It’s Beginning

To look a lot like Christmas.

Except.

Well.

No tree this year.

No tree for me.

Although I did, temporarily consider it.

But it doesn’t make sense for me since I’ll be leaving for Paris and there will be plenty of Christmas trees for me to see there.

I just love having a tree in the house at Christmas.

There is that warm feeling and I feel nostalgic and recall past Christmas times and there is always a sweet moment when it’s just me in the dark with the Christmas tree lit and all things seem possible and all things are.

Magic.

Christmas is a dark time.

But it is also a time for magic and when I let the dark and the cold get into me too much I have to shake it off.

This meant getting out of the house tonight and going for a bicycle ride over to St. Gabe’s to get right with God and see my people.

I had been too much stuck in my own head today.

A touch on the isolated side.

Despite meeting with a lady earlier and having a really sweet phone call with my mom.

I felt a bit isolated.

I miss my friend who I see all the time from the neighborhood who has been out of town visiting family in the Midwest.

And I miss my girlfriends from the city who don’t live in the city anymore.

This four day weekend was an epic fail at phone tag with the two of them.

But what is a lady going to do about that.

We are all busy.

A doctor.

A nurse.

A graduate student.

All of us doing the deal and working and family and relationships, and friendships are hard to sustain through the distance, but I still reach out and they reach out and even though contact was not made, in the effort I felt connection.

But I felt a little maudlin today too.

It could just be that it’s Sunday and I didn’t quite get done the work I wanted to get done this weekend.

And then there’s that.

The perfectionist me.

I don’t have to have it all done this weekend.

I just wanted to have as much done as I could.

I did a lot too.

I have to acknowledge that.

I wrote the two papers and I did a ridiculous amount of reading.

In fact.

I finished all the reading for the semester for my Psychodynamics class.

ALL OF IT.

This, despite being an accomplishment of patience and will and just sitting in the same spot for awhile–yesterday at the cafe in Noe Valley, today all day long at my trusty kitchen table/desk–and batting through it, did not feel like enough.

I wanted to write the paper too.

Finish it.

Get it out of the way.

But I realized, after looking over the notes I took from the last lecture, the notes are insufficient.  There is a lot more that needs to be covered and my professor just didn’t get to it last time.

I could possibly write the paper but I may not be doing it any justice if I don’t understand the material and I don’t know that I am going to get the gist of what the teacher wants without hearing her lecture more on the topic.

Technically the paper isn’t even due until December 22nd.

I have time.

I just don’t feel like I do.

Feelings, I remind myself, are not facts, and so, I am going to let myself off the hook on the paper and just attend class and after I hear the two final lectures from the professor I feel like I will be able to put together a coherent and well written paper.

I also did not get to do the work for the final project for my Human Development class.

But.

That I don’t feel as weird about.

And I also did a shit load of reading for that class as well, finishing up the last chapter in the text–which means I officially read every page of that ridiculous text book, 600 pages plus of good, good times.

I read a few articles out of the reader for the class too.

I should have the reading for the semester then complete by tomorrow before work or Tuesday at the latest.

Which means I will devote the time that I normally would be reading to doing work on the final project before I go to my job job.

Yeah.

That thing that pays the bills and stuff.

Which by the end of a weekend where I have put so much time and effort into my school work, actually feels like going on vacation.

All I have to do is fold laundry and make dinner?

(Aside from the plethora of other things)

I don’t have to understand Post-Freudian Kleinian theory on death drives?

SWEET.

There was a little lightness in my day.

I will acknowledge that too.

I did open a gift my mom sent me and was happily surprised by a sweet basket for the beach with a little pillow and folding mat for sitting in the sand dunes accompanied by a book of poems and a card with $50!

Not at all what I was expecting from my mom and I was grateful to open the gift, although my birthday is still a few weeks away.

My mom was so excited to send it to me that I opened it early for her.

Which led to one of my breaks today–a walk around the neighborhood while I chatted with my mom and got some sunshine on my face.

The next time I had thought to go for a walk it was already sunset and I had been reading for another couple of hours.

I made dinner instead, texted a dear friend in my cohort, and prepped my food for the week.

Opening the present had made me a little nostalgic for the holidays and so I opened up my box of Christmas ornaments and pulled out a few.

I may not have a Christmas trees this year, but I do have snowflake ornaments hanging from the antlers in the corner and a bowl that says “Noel” on it filled with glass bulbs and ornaments sequestered in a little corner.

Plus.

A wreath of jingle bells on my door.

That and a few Christmas cards and it will be just the right balance.

I also enjoyed my bicycle ride through the neighborhood and if I feel the need for a tree all I have to do is ride down the block and look in the windows of all the houses.

The holiday house at the corner of Kirkham and 46th has a magnificent one, as does a lovely little house on the corner of Noriega and 46th.

My upstairs housemate has been decorating her’s all day today with the help of her daughter and the drift of Christmas carols down the stairs into my studio is also a sweet, unexpected gift.

Christmas.

By the way.

Is everyday for me.

As I am constantly showered with gifts.

Friends.

Family.

School.

Work.

Recovery.

Community.

So much love.

All the love.

All the things.

Happy Holidays.

Let’s go through them joyfully together.

While I Waited.

I wrote some poetry.

That was unexpected.

I was sitting in the window seat of the Starbucks in Noe Valley waiting for my person and I was reading my Psychodynamics reader.

I am just a few pages shy of finishing it, however, I discovered that there were readings missing in the reader and I will have to go online and find them.

Which would explain some of my confusion with the class, there is a system that the school uses called Canvas, and when my professor was referring to articles online, well, I thought she meant this platform.

Nope.

She literally meant online.

But online is where I can’t get to right now.

My internet is woefully slow.

I am not certain that I am going to be able to get onto my blog tonight.

I am going to try.

I have been trying for a while now.

That being said, I don’t necessarily have to write my blog on the wordpress site.

It is my preference.

But as so many things in life, my preference is not always what happens.

I would have preferred it if my professor had put all the articles together in one spot, I like having them all printed out in the reader, it helps me organize and I like to underline and take notes.

Hard to do that when I am reading an article online.

I also find it more difficult to read anything online.

It just works better for me to be off the page than on a screen.

I am old fashioned.

I am quite alright with that old-fashionedness as well.

I like writing sonnets.

Who writes sonnets anymore?

I like writing in notebooks with a pen.

Of course.

I also love writing my blog and I love how fast my fingers fly over the key board when the words are coming out of my head and they just seem to pop right onto the page in front of me, the wordcount rolling ever higher.

There is a distinct pleasure in the use of the keyboard as well.

No denying it.

But there is the writing and the reading and the old way of doing it that pleases me just as much if not a tiny bit more.

While I was waiting for my person and reading my reader I had something pop out at me and I re-read it and thought of the conversation I had my with my friend in his office while we were discussing poetry and architecture, and art, and life, burning man, shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, and whilst he and I were in the middle of a conversation he said the most astounding thing and in a flash I grabbed my bag of pens and fished out a notebook and wrote it down.

It happened to be my Psychodynamics notebook.

The very same notebook I had in my lap while I was reading about Transitional objects and play and post-Freudian theory.

There were words in the article that resonated with the conversation from yesterday and there was something in the music playing in the café and the mania of a homeless man who kept coming in and out of the door.

At one point he smacked his palms on the glass in front of my face to get my attention.

I got lost in the moment, picked up my notebook, found the line of conversation that I had wrote down yesterday, and then intermixed with thoughts of a love I began writing a poem.

And I thought all my poetry was gone.

As though I was a fraud, a one shot, a one trick pony.

The only thing standing in between me and my fraudulence yet another sonnet.

The muse has not left the building.

Sometimes the muse is a homeless man demanding attention.

And I have to pick up the pen.

It is a compulsion and a thickening in my blood, a swirl, a cataclysm of thought and power and shadow and love.

Always the love.

So here.

For you this Saturday eve.

A new sonnet.

The Place Where We Live

The real thing is the thing that is not there.

I mean the thing you put in between

The reality of the love and the shadow of fear.

The soft bellied swallow a hush mark, a skein

Of feathers, a brush of your hand through my hair.

And the kiss of your mouth upon my neck.

I think these things underneath the fair

Stream of light. A caustic cushion, the feck-

Lessness of your bravado. A wash of scent

I wallow through, a marsh of hazard and light,

Star light, the pitter pat of manic hands, the bent

Minded man, a harrowing, a heart broken with blight.

Transitional objects bereft with casual longings.

And then you, here, not there, my darling, my belonging.

And then I reflected.

Really reflected on my life in this last year.

Where I was a year ago to where I am now is astounding.

I was in the front dining room of The Beach Chalet having a late dinner with my ex-boyfriend.  We were talking about an incident that had happened the night before and how it had stirred up some old child hood traumas.

I remember looking out the plate glass window of the second story of the Beach chalet the back lit restaruant and empty tables reflected in the window, the press of the dark night, the heaviness of the ocean, the lowering sky, and how was I ever going to navigate through it all.

There was no there there.

There was no place to call home.

Even in the attempt to communicate with the person sitting next to me, arm against arm, body to body, there were only the words stilted, shamed, guilty, driven, soft, remorse, the belly of a newt tender and spotted, I wriggled in helplessness and despair I could not accurately name or own or speak to.

I had lost my voice in the relationship even as the relationship was developing.

It fell apart to soon thereafter.

But I learned.

I grew.

I walked through a lot of pain for it was in the remonstrances of my past that came floating back to settle on my skin again and teach me what I had to repair and where I needed to go further and what needed to be healed.

No surprise that not many weeks later I was in the epicenter of it all.

Alaska.

Anchorage.

My father in a coma the stench of alcohol still on his skin, the delierium tremens that would happen and shake his body like palsy in a doll, the bruises on his hands and knees, the short hospital gown that would rise and reveal his genitals in the writhing, the nurses, in and out, the beeping, the admonitions to hold his hands, talk to him, all the emotions and falling.

The loneliness of that room in the quarters for the family adjacent to the urgent care facility of the hospital.

The snow on the ground.

The late sunrise and the early sunset.

So many things.

All the things.

All the things that broke my heart.

Broke it open wide and left it there, a rose of bloodletting, then forgiving, then letting go.

The last kiss on his cheek days later, surprised by the warmth of his skin, the stubble on my lips as I pressed my mouth to his face.

I choked inside.

Grabbed my luggage and rolled it out the door holding back the sobs until I could get into the empty waiting room and crumple against the check in desk where no one manned the reception except a quiet God and the soft voice inside me to forgive and move on, to get into the elevator and go home.

Back here.

Back home.

Back to a man that wasn’t to be with me much longer but from whom I learned where I needed to work on myself next.

And oh.

The work.

I did it though.

And when I met with my person and acknowledged all those things from here to there.

And the love.

Oh there is so much love.

Love I cannot talk about yet, here, in a way that makes any sense, just love.

Suffice to say.

Love.

Like a crescendo of light petals from star flowers.

A shattering.

I am smote.

Yet.

I rise up in this love and I am seen.

I.

Am

Known.

Black Friday?

Cold Friday.

Holy Jesus on a pogo stick.

It is cold out there.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I know.

But, you’re from Wisconsin.

Blah, blah, blah.

I left Wisconsin.

I haven’t lived there in 13 years.

I remember one night coming out from closing up the bar and it was way below zero and I was just wanting to get in my car and start it up and be on my merry way.

Except.

The doors were frozen shut.

There’s a trick to opening up a door when the doors are froze shut and that’s to bump against the door and break the ice down.

Except.

The asshat next to me had parked me in too close and was obviously not around as it was 3:30a.m. and freezing and he probably, or she, could’ve been a she, had taken a cab home.

My luck.

The only car in the parking lot except mine and it was parked so close to me that I couldn’t get much body slam technique going to break down the ice between the frame and the door.

I remember bouncing my body between the two cars and hollering out loud at one point, “this is why I am moving to California!”

Now.

I have adjusted.

I have also gotten older.

And.

I lost a lot of weight.

When you don’t have 80-90lbs of extra flesh on your body for insulation, well, you get cold faster.

Plus.

I hate to say it.

But there really is a difference between wet cold and dry cold.

San Francisco is wet cold.

At least it wasn’t raining or foggy today.

Now that would have been a nightmare.

I am just now getting warmed up and I may stop here and make another cup of tea to finish the defrosting of my body.

I rode my scooter around a lot today so that added to the cold ness, wind chill.

I felt so tight in my body riding home that I had to tell myself to breathe.

I am happy to be home.

It was a long, strange day.

Not a bad day.

Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Just different.

I got up and did the deal like I normally do and wrote a lot this morning, four pages, and showered, did laundry, put fresh sheets on the bed, did the compost and recycling, paid for December rent and utilities, balanced the check book, had breakfast, had coffee, dressed, did the make up and made a plan for the day.

I mean.

I had a plan.

Not that I stuck all that close to it.

But there were two things, people, that I was going to meet and I met them both.

One a new friend.

The other a lady to do some reading with.

The new friend is my artist/patron/architect extraordinaire.

We had plans to meet for lunch at Cafe de la Presse downtown today at 1p.m.

I was nervous.

Here’s a person I met once, at Burning Man, have a moment of playa magic, recite some poetry, he looks me up, I write some more poems for him, he sends check for $1,000.

Benefactor.

Patron.

Hero.

Helped me get over the hump to buy my new scooter and also enabled me to say yes to going to Paris.

Totally feel debt of gratitude and I am humbled that he wants to hear me recite the words to the poems.

And nervous.

I mean.

It’s a private poetry reading.

Plus.

It’s Black Friday and I am going to ride my scooter into the maw of the beast, downtown San Francisco Black Friday, ice rink opening in Union Square, tree lighting ceremony, Macy’s, Powell Street, everything.

But.

It was super easy and I intuitively rode there after looking at Google maps and saying, nah, there’s an easier way to do it than that.

I got from here to there in 30 minutes.

I had a lot of stuff with me.

In hindsight, that I did not need.

My laptop.

My Psychoanalytic reader and notebook.

I was planning on doing work on my Human Development final project after meeting and having lunch, but found out the SF Public Library was closed for the holiday, so I decided to bring my Psychoanalytic reader to get into some Post-Freudian theory instead.

Yeah.

That did not happen.

What did happen was a delightful lunch, great conversation, and a tiny peek into the creative genius of a great artist.

I was truly blown away to be talking with him.

We had a lovely two hour lunch then we walked over to his down town office and in the conference room I read the sonnets.

It was an amazing experience.

One that I won’t soon forget.

I remember my friend letting me in then excusing himself to use the facilities and when I looked around I was just struck.

Awe struck.

By how things work, by how things happen, by luck, and love, and chance, and art.

To be considered an artist by someone else is extraordinary.

To share my art with someone who is a visionary was something else and I can’t quite put my finger on all the feelings, but graced was certainly one of them.

I left with a gorgeous set of visual poems and architectural works that he has done gathered in a book of his work and my heart full of love and awe.

It was a pretty smashing afternoon.

Then a ride to the Castro, a trip to the hardware store, a couple of locks for the scooter, and yes, I got my ass to the nail salon, thank god, the hands were looking rough.

Then a quick bite of dinner and meeting with a ladybug to do some reading and discuss defects of character.

I have a few.

But I also have assets.

And I saw those today.

Willing to take risks.

Wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Taking on new adventures.

Being open and alive to the poetry of my life.

Allowing myself to have new experiences and meet new people.

Lovingness.

Perseverance.

Strength.

Positivity.

I don’t know how I got to be that woman in that conference room sharing my own personal poetry with a new influence in my life, but there I was.

Being seen for who I am and encouraged to continue engaging in my art.

I am an artist.

How lovely it is to name that, claim it, honor it.

I am humbled.

And awed.

And grateful.

So very grateful.

It really wasn’t a cold, black Friday at all.

No.

Rather light and loving and winning.

Warm and heartfelt.

Just as it should be this weekend of thanks.

For you I give thanks.

And for all that you give me.

I give thanks.

For this life.

This love.

This art.

For.

All.

Of.

This magnificent poetry.

Thank you.

 

Let Yourself Off

The hook.

He said to me on the phone as we wrapped up our Thanksgiving count down of all the stuff and things.

I am doing just that, letting myself off for the rest of the day.

It has been a day.

I did a lot of work.

I did not go eat out turkey anywhere, I stayed in.

I did make a run this morning to the SafeWay in the neighborhood, which was full of people doing that last minute scramble, and I got what I needed and I got the hell out.

I also went and filled up the gas tank on my scooter.

$2.00!

Full tank.

Got to love that.

I was planning on going out this evening and wanted to make sure she was gassed up, but I didn’t.

My plans changed and I let myself be ok with that.

The fact is I focused on doing some very necessary work for school so that I would not have to have it all on my plate before heading to Paris.

I don’t really have time week days to do sustained writing, I attempt to do a little reading every day, but I keep the big writing to the weekends.

And this being a four day weekend I knew it was going to be my opportunity to get as much done as possible.

I actually succeeded beyond my expectations.

Well.

My stated expectations.

I had a moment last night when I thought, hmm, I bet I will be able to knock out my Human Development paper faster than I am budgeting time for, but I wasn’t going to push it.  If it happened, it happened.

If not.

I would still have three more days to work on things.

As it happened, the first paper went off really well and I was done with it and had sent it to my professor by 2:30p.m. this afternoon.

I had a phone call with a friend and ate a late lunch.

I even, shocker, flipped through a W magazine.

One I have had for months and not cracked.

I figure the next time I will be looking at a magazine will be on the flight to Paris.

The rest of my time from here until there is full.

But not quite as untenable as I first felt it would be.

I got the pre-paper anxiety going well this morning and had to do a little praying to get around it but I did and I just breathed and opened up my notebook and opened up my text book and opened up my reader and looked at all the little blue flags of post-it notes and got the feeling for what I wanted to write.

I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth this morning thinking about how I was going to frame the paper and the image of the imago came to mind.

In biology, the imago is the last stage an insect attains during its metamorphosis, its process of growth and development; it also is called the imaginal stage.

Thanks Wikipedia.

I repeated the world out loud, “imago.” that’s it!

The butterfly, was the insect I was thinking of and I used it to frame the paper and it worked beautifully.

Once I had the frame work and the outline and the blue flags all waving at me with direction and purpose, it didn’t take long to hash out the paper and it felt good writing it and reflecting on the things that resonated with me.

I gratefully spell checked, edited, and proofed.

Then.

Off to the professor and the TA with a Happy Thanksgiving note and on to the next project.

I tried to do the reading for my Psychoanalytic paper and found my brain was not co-operating.  I put it on pause after reading four pages and not feeling like I retained any of the information.

I decided I would leave the house and do the deal.

I got all geared up, went outside and turned right back in.

It was too cold and too dark and I just did not have it in me.

So.

I made some phone calls so I wouldn’t feel isolated and I sent some messages out, chatted with a few ladies, called my mom, and felt connected to the world.

Then I launched into my Therapeutic Communications transcript.

Which really is not that hard to do, but time consuming, and I suppose, it would be really time consuming if I wasn’t already a fast typist.

It still took some hours and by the end of the transcription my brain felt a little loose in the skull.

I took another break and then went back into it and added the commentary that the professor requested be done and sent it off as well.

Two down.

Two to go.

I don’t know what the rest of the weekend will bring, but I have blocks of time that opened for me.

Some of those blocks have been filled with meeting ladies and doing reading and fellowship and doing the deal as it should be.

Some of that time, like now, is going to be devoted to chilling the fuck out for the rest of the night.

Maybe a French film?

To celebrate Thanksgiving!

A purely American holiday.

But one in which I felt no sense of loneliness in the work I did today to perpetuate my goals.

Rather I felt an ‘all one’ ness.

A gratitude for how it is all connected and wonderful and good and strong.

Love.

Community.

Sobriety.

Recovery.

Graduate School.

Friends.

Family.

Life.

This constant evolution of love and growth.

Thanks has been given.

 

Keep On

Keeping on.

I just have to keep putting one small foot in front of the other and this work is going to get done.

I had to be at work early today, the boys were off from school and so I went in a few hours before my normal start time and had a great big full day.

I normally do some school work before heading into work, but I decided to sleep instead and do the work when I got home.

Thus finishing the reading and outlining for my first of four paper projects that I will be attempting to do this weekend.

Every day has a theme.

Thursday is Human Development and the reflection paper on middle life, covering lectures, videos, handouts, article readings from the reader and the three great big chapters in the Arnett text.

5-7 pages, 1.5 spacing, 1 inch margins.

I know this shit like the back of my hand since I got docked a whole grade my first paper for not conforming to the above directions.

Who the hell uses 1.5 paragraph spacing anyway?

Isn’t it always standard to double space?

I digress.

Then Friday I have two things on the plate, one for school and one not for school but will lead me to being in the right place at the right time to facilitate the Friday project–which is my final presentation with handout, also for Human Development, on using sign language with infants and toddlers.

I am going to be downtown meeting a friend for coffee and poetry at Cafe de la Presse at 1p.m.

My benefactor for the poems that I wrote for his ARTumnal project.

He has wanted me to read them to him and we are finally, after months of trying to fit something into our mutual schedule, able to meet.

I figure coffee, maybe lunch, then over to the San Francisco public library.

Black Friday shopping?

I think not.

Black Friday will be spent in the library working on this project.

I hope to have all the six sources I need to find and dealt with by mid-late afternoon.

Then some doing the deal and then back to my hood to do more work.

I should have the presentation ready, not polished, certainly, but roughed out in a very solid way by the end of Friday.

Saturday I have a couple of things to do, folks to meet, back to back at Tart to Tart in the Inner Sunset, then later that night I will be up in Noe Valley for a meeting up at the Starbucks and a little gathering of friends at St. Phillips.

I haven’t been there in ages.

It will be nice to run into my fellows.

Since I’m meeting up with three people on Saturday I have saved that day for the “easy” assignment, the transcription of a role play therapy session from my last Therapeutic Communications class.

It’s a fifteen minute session and the last one took me about two and a half hours to transcribe.  I have to do some more work then just transcribing it, there’s a format and things I have to write about, but at the heart of it, it’s probably 75% transcription and the rest is analytic critique.

Three hours tops.

Which brings me to Sunday.

Meeting with two ladies then the Psyschedynamic paper.

This one, though not being a big paper, 3-5 pages, I have to do some more reading for and I have to nail it.  It’s a post-Freudian theory dissemination that I will probably write on Melanie Klein’s theories of projection.

But I’m not 100% sure and I have a lot of re-reading and reading for it that I need to do.  Plus, it’s Dubitzky and I will have another 45 minute phone call or face to face to discuss the paper and I really want to feel in control of the material.

And that’s my four day weekend.

Ugh.

I just had friends over for tea and catch up after doing the deal over in the hood and it was really good to have company and feel, just for an hour, like a human being, instead of a human “doing” and be myself and chat and let my hair down.

Aside from that interaction I don’t foresee a lot of hanging out and chilling in my near future.

But every time I feel overwhelmed by it, and it’s not so overwhelming as it’s been, I feel like I have a tiny bit of a system in place to help with the doings of the work, plus, I don’t have distractions at all this weekend.  Just me and my books.

I don’t feel left out.

And I’m not upset that for Thanksgiving I’m doing homework.

Rather.

I am just super grateful to have the time to apply to the work.

And.

I have the light at the end of the tunnel.

Paris.

My dear, sweet Paris.

I know you are just around the corner and though said corner is blocked by a  stack of books and readers, I can see it just there, the surprise of the sparkle lights on the Eiffel Tower the first time I saw them at night flashing out and luring me along.

Really.

God gave me the best carrot ever to get through the final push of my first semester in graduate school.

That is a lovely sentence to write.

My final push.

Which is not exactly my final push either.

I still have one more weekend of classes.

December 10th, 11th, and 12th, I will be in class.

But if I get the work done this weekend  I will only have two papers to deal with before I leave.

So.

Here’s to getting the work done and being grateful for it.

This is a gift.

I am aware.

This life.

This experience.

Getting to do this.

It’s all a gift.

One I accept with wide open arms.

Gracious.

And.

Full.

So full.

Of.

Love.

Slight Change Of Plans

But so slight.

I’m still going to Paris.

Despite the sharp inhalation of breath my mother took when I told her on the phone today.

“I bought the tickets before the attacks mom,” I said, I could feel her getting instantly wound up.

I was also walking my bicycle into the garage at work, so there was not a lot of room for conversation on the topic.

And I hadn’t called my mom to talk about Paris.

Rather my eldest aunt who passed yesterday was my reason for calling.

I didn’t know my aunt that well.

Suffice to say that I didn’t know a lot of my family all that well, but I do have fond memories and I do remember thinking when I was younger that she was kind.

Perhaps I don’t have a recollection of thinking that thought exactly, but that is what comes to mind when I remember her.

Thanksgiving or Christmas at her house a year when my grandparents, for whatever reason, had decided they did not want the hassle of having the whole family over for the holiday.

I recall there being a lot of conversation about where it would be and it ended up being at my aunts house.

It was an oddly warm Christmas, ah yes, it was Christmas, and I remember playing outside in the back with one of my cousins.

Tether ball, I think.

Oddly enough I got along with them really well, in fact I thought that of all my cousins the three daughters of my aunts were my favorite.

Two were fraternal twins.

And I was fascinated by the fact that they did not look at all identical.

As I thought twins should look.

Of course this was before I know what fraternal and identical twins were, but twins, we had them in the family and that was special.

I sort of felt that their family was special in general.

They seemed to have escaped the lash of weirdness that was on my family.

I was thinking about it today and though there were more than one or two black sheep in the family, I think my mom sort of took the cake for a while.

I definitely felt that we were the blackest of the black sheep in the family and that my cousins, well, they were normal, well-adjusted, sweet girls.

They each had their own rooms and the house was cozy and warm and nice.

Middle class.

White Wisconsin.

Nice.

My immediate family lived so far below the poverty line that when I learned what the poverty line was I was shocked to realize how poor I had been growing up.

I mean.

Fucking poor.

And I’m not upset about that.

I didn’t know the difference.

I don’t recall thinking I was suffering.

I mean.

I think I just thought our family was weird.

But I had no clue.

A little grown up time of my own.

A lot of perspective and distance and yes.

I can see the screaming dysfunction at work in the family dynamic.

There is still dysfunction.

But then again.

What the hell is normal?

There is no normal.

I was chatting with a dear friend on the phone earlier and he said, “normal is a setting on a dryer.”

Ayup.

And usually I still have to add minutes to the normal setting.

There is no normal.

And.

If there is.

I’m not so certain I want any of it.

I do want the fantasy of doing what I am getting to do after  I have the reality of doing the heavy lifting, with my brain that is.

I got the tickets to the ballet!

My darling poulette bought them online today and I was mistaken, it is not La Bayadere we are going to see.

Nope.

We are going to see some modern ballet.

Which is just as exciting if not more so.

I’m going to be accompanied by dear sweet people whom I love and adore and I am going to get dressed up, like a princess, and I am going to the Garnier Opera House in Paris at Christmas, Wednesday, December 23rd, at 7:30 p.m. to see the ballet.

Luckiest girl in the world.

I also talked with my friend about having dinner with my Parisian friend, I mean, who better will know where to go for a nice meal before the opera?

I’m so excited.

And yes.

I got the good seats.

We are sitting in the loge.

1ères loges de coté 22

Translation: BOX SEATS!

Merry Christmas baby.

Pack something nice to wear.

There are four sets of box seats in the Palace Garnier and we are on the first, premier, of the balcony, I wonder should I purchase some opera glasses?

Bwahahaha.

Nah.

I won’t need to because we will be so close to the stage.

Box seats.

I am over the moon and so glad I agreed to splurge on the more expensive tickets.

I am grateful that I get to spend the money to allow myself and my friend to have an amazing experience together and to also have my new friend from school there too.

My God I am grateful.

So grateful.

I am also grateful that tomorrow is my Friday.

Yay four day weekend.

So much work to be done.

There is more work for me to do on my days off than I have on my days on.

Although, arguably I could say that it’s a balance this week as there has been more work at work, grandparents are visiting for the holiday.

Which on one hand is fantastic, the boys love their grandparents.

And on the other tends to throw a little monkey wrench in our routines and schedules and the boys also get to have a lot of treats with the grandparents.

Ah sugar.

My nap time nemesis.

I should have had some quiet time today with them, but they were too wound up so instead, I employed them in the kitchen and they helped me make dinner: sushi rice, wild king salmon marinated in lemons and olive oil with spices and lime zest–baked in the oven, roasted brussels sprouts with garlic and brown butter, and organic strawberries for dessert with sliced apples from the farmers market.

 

The boys helped me to squeeze the lemons and mix the spices and herbs in the marinade for the fish, they also sprinkled love on top of everything.

Love is the best spice.

They were so proud of the meal.

And told their grandparents how hard they cooked everything.

It was adorable.

And the adorable train will roll out of town for me soon.

Where I will be departing for the burying my head in my homework part of the holiday.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” The mom asked.

“Homework.” I replied.

That.

And dreaming about the ballet.

In Paris.

What am I going to wear?!

Hashtag.

Luxury problems.

 

Magic Monday

Mondays are not usually magic.

I certainly did not feel magical getting out of bed this morning.

Sleep in another half hour, hell another hour, my brain whispered to me.

I had awoken a few minutes before my alarm went off and when I reached for my phone to see what time it was I winced.

The alarm was going to go off in ten minutes.

I was hoping I still had hours to go before I had to get up–the gloomy, fogging morning, foiled me into thinking it was far earlier than it was.

Ten minutes.

I want to sleep for ten more hours.

However, I swung my legs out and flipped back the covers and got up and got going.

Laundry, bed making, kneeling, praying, staying connected to my primary purpose, doing the deal, saying the words, asking for direction and to be of service.

Breakfast, clothes on, laundry getting folded and put away, coffee, morning pages, scooter securing–I parked it the garage last night, my housemate was away and I just felt like having it in the garage and not have to hassle with locking it up last night, but I had to have it back outside this morning.

Then the hair and makeup.

In case you ever need some cheering up on a Monday, stick some flowers in your head and be the sunshine that you need to carry you through the day.

Works for me anyhow.

Then the reading.

A full hour before I left for work.

Hopped on my bicycle.

And then magic started happening.

Really, when I acknowledge it, the magic happened when I got up the hour earlier than I wanted to to do the reading for school, but that’s not the kind of magic that’s sexy to write about, that’s only magic to me.

However.

I had the unicorn bicycle commute.

I have only had it one other time in the history of riding my bicycle to this job.

The unicorn looks like this–no full stops, not foot off my pedals, always in motion.

I didn’t do a full stop the entire way, I never put down a foot, it was smooth sailing all the way from start to finish.

46th and Judah to 20th and Lexington.

In 34 minutes.

That’s 6.5 miles in traffic, lights, stop signs, intersections, cars, bicycles, pedestrians, garbage trucks, police horses, nannies out pushing double strollers, Uber drivers, cabs, buses, and me.

I had the pricking in my thumbs early on in the ride that it was happening.

I can’t say when, but it was about when I coasted through the double stop traffic light at 18th and 19th.  Normally I catch one or the other, it’s pretty inevitable, but I coasted right through.

I had the feeling way before that though and thought I was nuts to think it and I should not at that early stage of the ride, must have been around 33rd or 34th and Lincoln that I felt it happening.

And.

It did.

I really am astounded at how it happened.

I got to work with so much time that I did a full set of stretches and I took some sexy bike porn pix of my whip and posted them up to Instagram.

My girl’s still got it.

Then I bounced into work.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

Ready for Monday.

I checked in with the mom about the boys and the holiday week school schedule–they’re out for the holiday at noon tomorrow, plus the grandparents are visiting–and asked what I could do to help out and be of service.

And.

Did they get my spring semester school schedule?

They had requested my school dates as soon as I had them and I sent them off last night before I could forget.

Yes.

The mom said, we got them and we wanted to extend your contract out from January through the end of May, we’ll need to check in at that point, as our summer plans are up in the air, but we also wanted to let you know we’re giving you a raise on January first.

A raise!

What?!

$1.50 more an hour.

I was floored.

It was a totally unexpected conversation and such a gift to be acknowledged.

So grateful.

I also conferred with the dad that I would help out extra on December 4th–the mom’s birthday, and I would work a night shift for them as well so they could go out for a birthday dinner.

I happily said yes.

I don’t mind working the extra hours, a few extra dollars for France.

A few more Euro in the pot.

Which I can use.

Since.

Heh.

I’m buying tickets to the ballet.

!

My friend from my cohort texted me this afternoon at work and asked if I would be interested in either going to an opera or the ballet at the Garnier Opera House.

It houses the Opera National de Paris and the ballet.

I shall be seeing La Bayadere, the last ballet by Rudolf Nureyev.

I am over the moon.

And I’m going to be broke, because I said, fuck it, you only live once and when I chatted with my friend about booking the tickets she said you want the decent ones or the really good seats?

I said give me the good ones.

So depending on what she books I’ll be reimbursing her around 300 Euro, or whatever that translates to in American dollars.

But fuck it.

I don’t care.

I’m going to the ballet.

In Paris.

At the opera house.

At Christmas.

I will be there with people I adore.

And.

“And you will get to dress up like a princess!” My darling Parisian friend texted me back.

Oh my God.

What the hell am I going to wear.

As though.

Oh my God.

I need me a dress for the ballet.

Actually.

I have a dress.

I have a really pretty black dress that I ordered on ModCloth a while ago coming.  I had to return it for a different size, but it should be here in time for the trip.

I may need new heels if I choose that one.

Or.

I will wear the holiday dress I bought last year for my ex’s holiday party.

Who relayed to me tonight in a text that he was sorry he had not said good bye to me, he needed to bounce out.

“Seeing you was kind of weird.”

Then.

“The only discomfort I felt was still being attracted to you.”

“You looked great.”

Why thank you sir.

That was nice to hear, after the fact.

It had been a little awkward to see him.

But.

We said hello.

We hugged.

I hadn’t expected to see him tonight, but there he was and it was good.

No drama.

No fuss.

That tiny bit of awkwardness and then, gone.

Magic Monday indeed.

What a way to start the week.

I wonder what is going to happen next.

I don’t doubt that it will be spectacular.

I still have a pricking in my thumbs.

And tickets to the ballet.

In Paris.

 

READING?

You’re reading?

Take a break.

Alright.

But wait.

I have to e-mail my professor.

Fuck my mother.

I was on the phone with a friend who I haven’t had a chance to talk to all weekend when I got a ping, I wasn’t paying much attention, trying to re-connect and make plans for when he’s back in town and then, I see it’s my T-Group professor.

Then I see the regarding part of the message.

Dear Carmen, it looks like you attached the directions to how to write the paper rather than the paper.

How shit.

Of course I did.

Damn it man.

I wrote that sucker eight days ago and really did not want to think about it.

My friend got off the phone with me to leave me to my fretting about school and so I could re-send the paper.

I got it off and the professor sent me a sweet note saying not to worry and it’s all set.

I decided to take my friend suggestion and relax the rest of the night.

Cue vibrator.

I mean, come on.

I need to get some stress out.

I came so fast I couldn’t believe it.

Sorry.

Should have put in the warning about relatives reading said blog.

Sorry, relations, you should stop reading blog.  Pick it up tomorrow.

Anywho.

Yeah.

So.

That was fast.

Note to self efficacy of said fantasy extremely high.

Baha.

I actually went for round two and the same thing happened.

I can’t remember the last time I had two back to back orgasms that fast.

Yup.

Needed to unwind.

Then.

Into the shower.

SUPER HOT.

And I just sat under neath the falling water and let all the cares sluice down the drain.

I am taking it easy for the rest of the night.

I deserve a break.

Twenty nine hours of school over the weekend and yes, ma’am, I do need a break.

Plus I went grocery shopping right after school.

I had not quite calculated enough food for the weekend and was a little short in my fridge.

I knew I needed to buy staples and I was going to go and do a nice run to Rainbow, I was on my scooter, after all, but by the time class was done.

So was I.

Done that is.

I negotiated with my self and decided I would just do a run to SafeWay for some staples and then over to Other Avenues for eggs, coffee, and persimmons.

I am grateful I didn’t try to do more than that.

I got overwhelmed in SafeWay.

Oh duh.

It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving!

It was packed in the store.

I don’t know that I have ever seen so many people in a SafeWay.

I got in and I got out.

I got home and I made some dinner.

Pot of brown rice accompanied by ground turkey sauteed with mushrooms, garlic, brussels sprouts, and broccoli.

Hella good.

Then the dishes.

Then the phone call.

Then the fuck this I need to relax.

And I feel a lot better now.

The hot shower and I even splurged when I got out and slapped a face mask on myself.

Note to self.

Lovely gift from friend smells way too good to put on face, want to put in mouth, want to lick off self, perhaps use as aphrodisiac for next self-gratifying session.

Speaking of which.

I need to go wash the mask off my face before I start sticking my tongue out the side of my mouth and snacking on it.

Excuse me for a moment here.

I just looked at the ingredients on the facial masque–first ingredient–raw cocoa.

Second ingredient.

Honey.

Well, of course I want to eat own face off.

I just washed it off and skin feels lovely.

And slathered self with coconut lotion.

Now self smells like Mounds Bar.

I smell delicious.

Is it possible to make out with own self?

Oh.

My.

God.

I am nuts.

Just a little tired from three day weekend of psychodynamics, human development, Freudian theory, processing, group triads in therapeutic communication, playing therapist, playing the client, showing up in class, being on time, writing, writing, writing, reading, reading, reading.

But as I stare down the rest of the semester, there is just one weekend left in December before I am finished with the semester, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s called the City of Lights and I can’t wait to go!

“You know it will be cold and gloomy, and somber after what happened,” my darling Parisian friend said to me this weekend.

“Yes, I do, and I am ok with that, I lived there during the cold, dark, dreary, and I am prepared for that, besides, I am happy just wandering the streets, I don’t need to have the best weather in the world.”

Although when Paris is warm it might be the most delicious place in the entire world.

And whatever the season, it’s Paris.

Christmas in Paris.

Sounds lovely doesn’t it?

Better than say, Christmas in Daly City.

And we have plans, ma poulette et moi.

She is going to show me the Jeu de Paume museum.

Which I can’t believe I never went to when I was in Paris, but it just went right under my radar.

It’s a museum of modern art and photography.

I am really interested in the galleries and also of the Phillip Halsman photos of Marilyn Monroe jumping.

I see a souvenir in my future.

Plus, she, my Parisian friend, vowed to show me parts of the 1st Arronsidesment that I have never seen.

I am extraordinarily excited.

And much more relaxed.

Scent of face mask fading.

Body relaxing.

Hot tea taking affect.

Laundry wrapping itself up in the wash.

Food prepped for the week.

And I have a few hours of down time that I will not, I promise, devote to school work.

Rather.

A video.

A call back to my friend now that I am in my right mind.

Well.

I may never be in my right mind, but I am a lot more settled down, that’s for sure.

And a full night’s sleep.

Then back to the grind tomorrow.

But that is tomorrow.

Tonight.

I relax.

Yes.

Yes.

And more.

Yes.

I swear that wasn’t meant to be sexual.

Freudian slip.

Ha!

 

 

 

You Are A Self Made

Intellectual.

That may be the best compliment I have gotten all week.

Especially as it came from a dear friend.

A French friend.

A Parisian friend, there are no better for telling one that, I felt so flattered and seen and a little in awe of what she said.

“If you had been brought up a different way, I think you would be a psychoanaylist, in fact, it soothes me that you somehow made it here, to this now” she continued as we were gathering up our books and papers, notebooks and pens, departing class to hurry home to get settled down and do it all over again in the morning.

I have already, like a good little school girl, packed my lunch for tomorrow.

And perhaps like an adult.

I made sure there was plenty of coffee in my back up Mason jar.

Last day of class for the second to last weekend of the semester.

By the time class reconvenes next month I will actually be registered for the next semester.

Crazy.

How is it happening so fast?

I don’t know, but I am glad it does.

The above compliment was not the only compliment I received today at school from a classmate, earlier in the day two of my cohort in our role play for Therapeutic Communication (we did triads as opposed to the dyads yesterday–consisting of therapist, client, and observer) told me I had a really great voice.  Something akin to late night smooth jazz or love station request lines.

The smooth sounds of night love with Carmen coming right into your ear this evening.  Call the hotline for any request, Freudian or otherwise.

It was a good day at school.

I felt really connected.

I was really present.

I was on top of the material, it was helpful that I read most of it, and I got so much from my Psych(e)analytics class I just about burst with it.

I have said before that it is my favorite class, despite the horror of talking with my professor on the phone for 45 minutes this past week to discuss the paper I wrote on Mourning and Melancholia using sonnets.

Heh.

That was bound to be uncomfortable anyway, but I did get a lot out of it and every time, every single time I am in the class I learn something I make a leap, I find a connection, or see something, my brain gets lit up.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me!” The professor shouted at me.

It was a fierce admonition, but also a compliment, she could see that I understood and I turned the theory right back on her (I have no idea what I said in hindsight, but I remember how it felt to say it)  and I was happily startled by her response.

I am getting the material and utilizing it in real time in the class room.

It just makes sense.

Who knew I was so Freudian.

“Are you thinking about going into psychoanalysis?” My friend leaned over and asked after I was out of the hot seat with professor, “you would be really good at it.”

I believe she is right.

And that makes me happy.

In fact, how my friend saw me makes me happy.

It was a new way to think of myself, a new way of seeing myself, and I was flattered to be called a “self-made intellectual.”

I find it similar to the idea of what Frederick Douglas said about the “self-made man.”

Self-made men […] are the men who owe little or nothing to birth, relationship, friendly surroundings; to wealth inherited or to early approved means of education; who are what they are, without the aid of any of the favoring conditions by which other men usually rise in the world and achieve great results.

I do not know that I have ever resonated so purely with an idea.

I felt honored to be seen like this, acknowledged, and deeply respected for my abilities.

I stood comparing (but not despairing, no not at all) at the reflection of my chic Parisian friend and in the window glass of the classroom.

She tall, thin, elegant, Roman nose, royale profile, bright brow, dressed in the simplest clothes, but chic, and clean and savvy.

I next to her was a bright clown, my hair pulled back in a mass of curls beneath a hot pink bandana, my pink star tattoos peeping out of my sweater collar, my bright safety orange pants a sweep of color next to her dark plaid slacks and soft grey cashmere sweater, the ameythst ring on her finger the only flash of color and therefor more alluring for being there, just there, perched on her finger like a small flower of violet knowing.

I felt for a moment like a clown.

Then.

I really looked again and saw myself.

Colorful.

Bright.

Brilliant.

Both in my mind and in my dress in my heart and in how hard I love.

And that is why I get Freud.

He is all about the love.

Yes love.

Most folks think Freud and think sex, and yes, there is the sexually charged eroticism and the titiliating sexually categorized stages–oral, anal, phallic.  And lest anyone forget, Oedipal, but the argument of Freudian theory is that it’s all about the love.

Just like I am.

All about the love.

I got excited.

I get excited in this class.

Maybe it’s the professor.

She is a hoot.

And she is hella smart and funny and kooky.

Maybe I see a bit of myself in her.

Who knows.

I don’t have to analyze it.

Suffice to say I was over the moon to realize that my friend is right.

I should go into psychoanalysis.

This is thrilling and scary all at the same time.

I am not sure what the next step is, the not knowing is always a bit unnerving; however, I can see that there is a path here for me to follow.

And as my friend so astutely noted, had I had the benefits of growing up differently, I may have made it to this point a lot faster, but regardless, I made it to this point, the guiding force behind the intellect I have been gifted with, and it is a gift, has led me here, to this fork in the road.

I am nervous to see where it goes and also accepting of and approving of this turn in my path.

Not what I was expecting from a school focused on ‘warm and fuzzy.’

Nope.

I just happened to fall into the radical Freud camp.

Ha.

How the hell did that happen?

That is a rhetorical question.

One I am happy to leave unanswered and rather to rest happily in this new bit of self-knowledge.

Now might be the time to start talking to an advisor!

Well.

Maybe I’ll wait until I hand in my final paper for the class, I do have a few things to write before the end of the semester after all.

Ha.

 

 

All The Deliverables

All the things

All the god damn time.

All the homework.

All the reading.

All the ibuprofen I took when I got home from classes today.

I got all my things situated when I got home.

Get the mail, grab the package in the hall, unpack from the day, then repack it all back up so that I can have it and be out the door when I need to be.

This morning was my first time riding the scooter to school.

It was great.

And not so great.

Great was–it started, it ran smoothly, it was a nice ride in.

I even split lanes a few times.

Although not with that vigor and vim that I saw a lot of fellow motorcyclists and scooterist doing.

I was a bit more cautious.

I will likely be for a little more time to come.

It’s just the way I run.

And I am fine with that.

In fact, I didn’t think I was going to split lanes at all and then, there I was doing it without much thought.

Except when I wasn’t and a few cycles zip past me.

The confidence will grow.

I found parking.

It was not the parking I wanted, that was actually taken, much to my surprise.  Although later in the day it was free and I could have moved my scooter but I was just around the corner on Minna Street and I didn’t feel uncomfortable parked there.

Granted I had to move the scooter a few times as it’s two hour parking on that strip of Minna, but it’s not metered and I had breaks and the building abuts Minna Street, so it only took a few minutes when I had to do it.

I won’t have to on the weekends proper.

Just on Fridays.

Tomorrow I will have my pick of the parking and not worry about it at all.

And now I know that on Fridays I may, if I don’t secure the parking that I want, have to do a little moving around of the ride.

No big deal.

The big deal was actually coming home on the scooter.

Not the traffic or the cold–the new motorcycle jacket works like a charm and is a super wind break, I was shocked and pleasantly surprised.

No.

What I was concerned about was the fog.

It rolled in big time and the visibility was hard.

I had to lift the visor on my helmet as it became too fogged up to see.

That was uncomfortable.

It is one thing to ride through fog on my bicycle with my glasses off, another to ride down Lincoln Avenue at 35/40 mph with fog smudging it all up.

I rode slow and resolved that for the future if the fog is bad I can take the park, which has a lot less traffic.

Granted the speed limit is ten miles an hour slower, but as they say, better safe than sorry.

My other thought when I was riding is don’t they make anti-fog helmets?

I wonder.

I bet they do.

Something to research.

Do they make them in glitter?

Yes.

Glitter is a color, what’s your issue?

So the scooter ride in went off without a hitch and I loved having my basket liner to carry all my food in and my books and notebooks and readers and coffee.  It all fit and a light sweatshirt, as I didn’t want to wear my motorcycle jacket in class or carry it around for that matter–what was great was getting to the kitchen at school, taking out my food from the basket liner and sticking my motorcycle jacket in the liner and setting it on the shelf.

Perfect.

So self-contained.

It was lovely.

And school was lovely too.

Good to see friends.

Good to catch up.

Good to get back into the feeling that I am not the only one fumbling around with time management or skills sets in therapeutic communication.

I am not the only one in the adventure.

There are others in the same boat and the common peril we all face–another god damn final paper to write–is a balm to my soul.

The final paper projects were handed out today and as I looked at the deliverables I wanted to vomit and in fact, my head got super full, so full with the last lecture of the day on Freud and transference, that when the professor laid out the final paper project I just about cried.

Well.

No.

That isn’t true.

But I wasn’t happy.

“You don’t look happy,” my professor said when she saw the face I made after she announced that there would be another paper due for the class.

I have no poker face.

I pasted some semblance of a societally acceptable pleasant mask on my face and hollered on the inside.

NO MORE FUCKING PAPERS!

Damn it.

Ugh.

Except, well, it wouldn’t be graduate school would it, it wouldn’t be getting a Masters in Psychology, it would be something else and I know that I am worth doing the work and that ultimately, the work will get done.

I have some how showed up for every class.

On time.

Not missed a one.

Even the weekend when I got sick and ran a fever and was out of my mind with exhaustion.

I have shown up.

I have turned all my papers in on time and I am doing pretty damn good.

I got an A- on the Pschoanalytics paper that I went out on such a huge limb for and I was happy with it.

I have gotten A’s and one B.

The one B was for formatting and should I choose, which I probably will, I can write an additional paper to self-correct that only B on my class roster.

I am not going to think about it yet, since there are so many other things to think about.

Between now and Paris.

I leave on the 20th and I refuse to go to Paris and have to write a paper for school there–although it is an option, my last paper deadline is for December 22nd.

But I can imagine no hell greater than having to write a paper while I am on Christmas vacation in Paris.

Maybe it’s somebody’s dream.

But it’s not mine.

Thank you very much.

So between today and when I leave for Paris I have to write–two papers for Human Development, plus give a presentation on an outside research project of my own developing (I have chosen teaching infants and toddlers how to use sign language as a skill that parents can develop to help negotiate communication with their children prior to the child’s vocal cords being developed in an effort to ease parental frustration and encourage another form of language skill in children); one final paper for Psychoanalysis, and two papers with transcriptions of therapy sessions for Therapeutic Communications class.

In toto: five papers and one class presentation with hand out.

In between now and December 20th.

Thank fucking God I have Thanksgiving weekend.

Four days.

I will be entrenched in my homework and I am going to do as much as possible to have what I can done by the beginning weekend of December.

If I negotiate the homework and readings well I can have three of the papers done by the first weekend in December.

Plus the final project presentation for Human Development.

Which will leave two papers to do before Paris.

One which could be optional should I choose to pass on the extra credit opportunity.

It’s a lot.

But.

It can be done.

I have faith in myself.

And much gratitude for a four day weekend next week.

As well as an awesome little scooter to get me where I need to go to get done with what I need to get done.

All the deliverables.

All the time.

All the things.

They just keep happening.