Archive for May, 2016

Are You Just Coming

May 31, 2016

From the Warriors game?

He asked me, his head cocked and curious, “you look amazing, really, beautiful.”

And he gave me a big hug.

So surprised, sweetly so, to run into my yoga instructor as I was mailing off a letter at the corner mailbox on Judah and 44th.

“The what?” I asked, “no, um, ha, I was working on a poetry submission.”

“That’s even better!”  He smiled and lit up, I mean, really lit up, it was nice to see.

“It’s the blue,” he said, “that’s what got my attention.”

And.

Wouldn’t you know?

It is the exact shade of blue as the Warriors blue and gold, and though I was not technically wearing gold pants, um, ha, I am wearing leopard print leggings which in certain light do come across as gold.

Nice God.

Subconsciously supporting the sports ball.

I mean.

Seriously.

Same blue, some gold, blue eyeshadow and blue glitter, blue flower in my hair and yes, I’m not kidding, blue nail polish, blue star necklace, blue star earring, and I don’t often wear this color, nor in the amount that I did today.

It must have worked.

I hear they won.

Heh.

“Carmen you are the only person I would take a phone call from at this time and only because I know you have no idea what is happening right now,” my friend on East Coast time said to me years ago when I called to chatter excitedly to him how I was taking dj lessons and the guy that I was working with really thought I had some skills.

Note to self, cocaine addiction not great for keeping up with things like.

Although super grateful that I did not know how much I could get for my sweet Technic turn tables until after I had gotten sober, sold my entire (oh the tears on my face) vinyl collection to Amoeba on Haight Street and all my cds too.

I might have been out there running awhile longer.

As it stands the money I got from the sales of those things kept me in food and rent for a month of San Francisco living.

Well spent, frankly, well spent.

My friend who I was talking to on the phone was in the middle of a nail biter, seventh game of the World Series, his team, tied or some such thing, and only took the phone call from me because he realized I had no clue.

Still little to this day.

Cue parking on 15th and Valencia the time the Giants swept the series in 2013.

Oops.

Ha.

I left the car there.

I was literally on 16th and Valencia when the entire world erupted and people poured out into the streets with brooms and starting lighting shit on fire and drinking open containers and screaming and jumping up and down.

And fuck people.

Cue the same team winning the series two years ago and I’m coming from The Gratitude Center on 7th and Irving at the exact time the series is won and I’m on my fucking bicycle trying to get around police in riot gear and the entire block erupts.

So.

Yeah.

Um.

I knew the Warriors were playing and it was a big deal.

But.

What was really a big deal to me today.

This.

Thank you for your entering the Rattle Poetry Prize competition—your entry has been received. If there are any problems with it, we will let you know, but otherwise it is safe to assume everything is set. Winners will be announced on September 15th.

It’s a huge prize.

The odds of me winning it are slim.

But the odds of me winning if I had not submitted, well, that would be nil.

I took the effort.

I pulled together three sonnets and a longer free verse poem and I submitted to the journal.

I am not making any promises, but what with the time I have off over the summer, I thought it wise to submit some work again.

Plus.

I read a blog that someone wrote about me a few years ago and it inspired me to submit again, it’s been a hot second since I have sent any work anywhere.

I had forgotten about the blog–She Inspired Me To Write–by my friend.

I was googling searching something and it popped up.

I re-read the blog and got a little misty eyed, recalling how excited he was to talk with me, about my travels to Paris, about taking risks and not knowing it and doing it anyway.

I have had it in my head to unearth a short story I wrote years and years ago as well and perhaps submit that out as well.

And.

I would like to put together a small manuscript of my poems.

I have never published a chap book or a manuscript, well, I did a limited, and I do mean very limited, press of a zine called 7 Months, but that was super small and super rough.

I think that it’s time to do something with all the words.

I have felt this before and gotten out there and submitted and nothing happens.

And.

That is ok.

I have to remember that, it’s just how it works.

Loads of folks get loads of rejection.

It’s not to take it personally.

This is my art.

“What kind of art do you do?” He asked me, assuming what I’m not sure, but that from my attire, my tattoos, my star tights, the flower in my hair, that I was an artist.

There was a time that I would have said.

“I’m not an artist.”

There was a time when I was more comfortable with the lie than the truth.

That I have been an artist since I was young and picked up my pen and started scrawling poems in a notebook sometime in middle school.

Or when I started doing forensics and reciting Edna St. Vincent Millay poems at competitions.

Imagine if you will.

I took first place at state.

Not too shabby.

Although I won’t soon forget what it felt like to have the entire school wait on me, as no one else on the team had made it to the final round–the guilt I felt as I progressed was almost subsumed by the pride I felt when my name was announced during the awards ceremony and I got up and walked to get my first place trophy.

And then I thought about being at The Strand book store in New York recently and how I touched and caressed titles of books that I had read, and then, to see a class mate from Wisconsin and his series of books doing so well, displayed prominently at the front of the store.

And.

Then there.

Another woman I know in San Francisco.

Her memoir there.

I had a moment.

I’ll be here too.

When?

Who knows.

But I will.

I have been given a gift and for me it is enough that I get to write.

Not that I am acknowledged for my efforts.

But.

To hear once in a while that I have inspired someone else.

That means the world.

Or.

To have someone tell me they loved a blog I wrote or a poem they heard me recite.

Well.

Love.

That means so much to me.

It’s almost unbearable to express.

But.

Thank you.

I am so graced with these gifts.

I have to share them.

Whether or not they are received.

That’s not my business.

I just get to have the experience of giving the gift.

And.

That.

Well.

That is everything.

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Today

May 30, 2016

Was a good day.

Really.

Like nice.

And stuff.

Heh.

Yoga in the morning, and although I felt stiff and cranky, after yesterday’s class when I pushed so hard today felt like it took me a very long time to get to where I felt at ease in my body.

But.

At ease I did get and the final resting pose was so lovely and good and I walked out of the studio floating and into the sunshine of a lovely San Francisco day.

Albeit.

Windy as fuck.

And typical Outer Sunset weather, the fog came, oh, hello there, “summer time” let me turn up the heater and find a muffler, and where’s that extra hoodie?

But.

Before then.

I had a coffee date with a friend of mine from school, and I realized that we had never hung out during the year of classes, which really, isn’t that much of a stretch when I reflect on the fact that the majority of my class mates work full time as well as doing the full time grad school program.

Of course we hadn’t hung out.

The fact that I have socialized with any of my cohort still astounds, it was a busy fucking year, yo.

A lot happened.

“I realized I had no idea what the fuck was going on with you,” my friend said tonight as the fog was rolling thick and cold over Twin Peaks.

We were up at the Castro Country club sipping tea and catching up.

I got to do a lot of that today.

Catch up with folks.

First with my friend from school–Trouble Coffee, a hang out in the back garden at The General Store, a walk down to the ocean, although we didn’t hang there long, the wind was super kicking.

Then he hopped the N-Judah and I went back to my house, made up a nice lunch, and made some plans for next weekend.

Yup.

I’ve got plans.

Yay.

The date was confirmed and we’ll be hanging out Saturday.

Then.

I realized.

It’s.

Sunday.

And.

What the fuck do I do with myself?

I found myself wandering around my studio, no homework to do, no lady doing the deal, no responsibilities, I mean I knew I was heading to the Castro tonight to meet up with my person and grab dinner at Firewood Cafe, then doing the deal with a bunch of peeps up at Most Holy Redeemer, but I had hours, hours of nothing in front of me.

I contemplated going to the MOMA, but realized it was already after two and it closes early on Sunday, not the best time to get my new museum on.

Although my friend and I discussed going in on a joint membership together to save some money and get the most people with us to use the membership.

Anyway.

I didn’t go to a museum.

And.

I didn’t go running amok about the city either.

I realized.

I just needed to stay put.

To sit still.

To be in my home and be ok with down time.

No homework daunting me, no papers looming over my head, no reading that has to get done today or else.

Nope.

All I had to do was sit and read one of the books I had picked up in a wild burst of delirium my first semester when I thought I would actually have time for pleasure reading in addition to my school reading.

Bwahahahaha.

What silliness.

I picked up a book that I had started months ago and sat out on the back patio and soaked up the sun before it got completely shrouded in fog.

The next door neighbor was out on his back stoop playing blues guitar.

I would read a few pages, then let the book fall to my lap, raise my face up to the sun, close my eyes and let the blues scales roll over me.

He played for hours.

I read for hours.

HOURS.

Oh my God.

I realized that in the last week I have actually picked up two books for pleasure, finishing one completely and three quarters of the way through the other.

I may need to go book shopping.

Yippee!

It was so nice.

To sit still.

To watch the sky.

To feel the sun on my face.

And when it got chilly, because, well, that’s what it does out here this time of year, I pulled inside, curled up on my chaise and read for a while longer.

Then, when the time was ripe.

I hopped on my scooter, rode up and over the hills to the Castro and reconnected with my person and also found out my favorite new friend, my darling Puerto Rican fairy god father, was coming in from Oakland and my friend, the having tea friend, the doing the deal and going to school friend, also wanted to hang out, well.

I just found myself surrounded by friends and I saw so many folks tonight and reconnected with faces and people who I have not seen in a while and, well.

It was good.

So good.

I am so blessed to know the people I know.

Really.

And the Castro was on fire tonight, all the neon lights and all the party people, hello Memorial Day weekend, I do remember when, it was a party by the time I left the Country Club, my tea a warm ball in my tummy, to head back here on my scooter.

I turned it on, let her warm up and could see the moisture, the flakes of fog like snow flurries in my head lamp, and took it careful going home.

No less to avoid the drunky drunks and the many Ubers on the road then to keep myself from slipping around on the road.

I laughed as I was coming up and over the last bit of hill on 17th, I knew I would be coming home to light all the candles up in my studio and turn on the heat and make hot tea stat.

“Hello summer, we meet again,” I chuckled.

Summer time.

High jinx.

Dating.

Doing the deal.

Having fun.

Dancing.

Seeing friends.

Drinking tea in cafes.

Or coffee.

I mean, let’s be real here.

Hello summer.

It’s nice to see you.

Let’s be friends.

I found my muffler.

I’ve got four hoodies.

Bring it summer.

Let’s go.

Alone

May 29, 2016

But not lonely.

Oh.

I suppose I could have gone there.

Especially when there is an easy place to go, the I’m all by myself spot.

But the thing is.

I like my company.

I took myself to yoga.

Got my nails did.

“Nice color!” Tad at Cheap Pete’s complimented me as he was helping me frame the print I picked up in New York.

“Wait, you got this in New York,” he looked up at me quizzically.

“I know, it’s funny, actually, the artist had all these big pieces, too big for me really to get back on the plane, and she pulled this little sheath of prints out of a battered green leather valise, and I sort of had to,” I said, smiling at the recent memory.

“But it’s a map of Paris,” Tad protested.

“Yup, which makes it even better, I lived in Paris for six months and it just seemed apropos, I don’t know, to be buying a knock off Banksy from a street vendor outside the MOMA in New York, and well, now, it’s here, in San Francisco.”

I paused.

“You sure you’re not from New York?  I lived there for ten years, you kinda got New York written all over you,” Tad finished measuring the print.

That was actually something that came up today, earlier, at Tart to Tart when I met with my person.

“I’m from New York, you have the energy,” she said, “you either get picked up by that energy and people respond to it, or it grinds you down.”

I had obviously responded to it.

It’s funny.

I have thought that there would be a time in my life when I would live and work in New York.

I just don’t know about those crazy winters though.

And the hot, hot, humid, soul sucking summers.

I mean.

I grew up in Wisconsin.

I know some savage seasons.

“Three weeks in Spring and three weeks in fall,” Tad said, “that’s it, that’s the good weather in New York.  Versus oh, I don’t know the 200 or so days I get in the East Bay of great weather.”

He does have a point.

Although I have to say it was nice to be met with energy similar to mine.

A little gritty.

A lot joyful.

Artists running amok.

The graffiti.

The pulse.

I felt it.

I can be laid back though.

I CAN!

I swear.

I let myself be laid back today.

I wanted to make big plans and hustle about.

I mean.

I did get asked to the prom last night.

Sadly, though, I’m not available for that dance card.

Still it was super saturated with sweetness and I took it to bed with me, the text message that popped into my phone screen right as I was dozing off to sleep.

There’s  Second Chance Prom going on over in the East Bay tonight.

And don’t get me wrong.

I would love to cut a rug.

I was thinking about the Derrick Carter show next Friday at Mighty, but I might have a date.

Not quite sure yet if we’re getting together Friday or Saturday.

I found out I have all day off next Saturday.

My get together with my person that normally happens on Saturdays is not happening, she’s got another commitment she has to show up for and it’s a rare day indeed that I have the entire Saturday off.

My date would be coming from out of town, so that could work well in my favor, a long date out and about in the city.

Yeah.

I’m trying to date.

I even did some swipey swipey on Tinder today.

But.

OH MY GOD.

The “nopes.”

Mama just got right with the vibrator.

Recharged happily.

Me and it.

Wink.

I like the idea of a casual hook up, but really, I do have to have some reasonable connection.

And some things for me are tabboo.

I’m not going to sleep with someone who’s in a relationship, married, or what have you.

I’m not going to hook up with anyone who’s in recovery with less than a year.

Wrong-o.

 

Although, my brain concocted some stories today.

Justification leads me right down a stupid, narrow, not good path.

“What’s his name?” She asked.

I told.

“OH, great name!” She responded.

I know.

Then I told her how much time.

Her face closed.

“Nope,” she squinched up her face, “not a good idea, no, don’t, no you can’t.”

Yeah.

I KNOW.

That’s why I keep telling on myself.

All my people know.

I go to more than one deal to do the deal if you catch my drift.

And if you don’t.

It doesn’t matter.

Some things are off the table.

“It’s all ego,” I told her, “and I know it, and I can hear my disease loud and clear,” I paused.

“Yeah, no, he’s off limits, and don’t you think it’s some ego on his side too?” She asked me.

I didn’t understand.

“Look God gave you this beauty, I still don’t think you get it, you are a beautiful woman and men respond to that, it’s like you’re walking around with blinders on,” she stopped, cocked her head at me.  “And now, you have an inner beauty that matches, if not subsumes it.”

“You are lit up,” she finished.

I do feel that way.

I have done all my amends and moved forward this round of doing the deal and it feels good.

I have just the aforementioned living amends to do.

Amongst which.

The yoga.

I got down today.

I did a few poses I had not been able to do before.

I had a beautiful morning in class.

Yeah.

It was hard.

But it set the tone for my day.

Get up, kneel, pray, drink an homemade cold brewed iced coffee, go to yoga, hot shower, breakfast, laundry, hop on the scooter, meet my person, go to the Gratitude Center, get right with God, take myself out to lunch, get the nails did, scooter over to Cheap Petes and frame my little bit of New York, home to do a little grocery shopping, then homemade dinner on my back porch in the last warming rays of the late afternoon, early evening.

I finished the book I picked up at the Strand.

Chuck Palahniuck’s “Beautiful You.”

And um, checked the charge on my stuff.

Heh.

And that’s it.

That’s my day.

Some Nightmares on Wax playing right now.

Some hot tea in my future.

Maybe a video.

Get up do the yoga again tomorrow and keep on enjoying this beautiful, precious, lovely, sometimes alone, but never lonely, damn fine life I lead.

I am so graced.

So loved.

So lucky.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

Hello Friday

May 28, 2016

Hello three day weekend.

Yay.

I earned it.

Even with it being a short week at work, it was crazy.

Cookie monster crazy.

The littlest guy turns four this weekend and I was the cookie making queen.

I made cookies for the birthday part, I’m not sure how many dozens, but it was a lot.

“You have such self-will,” the mom said, in awe as I slid the hot cookies off the spatula onto the lined counters to cool off.

I’m not so sure about that.

I think that’s called self-will run riot.

I have no self-control.

Hence.

Alcoholic.

Hence.

Addict.

Hence just give me fucking more.

More attention, more sex, more money, more attention, wait, I already said that, more please.

Are you thinking about me?

Why aren’t you thinking about me?

I don’t think you’re thinking about me enough.

Bwahahahaha.

Fuck my mother.

My brain is the lotus of the crazy, but fortunately, I know I’m crazy.

“You got to watch for the ones who don’t think they’re insane,” a person once told me.

Yup.

I know I’m crazy.

And I’m completely cool with it.

I’m exactly the person I’m suppose to be and I have a solution for the crazy.

Some folks do different things than I do and that’s cool too, I just do what works for me, eleven and a half years in, it seems to be doing just fine.

I don’t have to be perfect.

Thank fucking God.

And I have no will power, the choice was just taken from me and I’m fine with that too, if I thought I had some control over things I would still be out there trying to figure it out.

Figure it out works for shit.

I can still fall into it.

I fell into a little today.

But.

I called my person and confirmed that we were meeting this weekend, I get to see two of my people this weekend, because this crazy takes a village, and I’m super psyched for that.

I also have a coffee date with a friend of mine from school on Sunday at Trouble.

Because who doesn’t want to get into a little Trouble now and then.

I know I do.

Saturday and Sunday I got plans.

Monday not so much.

One commitment in the evening.

I’m debating a few things.

I may go to the new MOMA.

I have heard such good things about the new space and I have missed not being able to go to it for the last few years that it has been closed for renovation.

I’m also debating getting a membership.

I have had one a number of times.

It’s handy.

Plus.

I can get into the Guggenheim, the LACMA, the New Whitney, the MOCA, and the MOMA in New York with the membership.

Not that I have any more travel plans right now, but who knows what the year will bring.

I mean.

I didn’t make it to the Guggenheim this past trip.

Plus.

With the membership at the MOMA I can get another person in with me free.

The last time I was at the MOMA, I just realized was on my seven year anniversary.

I went and got this little chip with a friend at a spot in the Mission, the she and I went to the MOMA and walked through the exhibits.

That was four years ago.

Crazy so much has happened in that time.

The year or so I worked at the bicycle shop.

The six months I lived in Paris.

The not knowing what I was doing and just continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

The high school twentieth reunion.

The amends to my grandmother, my mother, my father, my sister.

All the traveling.

All the Burning Man.

All the life I have lived.

The uncertainties and the fears and showing up with bravery.

Walking through the fear and discovering yet more untapped sources of courage.

“Men of faith have courage,” it says somewhere, I don’t remember where, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

I have great faith.

I have walked through so much fear.

Graduate school anyone?

New jobs.

Boyfriends.

Ex-boyfriends.

Break ups.

The almost was but never was unrequited romantic love.

“Who’s he,” the oldest boy asked.

“A friend,” I said, slightly wistful, but my, so nice to not have the sadness and the stabbing ache that I used to have when I looked at those photographs of our Paris trip.

Growth.

Change.

Love.

Life.

Friday.

The day of the week where I actually set my alarm a little early to go to yoga in the morning before I meet up with my person at Tart to Tart.

I have my alarm set.

I’ll making the commitment to myself to go to the 9 a.m. class.

Then the doing the deal and maybe hitting up a spot at 7th and Irving.

And then, well the day will be mine.

No plans for tomorrow afternoon either.

“How’s the head,” he asked, after I had calmly rattled off the things happening at work.

I laughed, “oh it’s crazy, but really it just comes down to not getting what I want in the time frame that I want it, that’s all.”

Sex.

Relationships.

Love.

I’d like to wrap that all up in one neat package.

But the fact is, again I come back to it, I don’t need a person to complete me, although a compliment is nice, it’s just that thing I can get focused on when I feel uncomfortable with the idea of having down time.

I can get myself all booked up and busy and make busy and make like I don’t have feelings or a great big bloody heart on my sleeve.

Actually.

It’s not bloody at all.

My heart tattoo has healed up quite nicely.

No.

Today I’m not beating my heart against anything.

My life, perfectly imperfect, my heart beat, a hot flush of rose fire, beats just fine.

There is nothing wrong.

There are no problems.

Only opportunities to learn.

To grow.

To change.

To love a little more.

Because ultimately.

That’s the only thing that I really need more of.

Love.

Love.

Only.

That.

Love.

You’re Hella Hot

May 27, 2016

And you’re not chasing after anything.

Just a reminder to myself as I almost reached out to someone to be all like, um, come over.

I don’t need to be doing that.

I am just feeling my oats.

I’m over the jet lag and the weirdo sickness I had early in the week.

And.

Fuck.

I did yoga today.

Holy shit.

That was good.

I’m probably going to be sore tomorrow, the instructor for the classes that I got to on Monday and Thursday has the sneaky way of getting us into these poses that I’m all great in the moment, then the next day I think my arms are going to fall off my shoulders.

But right now?

Fuck.

I am on fire.

Could be that I just saw a bunch of really special, awesome, amazing women.

I realized as I looked around the room, how many people I knew and loved and how many of the women in that space I had some direct connection with.

I’m pretty fucking lucky to have these ladies in my life.

Plus.

Well.

Tomorrow is Friday.

“You look good,” she said to me, “look at your legs!”

“You’ve been doing yoga,” another girl friend said, “haven’t you?”

“What happened in New York?  I haven’t been following your blog,” she asked.

I gave the dish.

There’s always a lot to dish about.

Yeah, I talk about sex and wearing my heart on my sleeve and being all transparent, but some times there’s things that only the girl friends get to hear.

“Elk Grove?  That’s too far away!”  She said, “got to get action closer to town.”

I smiled.

“And what about,” she said.

“Nope, not enough time,” I replied.

“Give him a few months,” she smiled and her eyes twinkled.

The things is.

I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to manipulate or text or pull strings or make shit happen.

Life.

Love.

Sex.

Making out.

Dancing.

Everything, all the time, it’s happening.

I just usually need to get the fuck out of the way.

Show up, let go of expectations and see what happens.

And just because I’m feeling sassy doesn’t mean I have to act on it.

I can just enjoy the energy in my person and do some dancing in my room or you know, rub one out, not like I don’t have the equipment to take care of business.

Rechargeable like.

Cuz that’s how I roll.

I’m single and available for dating.

“You need to date a bunch of guys,” she said to me over the table at Tart to Tart, “don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

Yeah.

I know.

I can get all up on someone and be like, ok, let’s make this work.

Nope, lady, it’s just investigations.

See where things go.

I like adventure.

I get to remember that this is all an adventure.

I haven’t been much on Tinder but I’m not off the app either.

I haven’t really been asked out, well, ha, that’s not true, I just had to pause and say, no, I’m flattered, but you got to focus on  you for the time being.

And it’s not like I’m not getting some fun and flirtatious texts from another gentleman.

I’m just not getting things on my time.

Because.

You know.

I want it all right now.

NOW.

Damn it.

But that’s not how it works, never has for me anyway.

People got schedules and lives and they don’t always comply to mine.

And things change.

Life changes.

If you had told me six months ago that the person I was head over heels for was not going to be in my life anymore, no phone calls, no texts, no connections, I would have been like, what ever, that is so not happening.

But.

It was for the better.

It was pretty cool to scooter through the intersection the other day at 46th and Irving as he was crossing the opposite way in his car.

He flashed his lights and waved.

I waved back and smiled.

We went our opposite directions.

And that was that.

I totally forgot about it until I saw his room mate the other night at my thing up the street that I go to on Wednesday night.

For a second I looked around half expecting him to walk in the door and then.

Nothing.

It was gone again.

No pain.

No upset.

No thought about it.

Just calm and serene and chatting with a friend before coming home and writing and having some tea.

I’m in a super happy place right now.

I think that is a part of it.

I want to share it.

And I am.

I am sharing it with you.

The dating or the not dating or the sex or the not having sex, let’s have sex though, shall we, will happen without me pulling strings and trying to organize it.

Natural.

And fun and easy.

Because when I try to make shit happen.

Shit happens.

I’d rather remember that I am here to date the man God wants me to date.

And yes.

I know exactly how fucking hokey that sounds.

But.

God’s got my back.

I know it.

There are no mistakes in God’s world.

So.

I say.

Sit back, lady, relax, enjoy the showing up and the willingness to try and see what is to be had, to have fun, to let loose, to dance, to shake it out, to be alive.

Alive is nice.

I got a three day weekend coming up and a date for next Saturday.

My impatience is just a defect of character.

God’s time.

Martines.

All in good time?

No, God’s time.

Not my time.

Never my time.

Remember that.

Have fun.

Dress sexy because it makes me happy to do so.

And see what happens.

 

“Be the ball, Martines,” Shadrach said to me.

Words to live by.

Be the fucking ball.

I’m not here to chase.

I’m fucking worthy of the pursuit.

I’ll just be over here having a fun time until then.

Life.

Is.

Fucking.

Amazing.

Three day weekend!

Bring it.

Back At It

May 26, 2016

Holy shit do I feel better.

Nothing like a little 24 hour bug to put my health in perspective.

I had no idea I was that under the weather.

Until I woke up this morning and felt so much better, so rested, so ready to conquer the world.

Which was a good thing since the family missed having me around.

I made so much food today.

Holy shit.

Triple batch broccoli soup.

Double batch turkey and black bean chili.

Oatmeal for the boys for the rest of the week.

Cut up raw veggies and fruit for lunch boxes and snacks.

And.

Cheese tortellini with pesto sauce.

Oh and a dozen hard boiled eggs.

Not that boiling eggs is such an ordeal, but yeah, I did the food up today.

Plus.

Getting back into the routine with the boys who seemed so much bigger and older and well, sassier.

Which is generally what happens when I go away for a long weekend or don’t see them for a little while, they are going to push my boundaries and see if I will hold them the same way I normally do.

And I did.

Little struggles here and there but after a tiny bit of acting out, a few time outs and quiet time moments, we got our groove on and had a really nice day.

I felt great.

Until I didn’t.

And that did, thankfully pass.

Although it did freak me out for a moment.

I got super dizzy and head rushed running up the stairs to grab a book for the six year old and suddenly found myself standing and wobbling back and forth in the boys room.

Hot and cold by turns and almost passed out.

Granted I ate almost nothing yesterday, but I ate well today, and I caught myself before I toppled and breathed and it passed.

But it was a spooky moment and I am grateful I had neither boy in my arms or anything in my hands had I fallen.

I was also absurdly grateful that I had taken yesterday off.

I would have not made it through the day.

No way.

No how.

It is nice to get back into my groove, though I adore the traveling, I am also a creature of my comforts, my tea, my music, my space, my transportation.

It was hella nice to be back on my scooter and not on a subway.

“You’re an above ground kind of girl,” he said to me–the gentleman I stayed with via Air BnB, “you’re not much on the trains are you?”

I do prefer to be above ground, I love trains, but sometimes subways and undergrounds I can do without, I like to look at things, I love to watch the landscape go by, I like to see the sky.

I also like to walk and that’s always a good way to experience a city.

Or any place I travel too.

It’s good to see things and smell things and take in the environment.

Today I was happy to smell the sea and drift wood smoke and a charcoal pit being lit up, the eucalyptus in the Pan Handle, so good.

I felt happy and free and alive.

And I also smell of fabulousness.

I got my new perfume!

It came into Tigerlily and I picked it up right before work.

Rose Flash.

Fuck me it’s so good.

Super sexy and lush and floral, tuber rose and spicy and a bit musky, but not too much, just a hot kiss of it and the dark rustle of angel wings on fire.

Oh.

I fucking love it.

I could just rub it all over my body.

The girl at the counter was so happy for my happiness that she threw in a body oil on the house also in Rose Flash.

I shall go about my days dipped in deliciousness.

And my nights drowned in the lovely of it.

I like to put on perfume before I go to bed, especially on my wrists and on my neck, behind my ears, so it floats in my hair.

I will crawl naked into bed, float down under the comforter, raise my arms over my head and bury my face in my hair or my shoulder and breath the perfume into myself, my heart, my spirit.

I don’t know when I started that.

But I think it may have been when I was sixteen or seventeen and had splurged on a bottle of Calvin Klein Eternity.

I wore it all the time.

In fact, I probably over wore it, not realizing that my nose got accustomed to the scent, I would put on a lot more than I needed because I wanted to smell it on my body.

“There goes Carmen, wafting again,” one of my mom’s friends snickered as I passed by.

I was horrified.

I had no clue.

I learned then to put it on at night as heavy as I wanted to, the scent washing me to sleep and curling me into dreams.

Feverdown.

Eiderdown.

Soft warm clouds.

Ambient lightness.

Like a lit globe of fairy dust and tales of adventures and wandering.

My sister told me after we had moved out of the house in Windsor, that there were times she would go hang out in my room and lay on my bed and that my sheets always smelled of my perfume.

I found that sweet.

I still find that sweet.

And I am so happy to have this new scent to waft me into sleep and dreams and reverie with.  I am a very lucky girl.

I’m happy and healthy and taken care of.

I paid my rent today.

That always feels good.

I get to go to yoga in the morning.

That will feel lovely.

And.

Cherries are in season.

Oh so sweet.

My life.

A bowl of cherries.

A wash of spiced perfume.

The moon riding over the wine dark seas.

My heart on my sleeve.

Exactly where it should be.

All is right in the world.

Love.

Love.

It’s all around me.

 

 

And In Today’s News

May 25, 2016

I did nothing.

Well.

I walked to the grocery store at 7:30 in the evening.

I suppose that counts.

And.

Ooh.

I did take a shower.

I called in sick today.

First time at this job calling in, over a year and a half with the family and of course, it happens to be after I just got back from New York and I’ve already had four days off from work for this little vacation, although in reality I only took two days off, duh, brain, the weekend.

But I felt hella guilty.

The mom was super cool.

“Don’t cry for us!” She said, “do you need anything, can we Instacart you some things?”

Oh my god.

NO.

That was the problem this morning.

Hot and cold by turns, sweaty, then chilled.

Even after a shower and getting dressed.

I mean, I knew I wasn’t feeling all that great yesterday when I got back, but I just sort of chalked it up to a little bit of jet lag and the excitement of the trip, not actually being sick.

I got great sleep, nine hours, last night, I’m fine, I told myself.

But.

No.

I was not fine.

I managed to shower and dress and change my sheets and put some laundry in the wash, but it was slow going.

Sometimes, I just am slow in the mornings, but this was different and when I went to kneel down to do my morning prayer and readings I almost threw up on my bed.

Nope.

No going to work.

I can’t pray without needing to vomit?

No way in hell I’m going to make it through a day of nannying.

I went to the bathroom.

But nothing happened, just more shakes and hot cold sweat.

Yuck.

I sat down, picked up my phone and called in.

The mom was sweet and I crawled back into bed.

I responded to a few texts and fell the fuck out.

I woke up to a text at 4p.m.

Holy shit.

I had slept until 4!

Then I just lay there for a while.

I contemplated eating something and my body was like, um, fuck you, no.

So.

Yup.

I went back to sleep.

To wake up to a lady asking if we were still meeting tonight via text.

At 7:15p.m!

Holy shit again.

I can’t believe I slept that much.

I cancelled on meeting, I was feeling better, I am feeling better, though still a little wonky and a little head ache, but much better.

I even ate some oatmeal.

But no, not meeting, no leaving the house.

I did rue not letting my employer send me an Instacart order, when I was walking up to the store I felt rather out of it and stupid, but all I needed was a little seltzer water and a bowl of oatmeal with some mango and banana and I’m back.

I did my “morning pages” at like 8pm and then downloaded the last few episodes of Dare Devil.

And that’s my day.

Weird.

I so rarely get sick.

When I do I barely know what to do with myself.

Fuck.

I know how to care take others like nobody’s business, buy myself?

Learning how to do that has been one of the biggest challenges in my life.

Calling in sick is actually a really good indicator of me being really sick.

Normally if I don’t feel well I’ll still go in, super glad I didn’t today.

I just yawned.

Ha.

I could easily climb back into bed.

I wondered about that for a minute, will I be able to go to sleep and sleep a full night after sleeping all day?

Seems like I might.

In other news.

I’ve got a three day weekend!

And the two ladies I normally would be meeting with cancelled, so my time is wide open.

That’s nice.

Especially after having done the whole New York thing.

Which was great, but I do see that I like to be home too and that some times the coming home is almost as nice, if not more so, than the going to.

No plans as of yet, but it’s nice to know I’ve got three days off to do with what I will.

I’ll meet my person Saturday like I usually do and probably do some yoga.

No yoga tomorrow, I’m going to sleep and let myself recuperate from whatever laid me flat today, but hopefully I’ll be back in class on Thursday.

Grateful for taking care of myself.

Grateful for calling in sick and letting go of my ideas about not being allowed to do so.

The brain, she is a funny thing sometimes.

At least I can see the illogic of it and work around it.

Most days.

No scintillating sexiness for y’all today.

I’ll see what I can get up to tomorrow.

Heh.

Home, Sweet, Sweet

May 24, 2016

Home.

It’s so nice to be back.

Sometimes I go away just to have that feeling again, of how much I love being home.

Home is San Francisco.

Oh.

It could be elsewhere, I did find myself experiencing a very deep fondness for the little neighborhood in Brooklyn that was adjacent to where I was staying in Clinton Hill–The Fort Greene historic area, so, pretty, so many gorgeous brownstones and kids on scooters and the park and the feel of it being a community.

I really liked that.

I could see living in one of those brownstones and sitting on the stoop on a warm night or day, reading a book with a cup of coffee, watching the world go by.

I do like that.

I miss having a place like that to hang out, my place doesn’t have a front porch or a stoop.

However.

There are spots in the neighborhood where I can sit and watch the world go by and I did do that for a little while today after getting back from the airport.

Despite big delays on BART, I still made it home pretty much around the time I thought I would as my flight came in a half hour before it was scheduled, so the time I “lost” on the train wasn’t really lost time.

Plus.

I had my book from the Strand and I pulled that out and started reading and got a good 60 pages into it, popped on my headphones, listened to some Radio Soulwax and just sat.

Sometimes I just need to slow down.

I just got off the phone with one of the women I work with and that was the gist of the conversation, the suggestion to just slow down.

I can get going really fast, I won’t feel, and I will be doing and it tricks my brain into thinking I’m being productive, but sometimes I am just running away from myself.

I take myself wherever I go.

Oh.

There I am again, I thought during a moment of being slightly turned around in Brooklyn and hesitating as to what to do next, literally I was walking around in little circles.

I realized that I was there with me and the “me” was itchy and antsy and getting a little irritated and discontent, which is like my natural state, so I said a prayer asked for guidance and got take out from the Thai place I had dinner at on Saturday night.

Now.

Just stopping and slowing down and letting the world happen, I got to meet Doug and go do the tour of his studio, so even when I seem lost and confused, see, there, I am being looked after and loved.

I sent him a thank you note via e-mail and got just the sweetest response from him today.

He told me the price for the piece I want, several thousand dollars (but he also offered to work out a deal with me, which I super appreciated and despite not having several thousand to drop on an art piece, boy howdy do I aspire to that), and also an invitation to stay at his place the next time I visit–he rents an Air BnB as well, and he said when he comes to San Francisco we must get together.

Also, and I found this so sweet and endearing, that I will make a great, empathetic therapist and I will make loads of money and buy lots of art including his.

That literally brings tears to my eyes.

A very secret wish of mine, to be able to afford to buy the art I love and also to support the artists that I see around me, I love art, it does something to me and creativity and my friends who are artists just blow me away.

“What kind of art do you do,” he asked me outside the doors of the meeting hall, it’s an assumption I get a lot.

But instead of saying I’m not an artist, I said, “I’m a writer.”

And that is a kind of art.

I am creating as I type and when it is right, when the mood is lovely and I am completely transparent I am a conduit and what comes forward is not me, it super cedes me and reshapes me and I am a different person after doing the writing.

In that is great joy.

Yeah.

I want to be an amazing photographer, I am a passable amateur.

Of course I want to draw and paint and sculpt, but those mediums I have never quite had the passion for, the drive for.  I do get ideas and have ways of being in the world that I believe, deep within me, are supremely artistic.

It could just be the way I arrange my hair or hang a photograph on the wall.

But.

I have always wanted to be a patron.

There’s just something super sexy about that.

A dream.

A home, a big one, with lots of light and a studio to write in and a library to read in and rooms for friends to come and do retreats and a cottage in the back and art everywhere and recovery and always the work, the growing the finding of new beauty and subsuming it into my person.

How much art can I hold?

How much love can I give.

That is an art.

The art of smiling, being of service, reaching out, kindness is an act of art.

Art is love.

It is perspective and joy and great waves of sorrow and overwhelming moments of uplift and I can’t comprehend it and maybe, probably, I just don’t want to.

It is an art being myself.

I realize this as I move through the world, how I let myself express myself is an art too.

I can be a living piece of art.

Although sometimes I just need to be a tired human.

The well needed to get refilled today.

When I got home I unpacked my bag and threw my clothes in the wash, I put all my things away, all the notebooks and the few little things I had brought back from my travels and walked up to a little spot in the neighborhood and grabbed lunch.

I sat inside, then I realized I just wanted to sit for a while.

I pulled up a seat at an outside table and sat and watched the ocean in the distance and the neighborhood doing it’s neighborhood deal and then I read for an hour.

Occasionally closing my eyes to the sun and I realized I needed a nap.

So a quick pit stop at Other Avenues for some household stuff and then home.

And a nap.

Oh such a nap.

I slept three hours.

I woke up twice to a text message and to pee, but really, I slept nearly three hours and I can feel I am a bit jet lagged still.

So easy does it the rest of tonight.

Full and grateful heart and a gentle song of jazz on my radio and a little more tea.

And sleep.

In my own home.

In my own bed.

In my favorite place in the world.

San Francisco.

Where my he(art) is.

Doing All The Things

May 23, 2016

I mean.

Seriously.

I broke it off today.

And I don’t feel broken, albeit tired, albeit a little keyed up from the day, but so in love with myself and the gift I gave to myself of doing this trip.

Now.

Don’t get me wrong.

I have had some moments of dis-ease (disease) and had to quietly pull myself back and get real and be grateful for all the things I have been given and all the experiences I have gotten to do.

Twice over the last two days or so I had moments of wishing I was not alone having a meal or walking through Brooklyn.

I wanted to be with someone.

I wanted to be holding a hand.

I wanted to be sharing conversation.

I wanted to be coupled up.

And those things are not wrong, that’s just human nature.

I just have to tread carefully in those areas because I can fall into the self-pity pot all to easily and frankly I’m all for avoiding potholes at this time in my life.

I’m being a good girl.

I mean I am being a very, very, very good girl.

I did no Tinder’ing while I was here, frankly the idea of trying to figure out how to hook up with someone out here was just too much to even fucking contemplate.

And yeah.

I like sex.

A LOT.

However, I don’t need it that bad.

I’m not desperate.

And I’m not an addict.

Although I play one on tv.

Just kidding.

Oh.

And I had the opportunity.

Believe me.

It was on the table.

However.

I turned down the offer after finding out said offer was not in my best interest–really too complicated and stupid to even write about here.

And.

I also ran into someone I met at Burning Man in 2013.

“I’m sorry, I know it seems I’ve been staring at you for the last hour,” he said to me sidling into my space yesterday afternoon after we had closed up and said the prayers and did the deal.  “I mean,” he eyed me up and down (I can’t remember the last time I was that blatantly, to my face, scoped out), “I really like your look.”

“Thanks I said,” and I his, let me be honest.

“And I remember where I know you from,” he added, “you go to Burning Man, you’re hair’s different, but I recognized your tattoos.”  He paused, “you’ve gotten a few more I see, and you’re hair was blue the last time I saw you.”

He handed me his card and asked what I was doing the rest of the day.

My friend swooped in, “Hey, _______, I see you met Carmen, she’s one of my oldest friends, I’m stealing her back now,” he said and took my elbow.

I mean, tall, dark and handsome was tempting, but my friend, my old friend, my friend from the early days of the crazy, he was who I wanted to spend time with.

And there was a time when I would have ditched a friend in a heart beat for a piece of action.

Not so much now.

My friends are treasures and I don’t get out here often, twice in the eight years my old friend has lived here–we caught up at the deal in Atlanta last July and I usually see him for a minute if he gets out to SF, but he’s busy, I’m busy, so no getting busy for me.

And I’m grateful for that.

Then.

Another gentleman who had reached out to me this trip.

I texted him back.

“Hey, when you get a chance, give me a call,” I wrote earlier this afternoon.

I was surprised to not get a call for awhile then just a few minutes back, he finally did.

“Ah, I knew it was coming,” he said to me on the phone, his voice thick with the chagrin and the knowing of what I had decided I was going to tell him.

“You’re first year is a gift I don’t want to intrude on,” I summed it up, “I don’t date guys when they’ve got less than a year.”

It’s not my place, I don’t want to mess up anyone’s shit, and yeah, I know my pussy’s not that powerful, I’m not the reason some one relapses or stays sober, but I see a lot of folks that get focused on the dating deal and not doing the deal and I respect and like this guy.

So after consulting with the powers that be, “I need to tell on myself,” I told my person as I walked around Chelsea today after an amazing afternoon at The New Whitney Museum.

“It’s just really nice to be told how beautiful you are, that someone who is attractive finds me so compelling, I mean, it’s super ego feeding and I know that I can’t see this guy, I know it’s not right, it’s just, well, yeah, tempting.”

“Good on you for telling on yourself, and now you won’t do that, because that’s not the woman you are,”  I was told.

Yup.

“Get your year,” I said, “don’t let me interfere with it.”

He knew, he told me that was what he thought I was going to say.

He was sweet.

And I hung up the phone feeling like.

Well.

An adult.

Perhaps an adult with the hormones of a horny sixteen year old girl, but an adult.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, but I don’t want to hurt anyone.

Sometimes it’s inevitable and someone gets hurt and I can be sorry for that and still not engage, and that’s what an adult does too.

And sometimes God blows magic fairy dust all over me and I am suddenly Alice in the looking glass.

“OH, I was just about to bring that in,” he said as I was snapping pictures of this spectacular piece of sculpture art in the front area of one of the historic brownstones in Fort Greene Brooklyn.

“I love it,” I said, “It just, well, it’s amazing.”

We started to talk.

He was the artist, Doug Beube.

He told me a few things, we chatted about me and my travels and being a nanny and a grad school student and then somehow onto Burning Man and I asked, I don’t know why, serendipity, God, what have you.

I told him about my favorite piece from last year-Storied Haven.

And then.

He cocked his head at me and said, “I don’t suppose you want to see my studio?”

OH my God.

I was so floored.

“I know, trying to get a beautiful woman into my house, and all, but,” he paused, “I think you’ll like it.”

I joked, “as long as your studio isn’t in your bedroom, I’d be honored.”

I was not only honored.

I was blown the fuck away.

The man’s work is amazing.

AMAZING.

I was in tears a number of time, over awed by the depth and breadth and beauty of his work.

I took a lot of photos-they’re up on my facecrack page and on twitter and intstagram, and I’d put them here, but they just do not do them justice, my photos, so check out his website.

www.dougbeube.com

So good.

He works with old books and cuts them up and remakes them and he does photography and organic art and found art and these cunning little sculptures and so much political art that was poignant and beautiful, so insightful, so thoughtful, it was just such an over the moon experience.

I mean I got to go to the Brooklyn Museum, the MOMA, and The New Whitney and then, to top it off I get a private tour of this amazing artist out of nowhere?

Who is the luckiest girl in the world?

Me.

Hands down.

And perhaps I should change that up as I realize I have been a woman.

A proud woman, a respectful woman, a woman who looks the world in the face and who above all is not afraid to smile and thank someone for their contributions.

We all want to be seen.

And when I am allowed to see someone and the things that they do that make them artists, I am so very grateful.

I am blessed.

I am graced.

I am loved.

Thanks New York, thanks Brooklyn, thanks to my friends who drank coffee with me and the ones I called and said, hey where should I eat today, and all the friends who said, hey check this place out and to all those people who smiled at me in the city and said, “nice outfit!”

I like being seen too.

It’s been special New York.

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart.

Which I left in San Francisco.

Time for me to go back home.

But you will not soon be forgot.

I promise.

Kisses.

And.

Big.

Big.

Big.

Love.

 

Day Two

May 22, 2016

New York.

I’m beat.

I mean.

I walked so much today, I started to get shin splints.

But I couldn’t bring myself to get on the subway again after getting off it in Brooklyn at the Barclay Center stop.

I had gotten switched up on the trains as they were doing construction and the line that I was supposed to connect with was suddenly no longer available and I could have done another transfer but wanted off.

I wanted to walk.

That’s the best way to see things.

On foot.

I took loads of photos and saw some awesome graffiti and paste art that I wouldn’t have if I had been on the train.

That being said, I am pretty proud of myself at having navigated as well as I did.

The train system is smart and pretty easy to figure out, but I did find myself having some anxiety this morning as I headed off to the big city from Brooklyn.

And I realized now that it was my first time by myself figuring out how to go from one point to the other.

And I did fine.

I did get turned around, but, haha, not on the damn train, on the sidewalk.

I am so freaking dyslexic, I read my navigation backward, I literally look at the screen and go right when I should go left.

I am so grateful for the navigation and map apps on my phone.

I would have been wandering around in desperate circles.

I am a total know it by mistake person and a land mark person.

Oh.

That church there, that’s where I need to go, or I can go on this block, or I will remember, as I did earlier when I was at Union Square, which way I came the only other time I was there and did the deal at the Seafarer’s Union hall, but ask me if it’s North or South, East or West, and I am at a complete standstill and close to tears, if not in tears.

I don’t have pet peeves per se.

However.

Ask me to be your navigator and I will be a very unhappy lady.

Don’t hand me the map.

Don’t ask me to figure it out.

Just don’t.

You want a happy traveling companion, do not ask me for directions.

Or.

Expect to get lost.

Getting lost for some is fun, an adventure, a party, but for me, it just produces a lot of anxiety.

I know from a lot of self work and a lot of introspection and a lot of having done the deal and some outside therapy that has, oh, a little to do with needing to control my environment and being in fear.

It’s a safety thing.

I get it.

I let myself be gentle with myself when it comes up.

I have, however, been on the receiving end of some not so nice words having gotten lost with people.

It’s not comfortable.

I’m very well aware of it, but it will still catch me totally off guard and then I’m like, fuck, I’m lost, how did that happen?

But today, mostly, I just got lost in things I love.

I got lost in books.

Oh.

The books.

Stacks and stacks and heaps and piles and floors and aisles of books.

So many yummy books.

Oh.

The smell.

Such a good smell.

Not my most favorite smell in the world, wood smoke, bonfire, fire wood burning in the fireplace on a cold night, but right up there.

The clean, crisp, warm smell of paper and book binding glue and I just perused the aisles at The Strand and was a very happy lady.

My friend that I met today suggested popping into it.

And my.

What a good suggestion.

I actually put down all but one of the books I wanted to buy.

Not from a place of frugality, although, that did rear its head a bit, but more from the perspective of, oh, wait, how much weight do I want to carry around?

And.

Can I get this book in San Francisco?

The answers were obvious.

But I did buy some notebooks, yay!

And some stickers.

Double yay.

And a magnet.

And one book for the flight back.

So that was nice.

My friend departed before me, off to work on his film project, and left me with directions to get to the MOMA.

Which I promptly forgot when I was on the second floor of The Strand.

Where did he say to go?

Get out the phone.

Map it out.

And yes, still spend way too much time when I got off the subway walking the wrong way down the streets.

Seriously I have a problem.

I did, however, make it to the MOMA.

And started at the top.

Rothko.

Although, to be honest, not my favorite, not in my top ten Rothko’s at all, I didn’t like the lightness of the colors he used, I like the deep oranges and greens or the super dark brick reds almost black or the indigo violet blue ones, this one, though luminous and gave me a pause to look at, was not something that held me for very long.

I was drawn to Van Gough’s Starry Night.

Me and too many other tourists, good grief, too many, too many, too many fucking tourists.

Which is probably why I enjoyed the walk home through Brooklyn so much, like that, “home.”  I have caught myself saying that a number of times, I’m heading home, I’ll be home soon, or I’m at home, and it’s the Air Bnb I’m staying in.

Off all the places I’ve been in the city, I actually like this neighborhood and Greenpoint the best, there’s a mix of cultures and ethnicities that make me happy and I feel right at home and yeah, there’s projects, but I have been in the projects before and I just put on the walk and I am not bothered.

If I were to move to New York, which I don’t foresee, at all, the winters, yo, I would live in Brooklyn–but not Williamsburg, too white, too many hipsters and man buns and women reading tarot in a way too serious manner selling over priced hyper curated vintage and emergency sage smudging kits.

Dude I think I had seen it all at that point.

REALLY?

You’re selling emergency smudging kits?

Where am I?

Santa Cruz or Brooklyn?

I feel better in this neighborhood with the barber shops and the families and the hair salons, the little bodegas and the funky art and the graffiti.

But that’s just me.

I’m often at home where ever I go.

And yes, I got asked for directions again.

This time in Greenpoint by a woman from the city trying to figure out what train to get back on.

I had to laugh.

And.

Of course.

I helped.

The blind leading the blind.

I also walked, because I had a funny feeling about being on the train past the point where I had gotten off.

I don’t know why, I don’t have to know why, but I had to turn around when I was heading down the stairs to the underground, it felt wrong.

And it was raining and I was tired and I thought, shoot, just call a car, but no, the walking.

The brownstones and the lights within, the big leafy trees, the sound of the rain falling like that, the smell of wet sidewalks.

It was a nice way to sort through my day and recall all the lovely art I saw.

I only got to the Rothko before digressing.

The ones that stood out for me, Andrew Wyeth, Christina’s World, that stopped me in my tracks.

The two Klimt’s I saw, Hope II, Adele Boch-Bauer II.

The Mondrians, three of them, just stunning.

The Hopper, House by the Railroad.

Stumbling upon the Monet Water Lilies, I did not know they were there, at least this version of them, and I was brought to tears to think that I have gotten to see them in Paris and in New York.

How lucky am I?

The Seurat, Evening Honfleur, brought me to tears.

I was so startled by it and just stood transfixed.

I don’t always know that is going to happen with me and art.

I get something deep within, I am moved, I am transported, I feel deep joy.

And gratitude.

From my humble, poor, meek beginnings.

To a bit of a traveler and a bit of an art junky.

It’s so nice.

I’m so lucky.

I really.

I’ll say it again.

The luckiest girl in the world.

And.

All tuckered the fuck out.

One more day New York.

Let’s make it smashing, shall we?

I hear you have some art for me to see.

Next stop.

The new Whitney.

But first.

Bed.

Night y’all.


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