Break My Heart

Oh.

I got a little verklempt tonight and it was  so unexpected.

It breaks my heart.

I hear in my mind all of these voices.

I hear in my mind all of these words.

I hear in my mind all of this music.

Oh Regina.

You have all the clues.

I had to put the Spektor on.

It reminds me of my second year at Burning Man and the first time I heard this album.

I was staying at camp watching my ten and a half month old charge while her parents were out going to Burning Man.

I was dancing on top of a wooden bench that was next to the burn barrel and I was sad and happy and full of this bright music that just caromed into my heart and burned itself there.

I recall another time, same album, a few years later, also at Burning Man, being told by an admirer, “I watched you dance by yourself, it was so beautiful I couldn’t help myself.”

I had been having my Regina Spektor moment, by myself I had thought, unaware of being observed.

I have Burning Man on the mind.

Burning Man in my heart.

I am heart sore and surprised by it.

Maybe I have just been whistling in the dark about the whole not going thing.

“You need to go up early and come home early,” a friend said to me weeks ago when I told her that my plans to go had collapsed when I got the word of my school schedule and the opening weekend being the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th of September.

I couldn’t very well work.

I couldn’t take the ticket, the camp offer, the job offer, the ride, none of it if I wasn’t going to be able to do the job that I had been hired on to do.

I explained this to a dear friend of mine who saw my face fall when a mutual friend showed us a photograph of his tickets and the Survival Guide.

I teared up.

I got all emotional.

I am rather teary right now writing about it.

I guess I could feel some shame about that, but it means a lot to me.

It’s where I go to see so many friends that I would not otherwise see.

It is where I feel almost most whole and myself.

You are my sweetest downfall.

I went to bed last night and said my prayers and got into my bed and said, just an aside, hey God, I want to go to Burning Man.

I don’t know how.

I don’t know what I am going to do.

But.

Fuck it.

Fuck this.

I want to go.

It’s home.

It’s year ten in a row.

I can’t see myself not going and it hurts, like physically, to think about not being there.

I thought to myself.

I don’t have enough money.

Bullshit.

Then.

I can’t get the time off from work.

Again.

I call bullshit.

If my employers were willing to give me ten days off they’ll be willing to give me four days off.

I don’t have a ride.

So fucking what?

I am sure I can catch a ride with someone.

I travel small.

I travel light.

I don’t have a place to camp.

So fucking what?

I know enough people I’m sure I could bivouac with someone.

“Do you want me to ask her for a ticket?” My friend asked tonight.

I balked.

I hate asking.

I hate it.

But.

Yes.

Fuck.

Yes I do.

And so here we go world.

Interwebs.

Friends.

Family.

Burners.

I want to go.

I’m ready to do whatever needs to be done.

I don’t want to roll over like a dead mouse on this one.

Which means taking some actions.

I am going to ask some folks.

I’m going to see what I can see and do what I can do and if there’s a hot chance in hell that I can go, I’m going to go, if it’s only for a few days, fine.

I have had my three week stints out there.

And yeah, I love that shit.

But.

As a dear friend relayed to me via a message, that the playa Goddesses would understand, that the noble arts of healing and psychology were worthy pursuits.

He added that he thought coming up early was a good idea.

I do too.

So.

I have to do the asking.

I can’t just sit on my hands and hope that something will happen.

The man burns in like, I don’t know, 60 days?

Less maybe, I can get it all together quickly to do the deal.

I just have to do it.

I have to take the action.

I hate asking for help, but that’s what I have to do.

If I can get it together to get out the evening of the 26th, I could be there for four days.

That would be fine with me.

Better four days than no days.

God, what do you think?

I say yes.

I want to go and I am willing to be the beggar at this point.

I have some selling points, I’m good company on the ride, I’m good at taking people out on playa bike ride dates, I give a fantastic hand massage, face massage, back massage, I like to recite poetry, I love to be vulnerable and open and sunny and bright and I bring something to the event, I don’t just take.

I will go and be of service, even for a short time, there is service that can be done.

It’s late.

It’s late notice.

It’s short, short time, short notice.

But.

I am not afraid.

If I’m not supposed to go, it’ll be obvious real fast.

If I’m supposed to go, it’ll be easy and fall gently, beautifully, sweetly into place.

Now.

A big deep breath.

I’m willing to do the work.

And I am willing to let go of the results.

Come what may.

To Burn or not to burn is not the question.

I am always on fire.

Just get me to the church on time.

God.

I pray.

Just get me to the playa.

I’ve been a good girl this year.

Yeah.

I know.

God is not Santa Claus, but I also know that God knows what is in my heart and wants to give me those things.

I have faith.

Exuberant and raw.

I plant my rebar stake here.

Let’s go to Burning Man.

Let’s please.

Yes please.

Let’s go.

Go.

Go.

Go.

Scheduling

Jesus.

I looked over the next few weeks on the work calendar and just about threw up.

First day of school?

What?

No.

NOOOOOOO.

I’m still on summer break.

And yet.

There it was the first weekend of school on the books.

The mom was working on the boys school schedule, which reminded me, need to ask off for September 1st, must to go see Mike Doughty with my peoples.

I don’t have to have the whole day off, but I do need to be done with work by 6p.m.

“Mike Doughty, from Soul Coughing?!” The dad asked.

“Yup, he’s doing a Living Room tour and for one day will be in San Francisco and I managed to get tickets from myself and some friends,” I replied.

“He’s great!” The dad said, “wow, you might even get to meet him and talk.”

Yeah.

I would like that.

Amongst other things, heh.

But.

In the request for the day to be an “early” day for me, when the boys are in school I don’t start until 1p.m. and the boys will be starting school that week, so it made me realize that I also needed to tell the parents that I will be in school that Friday too.

It’s happening fast.

The summer has been fun, but I’m not ready to think yet, quite, about school.

I had a moment of mild panic, really, mild when I look at it, that I wouldn’t have enough money in my savings to buy books before the financial aid disbursement happens.

Fact is.

I haven’t received my awards letter for the fall semester.

I have no clue what I am getting in the way of aid.

I got what I needed last year, but I also made less money that year.

I made more money, almost double, at least on the books, for the this past year and I am hoping, hoping, hoping, that I will get the financial aid I need to pay for the next year of school.

I still have a scholarship disbursement, but I will have to cover the other $20,0o0 for the year after the scholarship is applied.

The cost of the program is about $30,000 per year.

And, um, yeah, I live in San Francisco, like you know, the most expensive fucking place to live in the U.S.

Then.

I snuffed the thought.

Fuck that.

I will be taken care of.

If I don’t get the financial aid the money will come from somewhere else.

I didn’t get straight A’s for my first year of graduate school to be dropped on my second year ass.

I worked hard.

Hella hard.

Now.

I want to be able to play the rest of the summer and not be concerned about finances and school and books and stuff.

It will all come when it’s supposed to.

“Do you have any more travel plans for the summer,” my friend asked me last night after I told him about my adventures in New Orleans.

I don’t know.

There is still a very tender part of me that wants so to go to Burning Man, that I can’t quite picture not going, but I have no idea what that would look like anyhow.

Where would I get a ticket, who would I camp with, how would I get there?

I would go.

I want to go.

I could go early.

It’s so obscured right now in my head, I can’t see it and it might be the first time I haven’t, hmm, you know, that’s not true, I didn’t know how I was going to go when I was in Paris, and yet I went, I can’t always see how it plays out, but somehow or other I have always ended up on playa.

One of my ladies that I work with doing the deal got a ticket and got off from work.

The glee and excitement in her voice, she’s a virgin burner, when she left me the message on the phone was almost unbearable to hear.

I do believe, though, that I am not going to be heart broken with whatever happens that week.

I’ll be ok, the plans, God’s plans, are always better than mine.

I can’t manipulate Burning Man into happening.

If it were to happen, it’s got to be simple and clean and easy, the best things are the simplest.

If it were complicated it wouldn’t work, it never does.

If it’s meant to be, I can’t fuck it up.

If it’s not, I can’t manipulate it into happening.

Just like I realized today when I wanted to bring up that first weekend of school, not just from the standpoint of hey, employers, I’m going to be in class Friday the 2nd of September, but oh yeah, um, remember when you said we would revisit my employment for the fall when the boys are in their next year of school.

What about that?

But I didn’t.

I realized that I don’t need to.

I am being taken care of.

“You write down everything you do for them and present them with it when your contract is up and point out the things that you do that are part of your contract and also what you do that is not on the contract, and let them see it, you don’t even need to ask for a raise, or mention money, you just present your list to them,” a friend told me the other day when we were talking about self-employment and what that looks like moving forward with contracts and negotiations.

September will also mark 2 years for me with the family.

Not that I will be gunning for a raise, but that I want to know if they will be needing me for the next school year.

I can’t see that they won’t, I do so much for them as a whole, not just the boys, but the whole family, the household in its entirety.

But I know that if they don’t want me moving forward.

Well.

Someone else will.

I’m taken care of.

I always have been.

I always will.

As long as I keep in fit spiritual condition.

I’ll be just fine.

More than fine.

Better than fine.

Happy.

Fucking joyous.

And.

Free.

Free.

Free.

New Orleans Lunch

I had it today.

Not lunch exactly, although I did eat quite well, but what is referred to as having a “New Orleans Lunch.”

My host at the luscious Air BnB I am staying at in the historic (what part of New Orleans is not historic, by the way) Treme district, explained to me as she was making late reservations for Friday lunch at Galatoire’s in the French Quarter, that a New Orleans lunch is a lunch that lasts all afternoon and is really an excuse for old friends to catch up with each other.

It lasts at least two hours, usually three, sometimes four.

Today lunch was three hours for me.

I have not had a more enjoyable lunch with better company in some time, not in recent memory, that is certain.

She was a new friend, so I suppose that the idea of old friends catching up did not apply, but she felt like an old friend, in fact, by the time we had finished our time together, me teary eyed with gratitude and love for the experience, she had become an old friend.

I did not start out the day knowing that this would happen.

I am so grateful.

Utterly and completely and sincerely grateful that I say yes to things, always say yes, say yes, even when you don’t want to, say yes when a stranger touches your arm and asks you out to lunch.

Say yes.

I had started out the day in a very leisurely manner.

Which was really needed after yesterday’s travel and hit the ground running start to my time in New Orleans.

I was not able to blog last night since there was a problem with the WiFi here at the Air BnB, which is just scrumptious as I said previously, with just enough Southern Gothic creepy, but not too much, I mean, yeah, I did have a moment of wariness when I knelt down to pray last night before the sleigh bed that is four feet off the ground, what is underneath this monstrous thing? But a divine space, even with the cobwebs in the corner, filled with enormous, stunning, astounding amounts of art.  The owners are collectors, artists, collaborators, and are also a part of the CANO-LA organization.

It’s basically an art home.

So chock full of art, it’s almost, but not quite, too much.

The hostess gave me the best suggestion as to how to spend my afternoon, I wanted to be to the conference to check in by 6p.m. last night, so I had the afternoon.

She drew a little map and told me to go to the New Orleans Museum of Art and then take the Canal St. Street Car down to the river and walk about.

I did exactly that.

It was divine.

I decided to walk from the mansion, to the museum yesterday, I wanted to see New Orleans from foot for a while, I find that the best place to discover and experience things.

I took a bath first in the amazing bathroom that is part of my room, which is really not a room, I really have a full suite, huge bedroom, huge ( I mean huge, the bathroom is literally the size of my studio) bathroom, and my own, again, rather large, front balcony with rocking chairs and lounge chairs and a gigantic table, and a view, of I kid not, a huge nest with six (!) baby grey crested herons.

Then I was off to the museum on foot, after a pit stop at the Pagoda cafe to get an iced coffee.

Google maps said 40 minute walk.

It took me two and a half hours.

But.

You know.

I wander.

I meander.

I stop and take photographs.

I had a beautiful, sweet, small lunch at the Degas Cafe, a gorgeous little plate of gulf prawns with okra and corn choux and chili oil.

I walked around the St. Louis Cemetery #3.

I stopped at a wig shop.

Come on!

I had to.

I browsed through a vintage store.

And I strolled around City Park for a little while before heading into the museum.

There was a great exhibition by Bob Dylan, yes the musician, of paintings he did in homage to New Orleans.

There was a spectacular Monet that I had never seen before, Snow at Giverny.

There was also a Warhol, Stilettos, that was amazing, never seen it before either, not in books or other Warhol shows.

I got my art on.

Then I took the street car down Canal Street, wandered around the edges of the French Quarter and after headed to the conference.

I came back to the Treme district and had an amazing dinner at Lola’s and then slept like a baby through the night.

As I said prior, I didn’t have much of an exact idea what I was going to do today.

I knew I would be heading to the conference in the evening.

But.

Other than that.

I was rather in a mood to let the day unfold and surprise me.

Which it did.

In spades.

I started again at Pagoda cafe and got my iced coffee.

I flipped through a little guide book my hosts had left me and decided to go the Marigny district to see the galleries there.

I took a car, it was too hot to spend an hour walking, besides, I walked so much yesterday my feet needed a break.

I went to the Front Gallery on St. Claude.

And.

Fuck.

It was closed for an installation.

However, there were some other galleries in the neighborhood, so I did an impromptu art walk and discovered a gorgeous installation at the Good Children Gallery by Lala Raščić.

It rather blew me away.

The artist was there and explained how she data mined the internet to get the images that she created that were sheets of glass painted with 24 karat gold leaf and mounted on blocks of wood, then she strategically placed lights in areas to create shadows and shapes and the results where shined upon the walls.

I was breathless with the beauty of it.

After that I rather drifted down the road.

I was uncertain about going further, it was hot, there was not much shade, and it was a long patch of road before I would get to anything else resembling a gallery.

I noticed a place that I had passed in the car on the way to the Front Gallery and decided I would just peak in.

So grateful I did.

This is where I met my new friend.

I did not meet her walking in, I met two other artists and chatted with them, told them I was visiting from San Francisco and wandered around.

I was not there all that long, twenty minutes perhaps, and I was feeling the call to move on.

I stepped outside to get a car.

And then I felt a hand on my arm.

“Excuse me, I just wanted to ask you a question,” a lilting female voice.

I turned and smiled at her, “ask away.”

“Well, this may sound a little odd, but are you doing anything for lunch?  I just, well, I like to meet interesting people and I overheard you’re from San Francisco, and you look interesting, and well, would you?”

I was struck with the flattery of it.

I am an interesting person!

Jesus.

Hello.

Carmen.

I have hot pink hair, a wild assortment of tattoos and I am wearing a vintage gingham black and white halter dress.

Of course I look interesting.

And of course.

I said yes.

What transpired next was so astounding I am still in awe hours later.

We went two doors down from the gallery to her house and she gave me a tour of her art collection.

Then.

We drove, yes, I got in a car with a complete stranger, (not that I don’t every time I call for an Uber, but) off to one of her favorite restaurants in the neighborhood.

We talked and talked and talked.

And talked.

I told her my story.

She told me hers.

Suffice to say.

A fast friendship was formed.

She’s an amazing 72 year old woman living a rich, full, wonderful life.

I aspire to be that kind of woman.

She owns her home, has loads of art, goes out to jazz clubs, loves New Orleans, travels, does photography and has just started to become a writer.

There was so much more said and spoken of, matters of the heart, that I won’t divulge, somethings that are best left at the lunch table.

She footed the bill, “a little taste of Southern hospitality,” she said and laughed.

Then she gave me a ride clear across town to Magazine Street, through the French Quarter, sharing stories all the way.

We exchanged numbers, e-mails, and addresses.

We hugged.

I got teary.

Of course I did.

That’s what I do.

Heart on my sleeve and all that.

“Now you have a New Orleans connection, you’ll stay with me the next time you’re in town.”

And what do you think I said?

Yes.

Of course.

I said.

Yes.

I am honored, awed, and thrilled.

New Orleans.

I think I love you.