

He suggested we do an EP then play out some clubs and press some vinyl.

Ah.

Ok.

OHMYGODREALLY?!

Fyi.

I don’t even know what an EP is.

I suppose I shall have to Wikipedia that right quick.

I know enough to know it’s not a full length album.

But it’s a set of songs.

Ah.

Thanks Mister Google.

Extended Play.

Not a full album, but an extended set of songs, usually three to four.

Perfect.

That sounds exactly what I want to do.

And play out?

Hells to the yes.

I miss that kind of performing.

I mean, yeah, it freaks me out, but I also loved doing the couple of shows with him the summer before I left for Paris.

It was pretty amazing, even just that little bit.

We played together with another vocalist and a violinist at the Elbow Room and then a few weeks later I joined him with another vocalist at Club 222.

It was pretty epic.

At least for me.

And the opportunity to do it again, but with more music and lyrics and a longer story, I am down with that.

I would not mind calling it “Baise Moi” either or “Sugar Kiss”.

I have a few ideas.

Some old material and some new material.

I also don’t have to have as much per piece written as I did for While You Were Sleeping.

It’s a long poem.

It’s not epic length, but it’s too long for a song.

Knowing that I have an idea of how many words each song can hold.

This means cutting and gutting a few poems.

I can do that.

It’s just editing.

And I have an editing eye.

I want to include “Cry Baby” on it.

OH.

That’s it.

Love Junkie.

That’s the refrain for the poem, the repeating thematic of the piece, a nonce I wrote years ago, “she’s a love junkie.”

We talked about mixing it with Paul Simon’s Graceland.

At least that’s the inspiration for me.

There’s a certain time in my life I would like to allude to, where Cry Baby came from.

And then the channeling another kind of music in there, underneath it, maybe some Hues Corporation.

A little mixing of “Don’t Rock the Boat” underpinned by something French retro or new wave.

Oh, the ideas.

EEK.

Yann Tiersen.

The guy behind the Amelie soundtrack.

Oh goodness.

Snowflakes on the steps of Sacre Couer, straight to my heart, the glow lamps in front of the cafes in Paris, the Eiffel Tower glittering in the snow fall and mist.

Baise moi indeed.

I have some writing to do.

I have a creative project.

Yay.

This will make the continued editing of Baby Girl that much easier to withstand.

Not that it’s all that difficult, although I am still cringing at the errors that rife through the work.

Sophomoric errors.

But hey.

I am learning and I get to have this experience and how many folks are in the middle of editing a book, their own memoir, and also writing lyrics for a pending album with a world-famous, globe-trotting dj?

Not so many I am going to suppose.

My friend who sold me the scooter also suggested I get back into dj’ing.

I did it very briefly, very much as an amateur, never played out, when I first moved to San Francisco in 2002.

I might have to do some investigationship.

I would not be getting turntables again, I’ll be honest, I’m too busy and a bit too lazy for that, but a good mixing system, a premium membership to Spotify, and my own ear, I think I could mix a good party.

Not really for money.

Just for the fun of it.

“We’ll press some vinyl and makes some money, and play around some clubs and get you before some crowds, and,” my friend’s eyes lit up.

I interrupted, “oh, I don’t care about making money, I just want to have fun and create and…”

“Oh, you get to make money too, don’t you worry, you make something and you’re going to make money too.”

He hugged me.

“Go, we’ll talk when I get back.”

He ducked into a tacqueria to meet some friends and I walked off to the N-Judah stop to take the train home.

Music rumbling through my head.

Right foot tapping a rhythm.

Happy to have a distraction from the ankle.

I’ll dance again soon.

I know I will.

And I will get to make new music too.

Life is pretty damn grand.

I just have to get out the way.

And ask.

The Universe really wants to say yes.

Just ask.

The answer is yes.

It always is.

Are You Riding Around On It?

Uh.

No.

He apologized a few minutes later and explained he had not noticed my walking boot.

Of course I wasn’t riding around on it.

I won’t be for a while yet either.

He was not the only person who did not notice the walking boot.

The great thing about walking with crutches is that people see the crutches, especially my bling bling gold get around sticks.

Which are just used exclusively to get me up and to the bathroom now in the morning before I put on the walking boot.  Or in the evening when I have retired the boot for the day.

I have graduated from the crutches to solo walking in the boot.

And it actually looks like I am walking now.

Not so much the wobble, hobble, roll.

I just walk very slowly.

And folks are in their own bubble, just like I am, not paying attention, having my own agenda, doing my own thing, get out of my way please.

Oh.

Wait.

Ah.

I see it now.

I probably run over just as many people on my bicycle, in my job, walking about, as do people me.

I am self-involved.

Just another quiet kick in the pants bit of perspective I had today while taking public transport after my appointment at Kaiser Geary this afternoon.

Transit that took so long.

Not necessarily because it takes MUNI a long time, sometimes MUNI is pretty fast and reliable, no, it was user failure, I suppose you could say, not system failure.

I have the MUNI app on my phone, so I know when the next bus is coming and where to get off and where to transfer.

Except that app doesn’t tell me how much time I need to add in to compensate for how slowly I perambulate.

I missed two connections because I was not moving fast enough.

I also swore a bit more than usual after missing the second bus and realizing that I had fifteen minutes until I was to get picked up by the next bus coming down the line.

I could get mad.

Or I could realize I was in HALT.

Hungry.

Yup, doctors appointment navigation led to me not having lunch before hand, it was too late, but by the time I was done at Kaiser, it was way past my lunch time.

Angry.

Gods yes.

Did I not just write that I missed not one, but two buses.

The first one I missed was the Geary 38 and unfortunately for me the bus stop was under construction so there was nowhere to sit and rest my foot for the fifteen minutes it was going to be for the next bus to poke along.

I was only going up the hill to Masonic, but that walk would have laid me flat in the boot.  Too much hill.

Lonely.

Not so much.

Thankfully, I had met with a wonderful lady before my appointment and we had tea and talked all things humility, love, tolerance, patience, and service.

Proper way to get my day started.

Plus she gave me a lift to the appointment.

I couldn’t be upset about that.

I think I might have lost my marbles if I had to take MUNI in and then out from Kaiser.

Tired.

I wasn’t.

Then I was.

I was tired of standing.

The 38 Geary finally arrived.

I got on.

Gaggle of teenagers oblivious to their surroundings all up in the handicap and elderly seating.

I actually did it.

I leaned in and asked a fifteen year old girl to move.

I was nice about it, but firm.

She hopped right up.

Then I got glared at by passengers getting on the bus when some elderly got on.

I thought, well, I don’t need to explain my situation or my condition, and what you think of me is none of my business, but fuck off you know.

Again, I am self-involved, my agenda the only agenda out there.

After the brief and tortuous ride up to Masonic I transferred off the 38 and crossed the street, oh so slowly, to the other side, I decided to pop into Target before I transferred to the 43 headed toward the Inner Sunset where I had a commitment to get to by 6:30 p.m.

I knew how much time I had.

That app thing.

And I only had a few things to pick up at Target, which is not a place I normally choose to shop at, but I was there, I had twenty minutes, and I needed a couple of travel size toiletries for my imminent trip to the land of Cheese Curds.

Wisconsin.

I got the few little things I needed and got stuck at a register that was malfunctioning.

By the time I exited the store, yes, you guessed correct.

There was the 43 pulling across the intersection at the stop I had to be at to catch it.

Damn it man.

I was not about to run across the intersection.

I wobbled across.

I had a moment of thinking I would make it.

I saw that the bus was still sitting with its flashers blinking.

“Hold the bus.”

Nope.

Women turned, looked at me, stepped up, doors closed, bus departed.

Motherfucker.

I sat.

At least this stop had benches.

Next bus?

Fifteen minutes.

ARGH.

I was very much in HALT.

However, I was also taken care of.

I had grabbed a bottle of water at the store and drank it.

Sometimes I think there should be another “T” at the end of the acronym–hungry, angry, lonely, tired, thirsty.

I felt better.

Then a friend called me back.

We chatted until the next bus came.

Gone was the lonely.

I got to where I needed to go.

I got some food in me.

I got some humility.

And I got a ride home afterward.

Lovely.

And now, I am cozied up, with Karl the Fog doing his romantic it’s summer in San Francisco routine, in my studio.

I am grateful today for the experience if only from the standpoint that when I get back on my feet, whether it’s walking or riding my bicycle, or yes, eventually, my scooter, that I will have this to look back to and know how amazing it is to be mobile.

I have a depth of appreciation for this beautiful body I have been given to walk around in.

And a deep gratitude.

Now the only thing I need to do is continue to be gentle and nurturing to it.

To not listen to myself when I get into HALT.

To do the best I can to avoid it.

To love myself all the way to full recovery.

Kindness.

Tolerance.

Patience.

Love.

Check.

Check.

Check.

Double check.

I Didn’t Call That Many People

From Paris.

I told my friend with an arched eyebrow.

He was one of the few I did call.

There was the fantasy land man.

Who lived in my fantasy land world, saying goodbye to that fantasy was probably more difficult than saying good bye to the actual man himself.

But saying good bye to my friend then, as in tonight, was much harder.

I don’t know that I ever told him that.

He asked what was hardest about leaving for Paris, as he is about to embark on a five month long journey across the Universe.

Not perhaps the universe as it pertains to leaving a country to live in another country, but the unfolding multi-layered, land of the unknown, and that is a universe.

Vast in scope.

The last time I saw my friend, I will not lie, he was my lover, and so too there was another layer of experience to entertwine with it all.

And fantasy too of course.

He told me once after I had just gotten back from Paris that he had hoped I would never return.

Not in a mean way.

Not in that way of, I didn’t ever want to see you again, but in that, I was really rooting for you to make it there.

I left with all intentions of leaving.

He will be returning, he’s got a job to return to, a rent controlled pad in the Mission (which means he will never truly leave San Francisco), and a plethora of love for the city by the Bay.

Besides somebody who like food as much as he does just ain’t gonna be able to stay away.

That difference in our experience didn’t allow me to exactly be able to pin down for him the depth of feeling that  I was having as I said good bye to people and places San Francisco (like, why did I wait this long to do this thing, go to that place, and now it’s too late).

“You were pretty wrecked by the time I showed up for your going away party,” he mentioned to me.

I was.

It was abysmal.

I remember talking to another dear friend that morning and telling her how much I was struggling with just showing up for it.

I would have prefered to have slunk off in the night.

Sometimes, though, certain things stay with you.

I took an actual photograph on my friend as he lazed on my chaise in the corner sipping tea and ponitificating on the experience of the experience, because I wanted to remember.

I am sure I will, but sometimes memory fades and a good photo remains to remind me.

The last time I saw him before I left for Paris was not when he kissed me good bye on the corner of Valencia and 14th Street.

About to roar off in another man’s car after having my tryst with my lover the night before.

No.

It was watching him walk into the gas station on Mission and 14th.

Maybe he was getting a soda.

Maybe a pack of cigarettes, though I don’t recall him smoking at the time.

I do recall driving the Audi convertible down 14th to hit the freeway heading back over to East Oakland where I had another night or two of getting what little I left to do done, and seeing him.

I wanted to holler.

I wanted to wave.

I wanted to freeze the moment in time.

And that is what I did instead of calling attention to him.

I was driving off, soon to be flying off, leaving on a jet plane, as the story goes.

He was turning the corner, shoulders hunched up just a bit, hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, glasses on his face catching a splinter of sunlight, cabbie hat cocked sideways, brim pulled low.

I saw him as he reached for the door to the gas station across the street from the Armory, and then he as he stepped inside.

The light turned green.

“Goodbye lover,” I said out loud, not loud enough to be heard anywhere but inside my heart.

And then I drove off.

I remember hitting the on ramp and accelerating through the turn and whooping.

I felt so light.

So.

Aloft.

I had leapt.

I had not yet landed, but I had leapt and there was no going home now.

No home to go home to.

Only the future to move forward into.

Paris.

France.

Go baby go.

Of course that fantasy was squelched, but I did go and I will keep doing things like that, perhaps not so uprooting, I don’t know that I am supposed to do that again, but more letting go, baby go, of those fantasies.

There was one in which, many years, maybe seven, ten, I would hear from him and we would reunite and things would get wild and wooly and right.

But that fantasy.

Well is just that.

Fantasy.

What did happen is that I came back, the world moved on, he moved on, love happened then.

In the cusp between friendship and being lovers, something else grew, a knowing of the person and of myself.

I don’t expect anything else now from the relationship.

Well.

A postcard from the edge would be nice.

He’s got my address.

A story.

That’s what I would like, but that’s not a fantasy either, that’s getting to bear witness to someone elses experience and laugh or cry or commiserate with it and be tied to them in yet another way.

How fortunate I am to see my friend tonight before he embarks on his own life changing journey.

To say, “I love you,” and know it full in my heart and let it all go.

Not the love, not the friend, but the fantasy, the idea of the story that I tell myself.

My home.

Now.

Here.

In San Francisco at the edge of the city, the edge of the world, on the brink of the sea, is exactly where I am supposed to be.

The only geographic I will be pulling anytime soon is one with my hair.

I am here to stay.

If only to be here so I can say hello to my friend when he returns.

Bon Voyage my darling.

May your travels be safe.

But not too safe.

Go eat the world.

 

You Look So Much Better

I mean, wow.

She was the first person to tell me that today.

But not the last.

“Oh, you look like your normal self!”

My friend exclaimed as I got us situated and made a cup of tea.

That could be because I took a shower this morning and I am getting the knack of getting in and out of the shower and using the stool.  It still takes a bit of balancing and maneuvering, and the stool isn’t exactly designed to be sat on, but it works and I showered.

Oh the feeling of a hot shower.

So good.

I also put on cheery clothes today and bright colors and I know that adds to the whole thing, that feeling of being on the upswing.

I am still using the crutches in the morning and the evenings when I have taken off the walking boot, though, the great gold goodness has yet to be retired.

That is now my goal, a more realistic goal than being out of the boot by the time I travel to Wisconsin, next Monday, rather, I will be in the boot, but I won’t have the crutches with me.

I should be able to hobble to and fro a bit without boot and crutch in the evenings when I am there, bathroom trips, etc.

I really cannot fathom having to get on an airplane with the crutches.

I have, however, conceded to use the wheel chair.

It just makes more sense and I will be more comfortable and it’s a courtesy thing, a not charged thing, a way to ease my transition from here to there, my ego can get the hell out-of-the-way, thank you for you thoughts, thank you for sharing, now get out of my way.

I’ll be rolling through SFO next Monday morning.

I will also be bringing all my ace bandages with me and when I do transition out of the walking boot, next Tuesday, I will be extra careful and wrap my ankle as I transition to shoes.

Slow it down.

That seems to be the message, again, and again, and again.

Let my body heal while my mind runs itself on a one way track of, “there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong,” ad infinitum.

There’s nothing wrong at all.

I believe that at my basest level, my brain just is that kind of scared, besides, when something’s wrong maybe I will go back to old habits and drink or pick up some drugs, or smoke, or eat some donuts, or I don’t know go crazy and rob a bank.

Or jump off the Golden Gate Bridge before they install the suicide barriers.

That frantic thought of “something’s wrong” keeps me out of the present, out of the gift of the moment, that is so perfect that I cannot handle it, I have to be moving rapidly forward trying to solve all future problems before they even arise so that I know what to do when that day comes.

That day ain’t never coming.

I shared this evening that this whole situation continues to be a gift that I was not expecting, that has allowed me to realize how much I need my community and how easily I can isolate by keeping myself too busy to see what’s happening in my heart.

My heart wants me to slow down.

My heart wants me to breathe and be present.

My heart wants to hear the gulls and the ocean and the robins singing when I sit quietly in the morning with the back door to studio open.

There is such peace there.

My brain wants to know what I plan on wearing to Burning Man.

ARGH.

Brain.

Give it a rest.

You’ll wear the same things you wore last year, like you always do, what ever happens to be in your closet.

My rule of thumb is I only buy something that I will wear here and there.

I haven’t a huge clothing allowance and to just spend money on something that I will only wear two weeks out of the year, is not a wise way for me to spend my clothing dollar.

“I love your polka dots!”

A girl friend said to me this evening.

I am covered, head to toe.

Literally.

Polka dot leggings.

Polka dot sock.

Polka dot shirt.

Polk dot earrings.

Heh.

All stuff I wear at Burning Man.

All stuff I wear here.

But at sometime, and it happens every fucking year, my brain latches on to what will I wear at Burning Man and how to go about collecting said socks, tights, dresses, hats, etc.

Can I just get to Wisconsin before I fixate on that?

Please.

I can fixate on Wisconsin too.

It’s going to be hot and humid.

But really, I don’t see that it’ll be any different from what I wear now.

I may pare it down a bit, the colorful stuff, but then again, I probably won’t.

I am who I am.

And I look more myself than I have in weeks.

Which is a relief.

It means I am getting better.

The ankle is still needing to be elevated more often than not and I am icing it still, but rather than five, six, seven, eight, times a day, it’s becoming twice a day.

Once in the morning when I am sitting and doing my meditation.

Once in the evening after I have finished writing my blog and I am enjoying a little evening snack and having a cup of tea.

There is definite improvement.

I put a little weight on it this morning, just a tiny bit, to test the waters, and knew immediately that today was not the day to push any further.

Don’t wreck the healing that has been happening out of impatience.

Patience.

Kindness.

Tolerance.

Love.

Those are my watch words and my principles.

I can use them to engage with the world.

I can use them to navigate the bad neighborhood in my head.

I get to use them to allow myself the time to continue on the path to recovery.

I am glad that I look better.

But really.

I am glad that I am allowing myself the process of healing more than anything else.

Inside and out.

That’s probably what shows the most anyhow.

I like to think that I reflect my interior state.

Right now it’s all polka dots.

And sunshine.

 

 

Winning

I still can’t hardly believe any of this has happened.

But it has, and as I write I just look left to my tingly, in a good way–it means it’s healing–ankle, I know it has.

I still want to pinch myself  though.

I got the text today saying the funds had been deposited to my bank and thank you for letting me be of service and don’t rush out and do anything wild, you still got to heal kid.

I rushed out and paid rent.

Yeah, yeah, it’s not due for another eight days, but I did not want to go spending money on frivolous things, look at all the money in my account.

Money that I would basically have if I were working, and since I am not, I felt due diligence to take care of that which needs taking care of.

Rent.

Utilities.

Phone.

Healthy San Francisco.

Check, check, and check.

Then I looked at my check register and sighed.

Here.

Gone.

But I am so completely taken care of.

So utterly held and carried, I become overwhelmed at the drop of a hat and want to play it forward so bad that I can get carried away in my head about what I can and cannot do.

Here’s some crazy for you.

I actually walked out of the house and mailed my Grandma a card.

I made it to the mailbox today without having to ask someone to cross the road for me.

Look ma!

No crutches.

Then I sat my ass down for a minute on a bench.

Then I decided, I am going to go to Trouble and have a coffee.

I didn’t particularly need one, I had two cups this morning when I had breakfast and did my writing–which incidentally has morphed from three pages long hand to four (despite having “nothing” to write about I am writing like gangbusters)–but the idea of sitting at a cafe and enjoying the human life around me was too good to pass up.

I found a nice little perch on the parklet that is outside the cafe and prepared myself to go inside and get my Americano on.

I heard my name hollered, and here comes a friend!

My buddy two blocks down from my house who has been in a cast from foot surgery, then a walking boot, and now a half-boot/sandal, for four and a half months!

Months.

Mind you I don’t think I can make it four weeks and he’s been doing it for four and a half months.

My friend, you have bigger balls than I.

It was perfect timing.

He went inside Trouble and ordered up some coffee and we sat in the sun and shot the shit for an hour or so.

It was such a relief to be outside of my studio.

Outside of my head.

In good company, in my neighborhood, in my city, by my ocean.

I could see the ocean from the crest of the hill, a small hill mind you, one that I look ridiculous climbing in my wobbly boot, but one I made it up nonetheless.

Jesus.

That’s a scary thought.

Thank God this didn’t happen to me when I lived in Nob Hill at Taylor and Washington.

That would have been such a challenge.

After a bit of chat, this and that, meditation, sitting still, the insights that come from having a stretch of quiet time, forced upon oneself, and what comes from the practice of being quiet, we parted ways with hugs and gimped off in opposite directions.

I came home did some household stuff, made sure my check book was balanced–just because the online version says I have so much money is not the same as having that money–I double checked my maths with the rent and utilities check and then made some food for the week.

Homemade fried rice.

Left over rice from yesterday’s beans and rice, sautéed garlic and onion, broccoli, white corn, carrots, peas (not all of them, mind you, I still need to be icing down my ankle), chicken and shrimp that I cooked up with some ginger and sea salt, Bragg’s Amino’s, Spike Seasoning, and then to make it all come together, one organic scrambled egg.

I topped it with 1/2 a sliced avocado and sat outside with the warm sun on my face.

I can’t say that I want to be sitting still for much longer, but when I take the time to make it special, like taking my food from my kitchen to the back porch, and eating it with intention and attention, it becomes this magical thing.

I am finding a deep richness involved in my day-to-day life that I believe I was going way too fast to see or appreciate.

Making a meal takes some effort and I sort of blow it off, but being forced to slow down, I feel and see things differently, the small things that I accomplish now make me feel really good.

“You made your bed!” My friend said as he helped me bring in groceries from the car. “You must be feeling better.”

I am.

And I am having a lot of personal delight in my home.

It really is such a beautiful, sweet, warm place.

The perfect place to heal.

I am also thankful and in deep gratitude for all the help I have gotten, the money, the groceries, the toiletries.

You know you’re loved when someone buys you tampons.

Just sayin’.

I am also grateful for other’s perspectives, because mine is so skewed, I really don’t see myself very clearly or well.

And I often think I am trying to get over when I am not, I’m not really sick/hurt/tired/hungry/lonely….

I will push myself to be perfect and just fine and ok and I can handle this.

This whole experience has more than shown me that I am not capable of doing it all myself and I need to be reminded of that even now.

“Oh yeah, he’s right,” a friend said to me tonight when I mentioned the silly, well, what I think is silly, idea of calling ahead to the airport and asking for the wheelchair. “Totally use it, don’t push yourself, you’re still healing, you’re still within the time frame the doctor said, right, two-three weeks.”

I nodded.

“Uh, besides, how are you going to handle your suitcase?”

Oh fuck me.

Hadn’t thought about that.

Dragging a suitcase along while hobbling through the airport.

“Swallow your pride and accept the help.”

Yes ma’am.

Once again seeing that the only way to win, is to get out of my way, I am my worst advocate.

As soon as she said that it made complete sense.

And I don’t need to be a hero and I will still be healing.

Hello.

The doctor said six months for a full recovery.

Take it slow.

The hare may bound ahead.

But it is the tortoise that wins.

Slow and steady.

Winning.

Really slow and steady.

But winning, nonetheless.

 

Today Was A Good Day

I went for a walk!

I know, don’t pee your pants, it’s exciting.

I “walked” two blocks.

It was more like a shuffle and a forward lurching roll.

But I did it.

Then I iced my ankle down for a half hour after.

I just wanted to get out, I wanted to mail a card to my uncle in Nevada City and the mail box is a block away.

I figured I could get there and back.

I had forgotten that it’s a bit of an incline.

Not too much to worry about when I am walking about, doing my thing, checking my list twice, and checking off all the things I like to get done in a day.  Not too much when I am not in a walking boot stabilizing my sorry ankle.

I laughed out loud in utter hilarity at the effort it took to walk up the little incline.

I never made it to the mail box.

Although my card did.

There was a woman crossing the street with her dog and I stopped her, “are you crossing over?”

She smiled and nodded.

“Would you mind horribly putting this in the mailbox, I thought I could make it over, but it’s, well, um, more daunting than I thought.” I said and pointed out my foot.

“Oh, of course!” She took the card, crossed the street and put it in the box.

Sigh.

And that was it.

That’s all she wrote.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

That’s as far as I made it out and about today.

But I took advantage of that outside, out of my studio, out of my tiny little space, to breathe, look out to the ocean, take in the bit of sun trying to break through the clouds, smile at the babies out being pushed in strollers to brunch at the cafe, I got two out-and-out grins, both from little boys, and waves.

It felt really good to interact a little with the outside world.

Instead of the world inside my head.

I also had two visitors today and that helped as well.

Lots of tea drinking.

Lots of chatting about fellowship, community, love, service, expereince, strength, hope.

Loads.

I drank tea.

Loads.

I cleaned too.

I was expecting the company and though I am not an untidy person, the ankle injury has stopped me from being quite as clean in my home as I would care for.

I cleaned the bathroom, the kitchen, swept all the floors, made the bed, dusted.

It felt good to air it out, clean it up, open the back door for fresh air.

“You look better!” My first visitor exclaimed.

“I feel, I don’t know, brighter,” I said, “like I am coming back into my own.”

“You can totally tell,” she confirmed, “you look so much better than last week, not that, uh, you were looking bad, but, er, ha!  You know what I mean.”

I smiled.

I do.

I do feel more myself.

I know, and have been warned, to not push that good feeling too far (just around the block to the mailbox), to let the healing continue, to not get in the way of it.

To basically get the fuck out of my own way.

“You can even call a head and have a wheel chair waiting for you at the airport!” My second visitor said this afternoon over tea.

Apple cinnamon for him.

Bengal Spice for me.

Goddamn I have drunk a lot of tea today, at least I know I am hydrated.

“You’ll be taken right to the front, no hassle, you should do it.” He nodded at me.

I can’t do that, I thought, that’s crazy.

Then.

Well, maybe.

But  I don’t foresee that I will actually be walking in the boot by that time.

Tuesday marks two weeks of wearing it and the doc said “two to three weeks” in the boot.

I am really hoping that I will be able to leave the boot here in San Francisco, then wear it to Wisconsin.

I will.

I mean, I am not stupid, despite my thinking, I don’t need to be vain and wear the cute wedge sandals I ordered on-line last month before the injury, thinking how fabulous they would be to wear about, during the day, at night, why, they are so cute, I may never pry them off my feet.

At least while visiting.

Frankly, it’s too cold and overcast here in July to warrant sandals.

Now, however, I am not even going to pack them for fear that I will decide to get pretty for a night at the carnival and sprain the ankle worse.

I will not be tottering around any Midway with my heels and summer dress.

Nope.

But I really am hoping to not be in the boot.

God.

I can’t even imagine going through security with it on.

That is yet eight days a way.

Eight days of healing and letting it rest and continuing to ice and elevate.

Like I am doing right now.

My only concession to my vain self is a pedicure before I go.

Then again, maybe I should wear the boot, zoom zip through security, not worry about walking through the airport, let myself continue being cautious.

I will be returning to work the following Monday, and if the doctor said three weeks, maybe I go the full three weeks in the boot.  That would still leave me a few days in Hudson without it on.

I don’t know.

Too far ahead.

Better to focus on today.

And it was a good day.

Aside from the visits I also did some more data entry and finished up what I needed to do there, handing it all off tomorrow when I head up to 7th and Irving for the evening.

I also, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, began editing my book.

Holy Mother of God.

I am so sorry I asked my friend to read it and edit it.

And thank you Jeebus that he did.

I cannot believe that I was sending it out seeking agency.

It is not ready for publication.

I saw that so fast.

First paragraph.

First fucking paragraph, right there, that needs fixing, then this, then that, and oh shit, I’m totally telling and not showing, I know better than that, and oops, shit, adjectives galore.

I mean holy moly batman.

Lot of work to do.

But I busted through 25 pages of it.

And I can see the shape of the story.

It’s good.

Just, in the words of my friend who edited the piece for me, “it’s worth saving (I have had thoughts of just scrapping the entire thing), but you have work to do.”

And.

“The important thing is you got it down.”

He’s right.

263 pages of I got it down.

More drafts than I care to admit too, more editing than I want to do, but I got it down.

The editing is not as noxious as I thought it would be, and I suspect I’ll have a good amount done by the time I leave.

Eight more days of hanging out here, but if today was any indication, it’s getting easier.

And maybe I will go for another walk before too long.

Perhaps to Trouble or Java Beach Cafe.

Maybe even to the beach, the dunes above, not down to the beach, I don’t think I can handle getting down in the boot, but just a “stroll” to the dunes and back.

It will all happen when it’s suppose to.

RICE for now.

More tea.

More getting the fuck out of my way.

Today was a good day.

And everything is alright.

“Fun”ded

A friend told me today that it’s called “Funemployment.”

Jesus.

I don’t know who you are talking to, but help me get some of that, please.

Now that my rent, thank you God, and my phone, thank you friends, and my utilities, thank you family, and my groceries are taken care of, thank you Universe, what indeed do I have to be afraid of?

“Easy does it,” she told me yesterday, and “we absolutely insist on enjoying life, so go have fun.”

I am not quite sure how to do that.

I suspect that going to Wisconsin is going to be fun, you could put me in a paper bag like a cat and I’ll be happy to nestle in it for days, hanging out with my best friend, is the best.

I suppose that’s why she’s my best friend.

That and she’s damn pretty and damn smart and funny, and well, yeah, I am biased, but she’s all that and more.

So, in like 9 days, I’ll be having some fun.

But what can I do now?

In the next nine days, now that I don’t have the anxiety of what is going to happen to me since I can’t work for over a month? I have to incorporate some fun into my existence.

I have a lady coming over to do some work tomorrow, which is its own kind of fun.

And the gentleman who helped organize the whole crowd funding thing himself, is going to stop by for tea, he wants to see what all the fuss is about.

How it is that I know so many people from so many places.

I get around, dontcha know.

I know a lot of folks because I like to live life, I like to say yes, I am not upset at myself any longer for the scooter, I was just trying to cram more into the stream of life and I got ahead of myself.

There’s got to be a balance for me.

A little fast.

A little slow.

“It’s going to whiz right by you,” a friend told me tonight over a cup of tea up at the Starbux in Noe Valley, “before you know it, you’ll be right back in the mix.”

I know that’s true.

The days loom long, but if I keep it small, they are manageable.

Today I got up and was already having a hard time with what I was going to do.

I did my morning routine and asked that I be guided to just take the next action in front of me instead of having anxiety about how the entire day was going, that I “didn’t have anything to do” was actually a lie.

I could begin to break my day down into small, bite sized pieces and go from there.

I had breakfast, which is not quite the ordeal it’s been since I am able to now walk well enough in the boot to not need the crutches inside.

So, breakfast, made the bed, made the coffee, iced the ankle while I was eating, made a second cup of coffee, iced the ankle some more, wrote four pages long hand, sat and did a meditation, and got myself into the shower.

I will admit, that despite the shower stool in my bathroom, I am still not showering quite as much as I would prefer, it’s still a big ordeal to do it.

But it went easier than the last time and I was able to get in and out without doing irreparable damage to myself.

Then a load of laundry.

A few phone calls.

My ankle is singing, so sit down.

Have a cup of tea.

Elevate it.

Ice it.

I have to say, I probably ice it more than it needs, but my god, it feels so good that I enjoy it.

The best part is when the cold is just a tiny bit wet, the condensation soaking my sock, the frozen peas somehow get colder, and it numbs it all out.

It is lovely.

I also reminded myself to continue with the ibuprofen, the pain is not too bad and I can manage it without, but I also know that it’s an anti-inflammatory drug and when I walk for a bit in the boot or don’t have my ankle elevated, there is still swelling happening.

It doesn’t look dead dog leg bad.

But it don’t look real purty yet either.

So, ibuprofen is still happening.

But the fun.

How do I get some fun up in this bitch?

I will say I have been writing more, that’s a kind of fun, low-key, you know.

I have been listening to a lot of music.

That’s great.

Doing a little chair dancing with my foot on a pillow.

Sitting outside when the weather abides it, the sun on my face is fun.

I’ve gone through an old photo album and found some photographs I had completely forgotten about.

That could be a little fun for me.

Now that I am a bit more dexterous with the walking boot and the crutch–down to one crutch when I go outside, I could go for a little walk in the neighborhood, like a block, maybe two, and just take some photographs.

Get really into the tiny details of the block I live on.

I’m sort of movied out, tell the truth, not too interested in watching videos.

I do need another book.

The Jonathan Lethem book was so not doing it for me, I had it dropped off at the library by a friend yesterday.   And today I ate the entire book “Slam” by Nick Hornby, not bad, not great, but easy and light and a quick ass read, so I have nothing new in the house to read.

I think what that leaves me with, aside from the no fun data entry I agreed to do (half way done!), is the crafty bit of making some hair pieces.

I found out another friend is going, (I actually typed right over that, assuming that you know where I am going. “You can still go to Burning Man?” A friend asked, and when affirmed that indeed I would be, he concluded, “then everything’s fine.”) to that man who burns in that place over there in Nevada, and I thought, I should make her a fancy little hair piece to give to her on playa.

Now that sounds like fun.

Make some things for people, not think about myself.

Get crafty, girl.

Now that I am not having financial nightmares about rent, et al, I can perhaps enjoy the rest of my down time.

Aw.

Hell.

I will enjoy the rest of my down time.

Maybe I’ll even glitter my boot.

Another Day

Another bag of peas.

Actually, it’s the same bag of peas, constantly recycled back to the freezer to get good and cold again.

Peas porridge hot.

Peas porridge cold.

Peas porridge in a pot.

Nine days old.

Some like it hot.

Some like it cold.

Some like it in the freezer.

Fourteen more days to go.

Ugh.

Midway between crazy and crazier.

But grateful for the care and support I have been getting.

So many wonderful folks who have helped with the group funding–people I barely know, to people I love and respect and know well, to anonymous donors, so much help–so much so that my rent is nearly covered.

That’s what the amount was for–rent, phone, utilities, and the gentleman who set it up added a little extra to cover the costs of the platform.

Today he asked me if he could swing by and have a cup of tea with me this weekend.

“You’ve got some awesome friends, and clearly lead an interesting life, I’ve gotten responses from Paris, from Iceland, wow!”

Then he said I would like to find out more about you, let’s hang out.

And it’s not in a seedy kind of way.

He’s gay, folks, and older.

Not that either of those things have stopped me in the past.

Ahem.

However, he’s just being of service.

To the point that he has also asked me to keep him anonymous, except for a few close friends who helped him organize the funding site, I have told no one.

It’s not my place, and again, I am so glad I am not doing it, I would muck it up, or make it out to be something more, or less than it is.

I explained to a lovely lady who was here this afternoon doing some work with me that I can’t even go on the site, it makes me feel crazy and uncomfortable–clear signs that it is the right thing to be doing–and that it is still hard to accept that so many people want to help.

I really am so blessed.

The least I can do is entertain my support network with a cup of tea and tell him of hijinks in the desert, Burning Man, or on the Continent, Paris, London, Rome, or just about Wisconsin, which is another world in and of itself.

“Let me know what you can do, or can’t do, if you can walk, or if you have any interest in doing, this, this, or this,” my best friend said in a voicemail to me.

My fervent hope is that I will be out of the boot, and though not running, I will be mobile and able to walk without it.

I am looking forward to seeing my friend and her family and having some Wisconsin summer, although, the weather here has been pretty lovely, truth be told, night-time in the Midwest is an amazing experience.

As long as I can out run the mosquitoes, I should be alright.

And of course everything she said sounded fantastic, mostly just because I will get to hang out with her, wherever we go, whether it is to traipse, slowly, about the Twin Cities, or it’s a trip up to her family cabin on Mud Lake.

Or Lake 19 or 7 or what ever lake number it is.

Minnesota is the land of 10,000 lakes.

Wisconsin is home to 15,000.

So, yeah, lots of bodies of water.

I wouldn’t mind going for a dip.

I don’t believe I will be pulling out my butterfly stroke, too much effort involved in the dolphin kicking, believe me, but I wouldn’t mind a lazy float in the water, that would be spectacular.

And silly as it sounds.

I am looking forward to Hudson, Booster Days.

Carnival.

I can get behind that.

Fireworks, Midway rides, Tilt-a-Whirl, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy, the lights, the Zipper, and most important of all small town carnivals, the ferris wheel.

I’d like a ride on a ferris wheel, in the warm summer night with the Midway lights below flashing and the air busking me with kisses, the smells, buttery, salty, hot, sweet billowing underneath the carriage, the wheel of love spinning against the horizon.

Something beyond romance in the archetypical wheel at the carnival, a kind of Americana mythic symbol all of its own.

I also never, my one regret, really, did go on the gigantic ferris wheel at the end of the Tuileries in Paris, by Place de la Concord.

I wanted to go, but I wanted to go during the summer and with someone, you know, not alone, not by myself.

There goes that old romantic fantasy again.

Sigh.

She still pops her head up now and again, and you know, darling girl, Paris, well she’s not going anywhere and we can go back, ok.

Ah.

Well.

Paris is another day-dream, another time.

For the being, time being, I am here, in San Francisco, getting very intimate with my room, with the back porch, with the sounds of the birds at different times of the day and the ocean.

How during the day I don’t hear it, but now and again, and then as the light fades, the traffic slows, the time between MUNI trains barreling down Judah eases up, I suddenly hear it more and more, until the whole studio seems engulfed in the thrush of sound and I am swaddled in the waves.

Sound waves.

During the day it is the warm sun that draw me to it and at night it is the cool rushing sound that assures me that every thing is fine, easy does it lady, you’re taken care of.

“Now that your rent is being taken care of,” she said to me, mocking with love, “what do you have to worry about, quick let’s manufacture something!”

Exactly.

There is nothing to worry about.

There is nowhere to go.

That might be the most exciting trip indeed.

Not to the playa.

Not to Paris.

Not to LA, Rome, or London.

But inside.

Inside to that cool, calm place of serenity that beckons with the lush seductions of ocean waves and steadfast compassion.

Sigh.

That’s the real journey.

The one to the interior.

My own little heart of lightness.