Another Day

by

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.

 

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