Posts Tagged ‘7th and Irving’

You’re The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair

July 12, 2015

That cries all the time.

Yup.

That would be me.

Crying on the back of the bus.

Damn you MUNI.

It’s bad enough to be that woman, but to be that woman on the back of the bus?

Even worse.

There’s a certain kind of anonymity that the N-Judah train permits, not so much when they are running buses to and from the beach as the work continues on the tunnel between the Cole and Duboce stops.

The girl with flowers in her hair who cries a lot, I think, is actually what she said.

I haven’t cried this much in a long time.

I have not seen my disease so up close and personal and in my face, and on my face, and smearing down my face.

I really shouldn’t have even attempted the make up today, but I tried to put on a brave face, even though I went to bed crying, I woke up crying, my face was leaky and runny and disastrous.

I would get it together to fall back apart.

I can say with all conviction and truth the amends to be made from mistakes in my sobriety have to be some of the most painful I have ever attempted.

And I haven’t made this one yet.

I did something last night that I am ashamed of, horrified by and bereft with my behavior.

I was manipulative and dishonest and I didn’t even realize what was coming out of my mouth but there it was and my friend got hurt.

It was like being in a black out.

I said something cruel and dishonest because my fucking instincts got bruised and I thought I was better than that, I don’t know, that I got this, I know how to live I do, I….

Fuck me.

I don’t have a clue.

Until the look on my friends face woke me up.

What did I just do?

I can’t breathe writing about it.

I have been putting off writing about it for hours, hoping that I would be able to make the amends tonight.

It does not look like that will happen.

I can’t force solution, it’s not on my schedule, it’s not my time frame.

It’s my fucking monkey though.

Or monkeys.

Shame.

Manipulation.

Perfectionism.

DIshonesty.

When I wrote, just because it’s taken me this long to get to my blog does not mean I haven’t written today.

I have.

So much, my heart hurts for it, my heart hurts for my friend, for myself, for being in this disease, for being human, and for knowing that the only way through this is though it.

And I may very well lose a friend who means so much to me that I cannot fathom not having him in my life.

Oh.

And there’s another one.

Self-sabotage.

I think I have let go, I think I have surrendered, then I go down that path, unconsciously, it seems, but I can see in hindsight that I got upset, I felt threatened and I said unkind things.

Things I did not mean, things I don’t even remember saying, except for the gist of them, for the flavor–which is all sea salt and rot on my heart, that what it tastes like and so I took it to the beach.

I took it first to 7th and Irving and was a mild wreck in my folding chair, my ass falling off, I stuck it in a bag and got it where it needed to be.

I shared and I shared sadness and sorrow, but I also shared solution and when I finished and the time was up I read about a vision for you and my voice cracked.

I cannot remember the last time I started to cry reading something.

The wreckage of the past caught my attention and twisted in me and I thought, the wreckage of last night, and then I read the rest of the words and felt something move and shift and a teeny step forward through the miasma of grief.

Then down the stairs out into the sunlight, buoyed up by the froth of crinoline under my dress.

If I’m going to be sad I might as well wear something that will bring some lightness to me as I drift tear stained around the Inner Sunset.

I went to Tart to Tart.

I got an iced coffee.

I sat down across the table and I spilled my guts.

“Well, aren’t you just a garden variety drunk,” she almost laughed, but then told me what she saw, her perception, and her generosity of spirit and point blankness, “you owe him an amends.  Do you have a piece of paper?”

I took out my notebook.

I wrote down what she said.

I cried with horror over my inability to have seen how hurtful I was to my friend last night and I admonished myself.

I didn’t cast about ashes and I didn’t beat my self with a hair whip, but man, I came close.

“Hey, don’t talk about my friend like that,” my best girlfriend said to me this morning when I shared what an asshole I had been.

I love you and I forgive you.

I kept saying it all day.

I kept seeing how deep this goes, how much work I still have to do.

“Oh!  Get grateful for that, it means you’re human, and you get to work on letting go of these defects.”

Back at Tart to Tart the almost perky tone of my person bolstered me, I knew she was right and I knew I have to go to my friend in a position of service and kindness.

And face to face.

That was the directive.

I reached out.

I got a response.

It was no thank you.

Once again I break my own heart.

No wonder I wore my heart sweater today.

Cream hearts on a field of black.

I did more praying.

I did more writing.

I did, oh come on, more crying.

Hell.

I haven’t really stopped all day.

There will be a moment of reprieve then it starts again.

“This is worse than with ____________,” I sobbed on the phone later in the day, having walked down to the sea and asked for it all to be taken away, wash it away, take my sins, every one, help me have kindness and compassion, for myself, and be of service to my friend.

However he needs it.

Not however I want it.

“You self-sabotaged and now you know what that feels like, you can recognize it and you can stop it the next time you have that feeling arise,” he told me.  “Then you talk to me first before you say anything.”

“And we hurt the ones we care for the most, we don’t mean to, but that’s what we do” he finished, “now you are aware, now forgive yourself, and let him have his process.”

The hardest part.

I wore that fucking flower in my hair all day long.

I thought there was a chance to see my friend and make the amends.

He reached back to me later and we set a time, but it came and went and he cannot meet me.

So I sit here in the grief that I have wrought.

My own self-made misery.

I can’t hate myself for it, I can only forgive and move forward with the knowledge that my disease runs hard and deep and I have to lean in on my God and I have to pray more.

Kneeling by my bed, walking in the ocean, walking through the fear, praying for forgiveness again and again and again.

I can’t regret the past, nor shut the door on it, but I can learn from this and I can hope for a new beginning and for a new freedom from the bondage of self.

The price feels so high.

“You will get through this,” his voice so calm over the phone, the waves splashed on my feet, the sun embroiled my head and lit me through with far-flung light, “you will come out stronger and better and you will love more for it, I don’t know what it will look like, but you will come through and you will have learned a deep lesson about yourself.”

There is a gift here.

I cannot see it.

But it is there.

Wrapped on the beach.

Dusted with the tears of the mermaids as they

Sing each to each

I will walk through this grief.

I will assuage this sorrow.

I will open that box.

And be bedazzled with glory.

I will keep doing this work.

It’s the only way I know how.

I will find my way back to love.

It has not left me, I just cannot see it through the blur of sea-salt in my eyes.

But it is there.

Love.

It is there.

Somewhere God is Laughing

March 10, 2015

Or at least chuckling loudly.

Ever been in a room where you realize that you have, slept with two of the men in the same room, and oh, yes, so has someone else there, and you’ve made out with another, and oh, it gets better, you’ve asked two other men, in the same fucking room, out on dates.

All I needed was my ex boyfriend to walk in the door.

I knew.

I mean knew.

I was in some fit spiritual place when I laughed to myself.

I did not laugh out loud, but I smiled pretty hard.

It was funny.

It is funny.

Sometimes the world is a very small place.

Now, don’t get me confused with some sort of crazy woman, all these interactions happened at very different times and points of my life and sexual/relationship time line.

One of the guys I made out with?

It was five years ago and I’m friends with him and his wife, so like, no biggie.

The other guy, I, yes, hooked up with at Burning Man.

Come on.

It’s Burning Man.

One was a lover from before I went to Paris.

The other two were in more recent history, one guy I asked out about a year ago, and I have to say, he’s given me the best turn down I have ever gotten.

“I’m so flattered, thank you, but no.”

Quiet, sweet, firm.

We’re friends and run in the same circles.

And he’s got a girlfriend now.

The other guy, I asked out as one of the guys on my list of ten.

I was like.

REALLY?

This has never happened to me before and of in all places, the Inner Sunset?

Ha!

Then I got home and the guy who asked me out to a dessert date, even though I said I don’t eat sugar, happy to have tea with you, freaked out that I don’t eat sugar, and cancelled our date.

Whatever.

It’s all so laughable at this point.

Ah, dating.

And you know, its San Francisco, so yeah, of course there’s overlap, it’s a small world out there.

Also, I do have a community and fellowship that I prefer to date within.

They are the type of men I want to be in a relationship with, so it doesn’t strike me as so strange that a confluence of them were all in the same space.

I’m not sure what God is trying to tell me, but it’s fucking funny.

Even I can see that.

I don’t feel a bit weird about it, that’s the nice thing, I can take it all with a grain of salt and say to myself, “well, self, who’s next?”

I mean.

I’m not going to stop dating or trying to date.

Where’s the fun in that?

I believe that being light-hearted about it all is helpful, being silly can’t hurt either, not taking it so seriously, as I am wont to do with many things in my life, being easy and going with the flow and seeing what happens next.

It’s all a part of the story and the journey and life, dating, is messy.

Funny.

But messy.

I mean I don’t know a single woman or man who hasn’t had a number or horrific/silly/ghastly/laughable dates or moments in dating before finding the person they were supposed to be with.

Or not finding that person.

Or finding out that the best person to date is themselves.

“Take yourself out on a date,” I told her yesterday after we had done some reading and writing in the afternoon.

I gave her some examples of what I have done over the years.

Small things like: lighting candles when I am having dinner, buying myself flowers, drinking my water, sparkling preferably, out of a glass instead of straight from the bottle, sitting outside on the patio when the weather is nice, listening to jazz music, walking on the beach, getting a fancy coffee at a cafe.

To slightly bigger things: riding the F-Market train from the beginning of the line in the Castro to the end of the line in Fisherman’s Wharf, going to the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday at the Ferry Building and eating lunch on a bench overlooking the Bay Bridge, taking the ferry to Sausalito, spa days at Kabuki Springs, going to a matinée, walking through the rain, trips to the MOMA or the Legion of Honor, going to House of Air and trampolining, walking through the butterfly exhibit at the Conservatory of Flowers, walking through China Town with my camera, or playing pinball at Free Gold Watch.

I’ve even taken myself on some pretty fancy pants dates: one year I had a three course pre-fix menu dinner on Valentines Day at Le Zinc a French Bistro in Noe Valley, or going to Paris.

Yes, I do count that as a pretty big date, not when I moved to Paris, but when I went there in 2007 by myself for 10 days.

That was as stupendous date.

I even got lucky with a French man in the Pere Lachaise cemetery.

Well, we made out, and had I let him we would have gone further, but too many tourists around.

It was something else to have a wild-eyed dark-haired Frenchman named Philip lean me up against a 200-year-old mausoleum and kiss me silly.

So.

I know how to date.

I do.

And I make a good date.

The world is not as big as I make it out to be and so to be in a room where I had kissed three of the men, slept with two of the men, and asked out two others, isn’t such a huge deal.

A goofy deal.

A silly deal.

A nothing to take seriously deal.

Something to write about on a foggy night while I wait to see what happens next and who I will go out with this weekend.

So far.

No takers.

But you know.

The week is young.

And already weird.

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow.

 

Early To Blog

January 2, 2014

Early to bed.

Home again home again.

Jiggedy jig.

Home.

God what a fantastic thing that.

I am so looking forward to crawling into my own bed tonight.

Just cannot wait.

Started my blog early, I am beat, I never blog this early, usually I have something going on something on my agenda, a thing, a person, an idea, a I dunno, somethin’.

But tonight I have bed on the mind.

Bed and an uninterrupted night of rest.

“Mommy, daddy?” She said with a small plaintive cry, that crept into my ear as I lay on the couch in the dark, the hooting and revelry in the Mission winding down a bit.

Although, it would wind back up at certain moments, a few times I wondered if there was a block party happening or a roving party, sometimes it was just fast cars and slamming doors, sometimes hollers for cabs or drunken revellers coming in from the night.

Either way, I was on high alert despite the hour and I had woken a few minutes prior wondering if I had heard a shuffling noise from the bedroom.

I had just drifted back down to a possible level of sleep when I heard her little whisper from the other side of the door.

I got up, looked at the clock, 3:40 a.m.

Ugh.

I opened the door to her room and found her having crawled out of her bed laying propped against the door face down on the floor.

I scooped her up, “mommy, daddy, home soon, let’s get back in bed,” and snuggled her back in, resetting the lullabies on her little music machine and quietly shutting the door.

I stood outside in the hallway for a moment listening as her breathing deepened and she went back to slumber land.

Slumber land where I will be tonight, repeat, in my own bed.

Ah, my own bed.

Nothing like a night on a strangers couch to make one realize how happy and wonderful it is to have one’s own bed.

I am not doing another over night nanny gig.

“What if someone gave you a $1,000 to do it?” My friend Calvin asked me as we headed to Trouble to catch up and have coffee, soon thereafter to be followed by Thai Cottage, a good New Years day combo.

“Ok, sure, I might consider it, but man, it sucks, and nothing, nothing went wrong,” I replied.  “In fact, it was the perfect scenario, both the babies (I say babies, but it was an eleven month and a two and a half-year old, so not exactly babies) went down right on schedule.”

There was no struggle with the bed time routine, there was no, “I need to pee again, or I want water, or read me another story.”

It went off without a hitch.

I even watched a great movie, The Reader (ok, a bit depressing, but beautifully done) on the large flat screen television in the living room with the worlds largest cat on my lap keeping me warm.

I had hopped in the car from the Cole Valley gig and went directly to the Mission, 25th between Guerrero and Valencia, and got the low down at the house there.

I met the two and a half-year old little girl, adorable, the dog, ridiculously sweet and cute, got all emergency numbers programmed in my phone, got paid, and was invited to partake of anything I could need or want for food.

In fact, the dad left a twenty spot on the counter in case I had not had dinner (I had already eaten, but was very touched by the generosity) and said “help yourself to anything.”

Thanks, but no, not so much.

I did have a snack in the evening after I finished last nights blog and had started watching the movie, and breakfast and coffee this morning, but there is nothing quite like your own home with your own food and the things that make you feel comfortable therein.

Like I said, nothing went wrong.

No emergency, aside from re-tucking the little girl back in, and the inevitable cry of the baby, hungry for his first morning bottle, at 5:40 a.m.

Double ugh.

But just being on high alert at all times, not really getting sleep, not really resting.

“This is why I don’t want kids,” I thought as I stumbled up for the couch, to the kitchen, in the dark, grabbing a bottle from the fridge I popped it into a bowl in the sink I had set up the night before, just a few hours before really, and ran hot water over it.

I got the baby out of the crib, trying to not engage, I knew if I was quiet and calm I could probably get him re-settled in with a warm bottle and he might sleep another half hour or more.

I quickly changed his diaper, re-settled him in the crib, re-set his noise machine and slipped the warm bottle into his little paws.

I walked backwards out the door, shut it and lay on the couch again, dozing off fitfully until 6:33 a.m. when he hollered out he was good and ready to get up, so let’s go, lady!

And go I did.

It feels like the same day in some weird kind of way and not a holiday or a day off, it feels, really it is, like I worked some marathon shift and am now recuperating from it.

I got done at 10:15 a.m. and hustled over to Philz to meet someone and do the deal.

I was going to stay in the neighborhood, but we finished early and all I wanted was to get out of the Mission.

I wanted home, home by the sea.

I made a short pit stop at 7th and Irving to get my head screwed on straight and decided to eat out for lunch, forgetting that its New Years day and the few places that were opened were swamped with lines.

I climbed on my bike, shouldered my messenger bag with all my over night stuff and just hit it to the ocean.

I made an omelet and started the day over.

By 3:30p.m. I was back in my right mind, but still off a little, uncertain how to spend the rest of the day when I got the text from Cal saying let’s get coffee and though I had a full pot of French press at the house and a Philz Canopy of Heaven, large, and I need to be up tomorrow at 7a.m., I said, “yes!”

Finding myself in Trouble at 4:30 in the afternoon doing the unthinkable, having a large Americano, banking on the fact that I may be pushing over my caffeine threshold and getting the opposite effect.

Caffeine doesn’t “wake” us up.

Adrenalin does.

Caffeine triggers the adrenal glands to release adrenalin into our bodies, but the glands only have so much, so if you constantly are releasing adrenalin into your body eventually the glands have nothing left and you get the reverse action.

You get tired instead of awake.

I knew this and gambled.

Gamble paid off.

I am fucking zonked and it’s not even 8p.m.

I could have skipped writing this at all and gone straight to bed after dinner with Cal.  I figured I better not, though, don’t want to muck with my sleep schedule any more than I already did.

Besides you don’t “catch up” on sleep either.

And according to my Wikipedia:

However anecdotal evidence suggests that many individuals with ADHD already use caffeine to self-medicate themselves or their dependants, and they find that it has the opposite effect to normal, such as inducing a “calm-down” effect that encourages sleep instead of making them more active and stimulated.

Now, I ain’t saying I have ADHD, but I do have a racing brain and maybe a touch of the OCD thing, and I do find this to happen when I get over caffeinated.

And now, I am losing the blog’s focus altogether, hit by another wave of the sleepy.

Time to pack it in, time to crawl into my little blue bed down by the sea.

Night all.

Welcoming in 2014 high on caffeine, Thai food, and good company.

Not a bad start to my year.

Not bad at all.

I Want To See More Of You

October 10, 2013

I told the Mister tonight.

“But I am not going to chase,” I finished.

No.

I am not.

Because, this woman is worthy of pursuit.

We went to Ebisu tonight and I made the “sushi face”.

This is the face my friend said that I must look like when I have sex, although we had never slept together and we will never as far as I am concerned, it was an apt observation.

The sushi was good tonight.

I couldn’t help making the sushi face and rubbing my knee when I got happy.

I have no idea where this comes from, I’ve mentioned it before in previous blogs, but yeah, when extremely happy eating something I have noticed myself rubbing my leg, usually my upper thigh, in small concentric circles, a soothing self-caress of luxuriousness.

It’s like eating velvet, good sushi, and my hand wants to pet something.

When I think of good sushi I do as well think of textures, soft, creamy, lush, rich, succulent, there’s a transportation that occurs.

Good sex is like that too.

“What do you want?” I asked him over the second course of the meal.

It all came out at different little moments, orchestrated it seemed to just pique the appetite onto the next place.

I had closed my menu, I was too distracted to eat, I had been thinking and talking about this conversation with myself and a couple of my good girl friends, for a day or two.

Or week.

Shhh.

I realized that I just had to bite it today or be in that ambivalent space and I am sick of the vagueness.  I have so much clarity around other things, my job, where I am living, being back in San Francisco, that I don’t want to be vague about my dating life right now.

I know what I want.

I want a committed relationship.

“I want freedom,” he said, “to work, to play, to hear music and go out to see art, to eat good food, to do yoga, to be of service and help out in my community, to spend time with beautiful attractive women,” he paused.

The crab rolls had arrived.

Crab hand rolls in nori with roe.

So good.

I mixed my wasabi in my soy sauce and watched how he ate the roll, it was not something I had experience with, not a traditional roll that I could eat with chop sticks.

I picked it up, dipped it in the wasabi spiked soy sauce and revelled in the juicy sweet crab and the pop of roe in my mouth, the nori a delicate delivery device, almost more so than the seaweed taste, a crumbling sheet that melted across my tongue just as it was subsumed by rich, savory crab meat.

Divine.

“Like this, now,” he finished, gesturing across to the restaurant and to me.

Ok.

Well, you are not looking for commitment or a girlfriend.

Gotcha.

But you are looking to spend more time with me.

That was obvious.

We walked around the Inner Sunset chatting and catching up before going to sushi and so much of the conversation had to do with things that were upcoming and finding time to see more of each other.

He paid attention, ordered me food he knew I liked, I just put down the menu and acquiesced to be taken care of, it’s a nice feeling to let go of trying to figure out what to eat at a new restaurant.  And he knows my dietary restrictions, and has always been conscious of it, which I find utterly endearing.

Besides, when you are out with someone who is as grounded in the San Francisco food scene as he is, there is no need to worry.

He has never taken me out to a bad restaurant.

I have never had a bad dining experience with him.

I just have not had as much time with him as I would like.

“What would spending more time with you look like?”  I asked him.

“Well, like this, except you would call me, ____________(his nickname amongst friends), and you would probably carry a tissue on you, everyone who I spend time with does (he has allergies and what he doesn’t know is that I bought a fancy box of kleenex last week when I thought he was going to have some time to see me and stashed it in my bathroom. ), he laughed and gently blew his nose to the side.

“I can do that,” I smiled and we continued enjoying the sushi, the company, and the green tea.

After the meal we walked over to 7th and Irving and spent a little time in those environs.  Then homeward toward the ocean.

“You were really brave,” he said as we crossed back over to the car after our time in the Inner Sunset concluded.

He was referring to when I went to Paris.

“I really admired that you did it, it really took a lot of balls, you have to respect that,” he said and looked at me as I stepped off the curb to cross the street.

“Thank you,” I said and smiled, “I am really proud of myself, for going, for trying, I don’t regret it, I never will, and I don’t know that I am moving back, but I will be going back.”

I can continue to be brave and ask for what I want, I thought to myself as we drove through the bustling early evening traffic.

We drove back along the crowded Irving Avenue blocks, past the busy pho shops and tea houses, the Asian five and dimes, and lotto stores, past the Giant Super Market at Irving and 22nd, over the Sunset Avenue, toward the ocean, the crescent moon a beacon over the water.

“Friday, I want to go,” I said.

Some mutual friends are having a bonfire down at Ocean Beach.

“Yeah, and I want to go see the Bulgari exhibit at the DeYoung, maybe I’ll get us tickets,” he said as he pulled up in front of the house.

My little house, all decorated with Halloween ghosties and cackling witches, spider webs and pumpkins–my housemates daughter is 7–and I giggled a little as he took my hand, without meaning too, thinking about how startled I had been coming home the night before and the ghost in the door way “boo’ed” at me.

“We’ll figure out time,” he said and kissed the side of my cheek.

Then my mouth.

The kisses soft, sweet, firm, ardent.

“Good,” I said after, smiling at him, “I want to see more of you, but I am not going to chase you.”

“I know, I have a responsibility here,” he said smiling.

“I like your tights,” he said out of nowhere.

(Good, I wore them with you in mind)

“I like you, _____________” I said, using his nickname.

“Hey!” He smiled at me as I climbed out of the car.

“Call me when you want to see more of me,” I finished and waved as I pulled the gate shut behind me.

I want you, but you have to want me too.

I am worth it, Mister.

But I won’t chase you.

I am the ball.

The man who wants me will come for me.

Until that time, I am free, available for dating, and oh yeah.

Surfing.


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