Posts Tagged ‘Arin Fishkin’

You Get Paid To Love!

May 12, 2015

He said to me with a big hug.

“And you’re next career, you’re going to get paid to love too!”

He’s right.

I do.


I will.

The best thing about seeing the boys today was dinner time.

Roast chicken, marinated in my homemade marinade, brown rice, sliced avocado, fruit salad.

I also made homemade mac and cheese with sharp cheddar, panko breadcrumbs, Baia pasta, parmesan, and sautéed crimini mushrooms, then mixed up with a little cottage cheese, a pinch of love, and baked in the oven.

Tomorrow’s meal.

I did a lot of cooking and marketing today as the family was returning from a long weekend in Sonoma to celebrate mom’s day and had decided to take it easy coming home.

Originally they thought home would happen around 2 p.m. but it wasn’t until nearly 4 p.m.

I had a lot of time to prep and go to BiRite and the corner market and do some laundry and dishes and what not.

I also sat and read and meditated and breathed and let the sun fall on my face and shoulders in the kitchen nook by the back patio doors.

It was a real nice way to start the week.

But it really was dinner that was the best.

Mom and dad went to do mom and dad things and to catch up on the few things that needed to be addressed and I got the boys for the end of the day.

I sat with the oldest boy sprawled out in my lap eating sliced apples with cinnamon and nutmeg and telling him secrets.

“I have a secret to tell you,” I whispered in his ear.

“I have a secret to tell you!” He whispered back in my ear.

“One, two, three, go!”

“I love you!”

We both fiercely whispered to each other.

Then, yes, there might have been giggling and I may have taken my glasses off to kiss his neck and squeeze him tight.

“I missed you,” I told him.

“I missed you too, Carmen,” he hugged me back and kissed my hand.


I get paid for that.

Not a bad job if you can get it.

My friend and I caught up on the weekend and he relayed to me, “I heard so much gratitude in your share, so much love, how are you doing with everything?”

I shared about my experience with the scooter and how it’s time to let her go and basically I’ll probably just give it away to a friend that is a bit of a Vespa aficionado and let him and his friends tinker with it.

“Good, that means you’ll be with us for a while,” he hugged me, “we want to keep you around.”

I want to stick around too.

There really is nothing left to do with it.

I have made my decision and unless something odd happens I am not going to be a scooter owner for much longer.

I am hoping to have this all cleared up by the end of the week.

It’s been an adventure and I’m ready to get off the ride.

Perhaps I am meant to go only so fast, as fast as my legs can carry me on my bicycle, and as I was stretching out my hips and rolling out my IT band along my thigh on the yoga roller, I was ok with it.

If I have to do these stretches all the time, so be it.

It’s really not a high price to pay.

And when I looked around my sweet little home I was filled with more gratitude and more love.

Look at this space I have created for myself.

I finally have all my prints from Paris framed and my Arin Fishkin “Baker’s Beach” is hung and framed, my Will Rogers Burning Man photograph from the air, an amazing shot that depending on the time of day actually seems to change colors just slightly, mimicking the blue haze that seems to just be draped over the mountain range surrounding the event.

The orchid that I bought myself for my 41st birthday bloomed out again, this is the third time it has blossomed and the rich creamy white fans of flowers straddling the last of the sun’s rays as they slanted through the back door glowed with luscious light and I felt this love that I have for myself blossom too.

The worst thing about the scooter was not the money.

It was how I was treating myself.

I, without intention, began to equate myself with that poor little busted down ride.

I was no better than a broken lawn ornament.

I was a stupid girl.

I should have known better.

I wasted my money.

I wasted my time.

I am a fool.


Turn it around.

I just had an experience.

And I am not my things.

Just like I am not my dress size or the amount of money in my bank account or how much money I owe on my student loans, or am about to what with taking on loans for graduate school.

I reminded myself to forgive myself.

I made some mistakes.

It’s ok.

I am not broken.

That was it.

The sad little girl crying in the scooter shop with the manic hustle and bustle of the owner and the staff and the mechanics, I am not some small abandoned child on the side of the road.

How can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling?

How can you mend this broken (wo)man?

And let me live again.

I suspect that it’s love.

At least that’s what the Reverend sings about over and over again, Mister Al Green, if you didn’t catch the lyric, love.


Fierce, with wild abandon, I get to love.

That I get paid to do so for work is just a side benefit of the love I have constantly and continually had to show myself.

I’m really pretty damn lucky.



Full of gratitude.

Even for the challenging things.

Because I lean in harder to love those things more.

And I open up.

I don’t need to be mended.

The scars are beautiful.

There to remind me how much love I can hold.

Some times it’s a lap full of five-year old boy who needs a snuggle.

Some times it’s that small little girl I am who is looking for the way out.

Either way.

I have plenty of love for both.

The more I give it away.

The more I get back.

That’s just the way love goes.

Just About Ready To Dance

November 8, 2014

In fact, if it weren’t for the lack of willing friends, I would be out tonight shaking it.

I am feeling ready, after last Friday’s brief bit of dancing, to get out there again.

My ankle is ready to do the deal and I need to get out there and shake my crazy out.

I have a busy day tomorrow, so doubtful that it will happen this weekend, but soon, I feel soon.

I’ve got meet ups at noon and at 7p.m. tomorrow for an hour each one for some reading and some perspective change, and yeah, oh yeah, a whole lot of perspective change.

Then a dinner with a former family I used to nanny for, I am super excited to see the little girl, it’s been a few months and I miss her little self.

Plus, the mom and I have some chatting to do, she’s agreed to write my letter of recommendation for graduate school and I am excited to be getting further into that whole thing.

And I have some art to wrangle back to my house.

A beautiful print of Baker’s Beach with the Golden Gate Bridge in the back ground and a woman in a bathing suit in the foreground.  The woman reminds me of myself, but I also love the richness of the print, the colors, the beach and the bridge.

Plus it’s done by one of my favorite artists, and people, Arin Fishkin, I can finally have a signed Fishkin hanging in my inlaw.

This is exciting.

I was heading into the Mission last weekend on Saturday to finally get the print from her studio when I touched base with my friend who recently returned from his Sabbatical to New York.

We had a confab and it was agreed that he would pick me up from Noe Valley in the evening and head back to my place for tea on his motorcycle.

Which immediately negated bringing home my print.

So, it’s in a bag in the Mission, in a garage and I want it.

Damn it.

I’m thinking I will ride my scooter over to the NOPA to see my former family and their sweet petunia pie girl, then zoom over to the Mission and see if I can wrangle it to my scooter then on up to Noe Valley for my 7 p.m. meet up at the Starbux.

The print is 11×7 but the frame is a little larger.  I think I can manage it, and if not, then I am going to take MUNI on Sunday, though I loathe it, I do, and get the print.

I have contemplated rigging it up to my messenger bag, but I don’t want to risk it, and since I have been holding a spot for the print for almost a year now on my wall, I’m willing to take a little time and care to get it home.

Other than that, no weekend plans.

I will probably look over the admissions requirements for the graduate program more, I mean, to first be able to talk intelligently about what I am looking for in regards to the letter of recommendation as well as get myself moving into the next phase of development with the process.

I have a paper to write.

I can tell you it’s been some time since I have written an academic paper and I am not even sure where to start as I have not written in that vein in sometime.

I also have to write a statement of purpose as well as an introduction letter.

Those two I am fairly certain I can sit down and kick out in a few hours.

This is the time to start all that up, a week from tomorrow the admissions open for next fall.

I know that it’s early for me to have an application ready for it, but well, I like being ready on the early side of town.

I like paying my rent early.

I like paying off my debts.

I like having my ducks in a row.

I suppose there’s some question about safety and control of my environment, if I get it just so than everything will be alright and I can breathe and be safe.

The thing is with this application and this segue into a Masters program, I feel like I actually have a really good shot at getting in, it makes me nervous, it makes it feel quite real, this is the path I am supposed to be going down.

I was speaking with my mom recently and she asked if I was still intending to pursue a PhD, which I am not, and I explained what the process was for my coming to consider this specific program and what my goals were.

Goals that are much smaller and less grandiose than my awkward strivings for money, power, prestige, recognition, fame, through my writing.

And my mom didn’t disagree with me, but she also said that I would still get published and there was still time (There will be time, there will be time) for my art and writing.

I don’t know anymore.

I suppose I have surrendered to this process of writing and I know that I will keep on keeping on writing my blog, but other things, other projects I just don’t know, I get befuddled by it all, self-publishing, editing, writing fiction, not writing fiction, the memoir, all of it.

I get fucking overwhelmed and then why, yes, it would seem prudent to have a career that is not contingent on making it as a writer.

The writing is happening, the writer is writing, I just get to humbly be an artist for a much smaller audience (yet larger than any I would have thought to have had), a much more intimate audience, than I had thought I wanted or needed.


That’s my weekend thoughts, plans, designs, I don’t have a date.

Unless it’s with destiny.

And I know better than to expect anything to happen.

But I am going to show up for whatever does.

I will have friends, dinner, fellowship, love, art.

It’s not a bad plan.

Just a humble one.


Surf’s Up

November 24, 2013

In less time then I would ideally like I will be getting into that cold, cold water, wearing my wet suit for its virgin run.

Yes, that’s right.

I am going surfing tomorrow morning.

“I will send you a message around 6:30a.m., that’s when I will leave the house,” he said to me tonight on the phone as I was walking my bike up one of the few hills in the city I have to walk my one speed up.

I had just gotten down with a full day at the Maker’s Mart down at the Old Mint building on 5th and Mission.

Come by tomorrow!

I will be there again from noon until 5:30p.m.

I am honored to help my amazing friend and artist Arin Fishkin sell her prints from her quintessential San Francisco Series.  They are a series that speaks more to the native San Franciscan, using iconography that someone who lives here would really appreciate.

I have my eye on a particular one that I want most bad, Baker Beach, it’s just gorgeous.

I rub my greedy paws together with glee.

Yes, it’s true, I will work for art.

Especially when it’s this good.

Plus, it’s nice to spend some time with a dear friend, check out some local art and have good coffee from Blue Bottle which is located just behind the Mint building.

So I had a full day when the offer was made and I have a full day tomorrow.


“You make the time,” he said, “the swells have been perfect, I have a ton of stuff to do but I am going to make the time,” he paused, “and you can too.”

Yes sir, yes I can.

I will be up at 6:30 a.m.

That’s when the alarm is set.

I don’t think I will have breakfast, just some coffee.

I will make breakfast after the surfing.

I will still need to shower and change and haul my butt back over the hills and valleys to downtown but I won’t need to be there until noon.

The event opens at 11a.m. but since we were able to leave the gear all set up there won’t be much to do in the morning, so I have an extra hour.

I doubt we will be in the water more than two hours.

“I want to be in the water by 7:30 a.m.” he said and I agreed.


The Dawn Patrol.

Making it happen, however, and saying yes to spending time with my friend.

Saying yes too because I know I will sleep when I am dead.


I don’t necessarily mean that, but I will have six days off after I get done with work on Monday.

I feel I can push it a little tomorrow.

I will get to have my inaugural dip in my new wetsuit.

I will bring my boogie board too.

Might as well.

I am excited.

I don’t know that I will have much of a restful night.

I feel pretty jacked up after my bike ride home.

It is a blast to hit the long down hill stretch along Lincoln, but I find that after the steady up hill climb from the Mission, or the long drop into the Mission from Noe Valley, where I was at this evening, to the Castro, up the Wiggle, through the Pan Handle and onto Lincoln, that I have gotten all pumped up and warm and adrenalized.

It is a challenge to settle back down when I get home.

Plus I needed to take care of a few things before getting my blog started, it’s 11:15 p.m. and I am going to easily take another hour to an hour an a half to wind down.

Another hot cup of tea.

Some time to breathe.

Some time to kick out the last few words for this blog and to dwell on my life for a moment.

It’s a damn good life.

I got to see a lot of dear people tonight.

I got to ride my bicycle a lot.

I rode from my house at 46th Ave and Judah to Mission and 5th Street.  Then from Mission and 5th up to Diamond and 24th Street, back from there to home.

Round trip not sure how many miles that is exactly, but I clocked in over an hour today on my bicycle, probably closer to an hour and a half.

I have the thighs to prove it.

Strong, healthy, fast.

“You should have seen her,” he exclaimed to his friend around a mouthful of hand rolled cigarette as I was bidding my adieus this evening unlocking my bicycle and putting the lights on the handle bars and seat post.  “She turned that corner on Valencia and 16th like a bicycle messenger!”

“She’s fucking fast.”

I smiled.

Sometimes I am fast.

But I often get passed by other bicyclists, I think that what looks fast to another who is on foot feels quite slow to me.

Then again, I do take corners fairly quick, I lean into them and the connection to my bike is such that I take certain streets fast, nimble and without much thought.

My body becomes the bike and the bike my body.

It is just an extension of my thoughts.

When it is really good.

And often of late, it has been really good.

“I am getting OLD,” my friend complained to me.


I kicked him and smiled, I am older, although you wouldn’t always know it.

But I do know that feeling when your body is doing something that it is not used to.

You walk many miles after driving around in a car your body will be sore.

You ride a bike up and over hills you are going to be tired and you may feel old.

But I have gotten used to the commute and what used to horrify me now seems sort of second nature.

This is just the bike ride I do and it takes about this much time.

I can feel my body adapting to being in the saddle a little more and my legs getting stronger, my lungs pulling in air more efficiently.

Tomorrow, though, I am sure that I may feel, well, old, after some surfing.

But I am willing to have the experience.

Not just of getting up early when I could sleep in, but saying yes to spending time with a friend and making space for another new experience.

New experiences are pretty awesome even when I think they are not.

Spending time with friends is always worth the time.

Is what I am finding more and more and for that I promise to make the time.

And with that, time to get what little beauty rest I can wrest from the rest of the evening.

No rest for the wicked.

Or, perhaps I should say, the “old.”


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