Posts Tagged ‘awe’

Not Quite So Dark

June 18, 2017

Oh.

For fuck sake.

So here I am trying to be all low-key and down low and not post anything via social media so I stay anonymous.

And.

Um.

hahahahahaha.

Oops.

Turns out I’m completely transparent and known on my own fucking blog.

My “About Me” page had, I say had since I just pulled it down, a photo of me and link, failed link, but still a link, with my gmail account linked to it.

My gmail account is my full name.

Rolls eyes at self.

Ugh.

Fortunately a friend caught it and gave me the heads up.

And the post has been updated to reflect that.

No more photographs of me, no more name on the page.

Just me and my thoughts listening to some Bill Withers.

When I wake up in the morning love and the sunlight hurts my eyes.

…..Just one look at you and I know it’s going to be a lovely day.

Up a little late.

Up a tiny bit wired.

I went to an anniversary party this evening after doing the deal over on Turk and Divisadero this evening and saw a swarm of folks that I hadn’t seen in a while, including one of my best friends who came into the city and my god, it was good.

I had my internship today and lots of errands that I wanted to do and some down time in the afternoon to do laundry and get myself caught up, and I realized that I hadn’t done a good bit of this kind of socializing in a while.

It took me a moment to catch my stride.

I can be charming and funny and outspoken and a character, but the truth is that sometimes I get a bit over my head with social stuff, which is hilarious and most folks have no idea.

I am not going to label myself an introvert or an extrovert, I’m not going to pigeonhole myself, but I will say I felt awkward and I realized it was going to pass and I had a minute to get settled and be in my skin and let it be ok that I was in a big social situation with a lot of people I am acquainted with but perhaps not that close to.

I also needed to be there and be seen and just let myself be not at work or at the internship.

I logged another two hours today at the internship, even went in a little early to do some paper work and get myself situated and eat a lunch quietly in the office before the other interns got there for our session.

I got some good info, gave some good feedback and was mightily pleased that I had clients to talk about.

I am just dipping my toe into the mix and it’s a lot to carry, but I’m starting to do it and I can see that I am doing the thing that I am supposed to do.

Granted when I logged into track my hours I realized that I had done five hours this week, two client hours and three training hours and that my supervisor at the internship wants me to carry a load of 15 hours.

Three times what I did this week.

Sigh.

Granted I may not get up to that speed for a while and there will be times when I’m able to do that and times when I won’t.

I can’t get too focused on it and I also told myself today that in the service of keeping a tiny semblance of sanity that maybe I don’t have to get as many hours as is possible for me to collect while I am in school.

I just need to get the hours required by my program to graduate.

Granted.

I say to myself.

Fuck that shit.

GET IT ALL.

But.

I don’t want to kill myself and I want to have some socializing.

I need face time with people.

I am thinking specifically of a few friends that are just too dear for me to let go of and I will squeeze them in where and when I can and I will be tired and I won’t give a fuck and you only live once and get it.

Get it girl.

Some things may feel overwhelming, but in the day-to-day of it, I’m doing it.

Slowly building up my client base, learning how to be a therapist, learning how to keep loving and taking care of myself and finding those odd hours and minutes in the hollowed spaces of golden sunned afternoon light when I can pause, catch my breath and get hella grateful.

I mean.

Hella.

Grateful.

That I have what I have.

“You look different,” my friend said to me tonight.

And she’s right.

Things in my life have altered in an amazing way and I am beyond myself with happiness and succumbing to all the feelings therein.

Without expectation or thought for future moments.

Ok.

Small white lie, I do have some plans for future travel, but I am trying to really keep it to this day, these scattering of moments, dipped in old school R&B, or Elvis ballads, old love songs and lyrical movements in time, the stars framed by the trees overhead, a snapshot of a moment.

Astounded with beauty.

Awake to every feeling in my body.

And that’s all I can wish for.

This moment.

Where I am alive.

Oh.

And I am so alive.

It is glorious.

Sure.

Might have something to do with the peer pressure cup of coffee I accepted gleefully at the party and perhaps I might have racing thoughts but I have had racing thoughts for weeks now and I am rather used to it and the heart beating in my chest going fast just lets me know how fully alive I am.

It is exquisite and I am unabashed by the feeling of it.

Love.

Love.

That’s where it’s at.

The word that flutters in my chest.

The ache and longing.

The aliveness.

The song on my lips.

The poem in my eyes seeking yours.

The smile that I cannot help but smile.

So fucking good.

This life.

My life.

Luckiest girl in the world.

 

Much Better Now

November 5, 2016

I opted out of dancing tonight.

I opted out of a girl’s dinner.

I just wanted to go home.

It was a long day.

LONG.

It was a hard day at work and despite wanting to process the shit out of it here, it’s not my business to share.

Suffice to say it’s been a challenging week and I’m super grateful it’s done.

I went to do the deal after work and just felt at peace, sitting in a folding chair in a church and listening.

Sharing.

Letting go.

Solution is not trying to figure out what I need to do next, it’s just doing the next thing in front of me.

And despite wanting to socialize a little, I really just wanted to come home.

Yes.

I know.

It’s called isolation.

I just needed to recoup myself from the week.

I will go fellowship tomorrow night.

I will.

I already promised myself that I would.

And I really like the spot that folks go to on Saturday night after my thing with the people who got that problem like, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

They head up to Brenda’s, a soul food place with fried chicken and grits and lemon pie on saltines cracker crusts.

I can’t eat much.

But I did have a damn nice bowl of red beans and rice with andouille sausage last week.

And.

Conversation and lightness and sweetness.

Which I need.

I do also have a date tomorrow.

I know.

Like I said.

Word got out I have a membership to the MOMA.

He messaged me last week while I was people watching in the cafe and sipping my coffee.

I agreed to a date for the following Saturday, which is tomorrow.

I’m not real hopeful, to tell the truth.

Not to be pessimistic, it’s just that I don’t see it as sustainable.

He doesn’t live in town.

Story of my mother fucking life.

Ha.

Albeit, he’s not super far away, 22 miles, 25 miles, where the fuck is Menlo Park anyway.

Anyway, he works in San Francisco, thus the connect, so I figured, oh, just fucking practice, just go out.

I could have gone out tonight, I could be dancing right now, but I did, I did, I did, just needed to come home, to take a scalding hot shower, to take care of myself, to let the week slide of my shoulders and down the drain.

Sometimes it’s easier for me to commit to going out on a Saturday then it is a Sunday, I’m realizing this, as I write, maybe that’s what I will suggest, next time let’s make plans for Saturday.

I’m not so beat from the work week.

I realized today too.

I have been working more hours than I did last semester.

The new family that I split my time with has asked me fairly consistently to work an extra hour here, and extra half hour there.

Mondays I work 9 1/2 hours to 10 hours.

I’ve been working more, of course I am a little more tired.

And I have not gotten as much reading done as I need to do.

But I’m not here to beat myself up.

Yes.

There’s some hulking big papers on the horizon and I sort of don’t give a fuck.

I’ll write them, I’ll get a bit anxious, and then I’ll do the work, like I always do.

Always.

I have two papers due for the next round of classes.

One I will write on Sunday.

The other I will write next Saturday and Sunday–it’s a big one and will probably take me two days to kick through it.

Which is fine.

I will have a clear weekend and another week to knuckle down on the reading.

Tomorrow is probably my last day to have any “free time.”

I’m going to get up and do my morning routine and writing.

I am going to scooter to my nail place and get a manicure.

I’ll go on my MOMA coffee date and see what happens.

Depending on timing I may go grocery shopping before I hit up my 7p.m. commitment.

I really don’t think the date will go that long.

I’m not trying to jinx it either, just, I don’t have expectations.

Which means I won’t have resentments.

Fingers crossed.

I don’t resent my decision tonight either.

Both offers, the dinner and the dancing were last-minute invites.

I hadn’t made plans to do anything tonight, so it wasn’t like I committed and now I’m feeling sorry for myself.

Nope.

Happy to be home listening to my G. Love and Special Sauce.

Because sometimes I need to go back in the day.

I had an ex-boyfriend in my early twenties who was a huge G. Love fan.

He introduced me to them and once in a while he would amuse the hell out me singing about his “baby’s got sauce,” it always made me laugh.

I was with him for five years.

Longest relationship of my life.

And it’s been a long time since.

It’s still hard for me to believe that.

I can allow that to make me sad.

Or.

I can celebrate all the wild and winsome adventures I have gotten to have because I was able to go, sure, I can go to Burning Man.

Paris.

Rome.

New York.

Los Angeles.

Sure.

Let me have that adventure.

I’m down for a road trip.

A side trip.

A walk in the woods, along the creek, underneath the moon or the bright sunshine.

I was riding my scooter home along the park, Golden Gate Park, I always ride home along the park, and I was pondering to myself how I felt.

Did I feel like I was self-sabotaging?

I mean how am I supposed to meet people if I just come home from doing the deal after work on a Friday?

Then I rounded the corner that ends the Pan Handle and begins the long slide of park toward the sea and I saw something glowing through the trees.

What is that?

I looked up.

Is that a kite?

NO!

Oh my God.

It was the moon, a slice, a thick buttery slip of crescent blooming golden buttercup through the pines.

My heart just jumped.

How small my concerns, my worries.

How silly.

When there is a moon like that sailing through the trees.

In the scheme of things me not going out dancing is so small it is fucking laughable.

I take my shit way too serious.

I let the moon glide me home along the road, the mist of the sea rising to meet me as I zipped along, light and joyous and thankful for all that I have.

So much.

So much love.

So much gratitude.

So much.

I have.

It astounds.

Really.

It does.

 

Saturday Afternoon Sad

October 30, 2016

It’s been a sad day or so for me.

The sads, they caught up with me.

They had a tea party with the sorrowfulls and the woefulls.

They had a big cup of cafe au lait with the maudlin and the melancholic.

And then they moved the fuck on.

Like the grey scuttling clouds dusting me with blurry tears of rain on my scooter as I zoom zipped up Lincoln Avenue to meet my person at Tart to Tart.

She sat down across the table from me and cocked her head, “are you crying?  Have you been crying?”

Ugh.

Yes.

Off and all since yesterday.

There are reasons.

And there are reasons.

And there is a season to my sorrow and it will pass.

If I let it, if I talk through it, let it out, cry a little, laugh a little, tears sliding down my face just as my tender footed heart does a drop kicking curtsey of pain through the goal posts of my soul, I put my head on the table and collapsed for a moment.

“What’s going on?” She asked me.

I told her and cried.

I got it out and cried.

We talked and talked and thank God I have her in my corner, thank God for her experience, strength, hope, for her guidance and perspective.

“Of course you’re sad,” she said, “let it out, but don’t wallow in it.”

We talked about things I could do.

Basically nothing.

Well.

That’s not true.

I have to surrender people, places, and things, I have to let them go, I can’t control situations, I can’t control people, I can’t make the trains run on time.

I am just not that fucking powerful.

What I did do though was take her suggestions to do some writing and also to be gentle with myself and do something nice for myself.

I text my friend and said, “hey thanks for the Ghost Ship pass offer, but I’m going to rescind my ask, I’m too emotional to be in a big crowd with loads of drinking and drugs.”

I needed to be with my people tonight.

My fellows.

My fellowship.

My friends.

And I was.

But.

Before I got there I decided to celebrate me.

My life.

My recovery.

My sobriety.

Because without that I would have nothing.

And I am so very grateful, so overwhelmed with the awe of it that I am still here, still sober, still doing the deal, still showing up, that I needed to do something special and just for me.

I went to the MOMA.

I had a quick-lunch at La Fonda Mexican Grill, carnitas anyone?

Then scootered down town.

The traffic wasn’t bad and the last bits of rain had cleared.

I parked in the motorcycle parking just off Minna Street and popped into Blick, the art supply store and yes.

I bought myself stickers.

Because a girl likes stickers.

And I wanted to give myself the little things that mean something to me, I’ll write every day for weeks in my notebook in the morning and every day I will put down a little sticker in the margin and it will remind of the day, the moment, the heart-felt sorrowful tears and also the gratitude and joy of being alive and on my scooter in my pink lady motor cycle jacket.

I mean.

I used to use and drink in that neighborhood and to see where I am now in comparison to where I was, it’s a fucking miracle.

I am not exaggerating.

Not a bit.

Not a tad.

Not at all.

I am a fucking miracle.

My life is extraordinary.

Miraculous.

Awe-motherfucking-some.

Sure.

I have feelings.

And I can swim in them.

Or.

I can be a light.

I can be a beacon and I can shine.

Maybe some will be draw to that light.

Maybe.

I got my stickers and went to the MOMA.

I stood in the short line, the members line, and got my ticket.

I asked what was the favorite thing in the museum for the desk person.

He told me about the Bruce Connor exhibit.

It was exquisite.

There were so many mediums the artist worked in it was enthralling to see the breadth of his work.

I watched a few films, I stood in front of photographs and felt wonder.

I felt awe.

I felt warm and held.

I felt safe.

The MOMA was always my safe place when I was using.

I used to work at a high-end fancy pants restaurant around the corner and I would drink in the neighborhood, I knew the industry people, I went to the Palace, House of Shields, The W Hotel, Dave’s on 3rd.

I did cocaine in all the places at any of the times I could get my nose into it.

Shit.

I did key bumps in the bathroom at Starbucks.

But.

I could never bring myself to use in the MOMA.

It was sacred.

This church of art.

My first home, the first thing I did when I came to SF, I went there, I wanted to see the art, I wanted to walk the Occulous Bridge, I did so again today, I got a membership.

I have a membership again and the skeleton of the museum is there, nooks and crannies that remind me of the horrors of dancing along the skein of insanity that threatened to entrapped me as I hollowed out my soul using and drinking.

But now.

Well.

Now.

All gratitude.

All the love I have for myself, the awe I felt when I bought a postcard from the gift shop that was a photograph from the Bruce Connor show that was a street graffiti that side “love” where it should have been a right turn arrow on a street in Oakland.

That was the only thing I bought at the gift shop.

I am a museum gift shop junkie.

I like to get my magnet or my postcard.

Today, though.

Shit.

I almost bought a Polaroid camera!

There is a company, I did not know, that when they heard that Polaroid was no longer going to make the instant camera and film, stepped in and bought the processing plant and the equipment.

It’s called The Impossible Project.

I was pretty smitten.

I mean.

I almost did it.

I almost bought it.

The camera is actually not that expensive.

$150.

The film is a bit though, $20 per packet and you get 10 Polaroids.

I waffled.

I just paid rent.

But.

Heh.

My birthday is coming up and I resolved that I will get myself one.

I would love to bring it to Paris with me in spring.

How amazing would that be?

I also will be getting another camera, a point and shoot digital to replace the one that I finally broke at Burning Man this past burn.

A Fuji Fine Pix.

I priced them about a month ago and they’re a bit expensive, but the one I had before last me 9 years!

I took it with me to 7 Burning Man’s, to Paris three times, Rome once, London once, New York, Los Angeles, I literally took over 10,000 pictures with it.

I probably took triple that, I just realized.

My photo library has over 10,000 photos.

And I am a mean editor, I delete the shit out of my photos, so yeah, I probably shot over 30,000 photos with that camera.

I’ll be getting another one of those, yes please, and thank you.

But.

The Polaroid.

Well.

It truly called to me.

Whispering sweet secrets of my seventies childhood.

I always wanted one when I was a kid.

I never asked.

I didn’t think I would ever get one.

I remember when my cousin got one.

Christmas I think.

That could have been the year that my mom told my sister and I that there was no Santa Claus.

See.

My cousin’s parents were going through a divorce and man oh man was she getting the spoils.

My mom was poor.

God we were so poor.

And there was certainly not going to be a Polaroid under the tree.

We were living with my aunt and my cousin at the time.

My sister shared a room with my mom or my cousin, I can’t remember.

And I slept on a mattress in the basement.

It was horrible.

And there was no Santa Claus.

No.

NO there was not.

So this year.

Hey Santa, I’ve been a really good girl and I’m super grateful for my life and my sobriety and all the amazing things I get to do and be and well, it might help the sadness you know.

If I got a new camera instead of coal.

I know.

It’s early.

But you know me.

Always looking ahead.

Yet.

When I stop and pause and breathe.

I see.

That I have been given the best gift.

The most amazing gift.

The awareness of grace and how I have been snatched from the jaws of insanity, psychosis, and terror.

Hospitals.

Institutions.

Death.

I am grateful beyond my ability to express.

And when I sat on the top of the infinity fountain that spans the view of Yerba Buena park, across from the MOMA, I basked in the sun.

I basked in the light.

I pulled out my postcard.

“Just look how far you have come,” I wrote.

I printed my name and address and stuck a stamp in the corner and dropped it in the mailbox on the corner of 3rd and Mission Street.

Thank you God for my amazing life.

I really am.

The luckiest girl in the world.

Even when I am sad.

Most especially then.

It’s ok.

Because.

I know that I am loved.

 

So, So, So Close

May 15, 2016

I can taste it.

It tastes like Lacanian sherbert with Milly D. on top.

It sounds like Vagina Punk.

It swims in the electric blue seas of eros.

It is the Psych(e)dynamics paper.

And.

It is all I have left to do.

I have finished my Ethics and Family Law take home final and sent it in.

I have finished my last paper for Applied Spirituality and sent it in.

I sent in my huge 11 page paper with references on transference and countertransference last night.

I have one paper left.

ONE.

I can’t do it tonight.

Oh.

I suppose I could.

I probably could spit something out in an hour and a half of so.

I know what I want to write on, although I may change my mind, I already discussed it with the professor, Mildred Dubitzky, my punk rock, radical feminist, pro-Freudian, professor, and she gave me the thumbs up.

The only fly in the ointment is that two years ago another student wrote on the same topic and I’m a little loathe to write on something she has already read about.

So.

I may change my topic slightly, depending on my mood.

But, not tonight.

No.

Tonight, the rest of the night, is not for going out or being crazy or trying to get across the bridge and hit the party at NIMBY, although I got umpteen requests and questions regarding whether or not I was going to go.

I turned them all down and said, not today, Ethics final has to get done.

I’m actually pretty fucking proud of myself today.

I got a lot of stuff done.

I got up and went to yoga.

Showered, breakfasted, coffee’d, did some writing.

Hopped on the scooter went up to 7th and Irving and hit Tart to Tart for some heart to heart with my person and some discussion of amends.

Amazing that.

I don’t owe anyone any direct amends.

NO ONE.

Fuck yeah.

This shit works.

I, of course, will stay the course with the living amends that I have had outlined and really I am doing well with those and having fun, actually, who knew, amends could be fun.

Being light.

Letting myself have fun.

Even with all the school stuff hanging over me.

I have had my moments.

I also had a great hour of sitting with my fellows and hearing someone with a lot of time, a lot, 37 years, break it down.

So freaking grateful.

After that I treated myself to a little lunch and a new pair of silver hoop earrings.

Because this girl cannot get enough hoop earrings.

I will be buying some when I go to New York.

I always buy earrings when I travel.

I actually am wearing a pair of pink heart earrings that I got at a brocante (flea market) in Paris that was around Square D’Anvers, right before I left Paris three years ago this May.

I love wearing earrings that I have gotten as souvenirs, never fails to remind of the moment or the place where I got them.

I don’t spend a lot of money on them, typically no more than ten bucks or so and they are small and travel easily back with me from where ever I am.

I’ll be at 262 Taafe Place, fyi, in case you were wondering, in Brooklyn, in Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood, which is not as gentrified as Williamsburg.

Which means a little sketchy but good vintage shops and coffee.

As long as I have coffee I’ll be fine.

And I’m not afraid of rough neighborhoods and I won’t look like a tourist in New York and I’m not staying in a place that tourist typically stay.

Ironically it’s maybe a mile away from where I stayed the last time, my first time, in New York, so I have a pretty good feel for what the area is like.

Dirty, bodega, bodega, subway stop, ooh coffee shop with house roasted beans, vintage store, bodgea, bodega, etc, and hopefully, some good graffiti.

God I love me some graffiti.

I could just do a walking tour of the neighborhoods and take photos of graffiti.

I would pee my pants if I saw a Banksy.

A girl can dream.

I have not done a ton of research yet around my trip, I’m still rather in the throes of school.

But I also got my grocery shopping done for the week and my cooking.

I had to grocery shop today.

Tomorrow will be a shit show out here what with it being Bay to Breakers idiocy.

Drunks running around in costume.

Whee.

I’ll be too busy writing my paper to notice.

Or I’ll hang out in the back yard.

Or.

Ooh.

God, wouldn’t this be nice.

I get the paper done early.

I’m not going to make any promises.

But I should have it done by dinner time.

I really do believe that.

Most of my papers for the class I have gotten done under two hours.

Really what it comes down to is reviewing the reading and my notes and just sitting down to my computer and starting.

And now that I have the proper software to format my papers, thank you so much to my friend in cohort who turned me onto it (it format’s your paper automatically in APA so I don’t have to beat my head on the Purdue OWL or the Chicago format page), I won’t have to worry about references being wonky.

I really do think I’ll be done by dinner time.

What will I do to celebrate?

Run around the park naked?

Oh wait, every body else will be doing that tomorrow.

I’m going to New York, I am going to be celebrating there.

Although, you know, finishing my first year of grad school does deserve some instant recognition on the day I turn in my last paper for the year.

I’ll come up with something.

I’m clever.

Heh.

God damn.

I’m excited.

I’m almost there.

It’s been a crazy ass year.

So much has happened.

I have changed so much.

So fucking much.

“You have changed,” she said to me, across the table at Tart to Tart, “you really have, it’s amazing to see.”

I smiled.

I have changed.

I am in awe.

I am amazed.

I am in love with my life.

Fuck yeah.

I really am.

Yes.

The luckiest girl in the world.

 

We All Have Our Own Stories

November 2, 2014

Etched on our skin, soft glass, bevelled, delicate to the touch, the smoothness be lying the pain that scraped out the hardness therein.

My friend sat on my chaise lounge and broke it down.

He had picked me up in Noe Valley.

He was on the motorcycle, leaning against it as I walked out, wondering about my life, about this thing in me that leads me where it leads me.

My heart.

This incessant, necessary, almost compulsive desire to feel, feel, feel.

I used to not want to feel and now I am this feeling junkie, give it to me, I want to be alive I want to sense it, this world that is about me.

I was walking up the hill into Noe Valley from Valencia taking 24th and just over awed by San Francisco.

She does it to me, this city, I was taken and inflamed with love and majesty, and magic, really, its magic and I am always just a little startled when this happens.

I can see things in flat two-dimensional ways, planes of glass on mirrors, flat, a fallow falling of shadow, a skein of dust floating across the pain (pane) of a plexiglass frame, dust it all you will and it is still there, sallow, coating the picture with a filter.

Then.

There will be days, like today, violet days, days of purple, when the skein comes off, the sun flashes out, the dust is gone, it is clear, the world is wiped, shiny, emboldened, lovely, loverly, and I am smashed to pieces with the beauty of it, just the frame of the condominiums across the way from the SafeWay grocery store on Fulton Street blows me apart.

The curry yellow faded paint and the mid-80s architecture some how smote me, the mediocrity of the building becomes bludgeoned with the vast sea it frames and the roll and heave of the Pacific Ocean in that one snippet of view, thunderous and huge, and yet, contained in the picture.

I knew by the time I was getting back from Noriega Produce this afternoon that I was not riding my scooter, I was not riding my bicycle, I was walking or taking MUNI, I was daydreaming with my load of groceries on my back from Safe Way and almost got side swiped by a car that rolled through the stop sign at La Playa and Lincoln.

I had the right of way.

I was right, but I was about to not be happy.

Normally, it wouldn’t have matter, I would have recognized that the driver was doing what the driver does, the driver has his own agenda and it does not involve me.

But I, in my self-centered way, was blithely riding my bicycle along believing that everyone can see me, and see me clearly (though, to stretch this into a metaphor, I don’t see things clearly anyhow, I need a community of like-minded people to daily, constantly, hopefully, lovingly and compassionately, give me fucking perspective), that they know I have two half gallons of unsweetened vanilla almond milk in my bag and there was a sale on my favorite organic yogurt so I got more and I splurged on bottled water, which I never do, but there was a sale and.

Holy shit.

I am almost hit.

Not because I wasn’t obeying every traffic law there was, hell, I was even in the turn lane on the Great Highway to take the green arrow with the cars, it didn’t matter, the driver was doing his own thing and came out of the gas station, onto La Playa and right out into the lane, no stopping, not even pausing, probably did not see the stop sign.

And I.

I was too smitten with sea salt and the smell of a bonfire, and the crispedy crisp ness of the world and my environs, like a camera obscura, lit within and edge with gold and saffron, to see that I am about to get hit on my bicycle.

“Well officer, I didn’t see her coming, it was all just a vast river of almond milk in the road.”

They shake their heads sadly and kick the waxed cardboard half liter to the sandy curb.

I missed getting hit.

I caught it out of the corner of my eye and swerved, the driver never saw me, never stopped, I felt the whick of the car sliding along my ankle to the point where I had anticipatory pain wing up my calve and cause me to gasp out loud.

I gave the car the thumbs up and said, “thank you God for saving drunks and children” as I am both a drunk (sober) and a child (emotional).

I resolutely set forth the last three blocks to home, not getting hit, shielding my eyes from the startling beauty of my neighborhood–did you see the clouds, did you feel the sun, did you smell that air today, did the last kiss of autumn beguile you?

I got home, unloaded my groceries, made a run to Noriega produce, hyper aware and absolute in my resolution to not be on two wheels, either scooter or bicycle, today, ride the MUNI, get a ride home from Noe Valley, call a cab.

Or have a friend meet you at the place on his motorcycle and scoop your wet eyed self up on the edge of the sidewalk and adjust the helmet on your head since you, suddenly incapable, blunt smacked with feelings, struggle to get your hair out-of-the-way.

And it stuns me.

These feelings.

“You need to stop writing about__________,” my friend said to me today.  “________ knows everything about you, it’s not fair, you have to keep somethings to yourself,  you, can you fictionalize it, can you make it up?”

I can’t.

I want to, you know.

But there it is these colors and feelings, the sharp hammer etching out the frosted glass of my heart and it is beautiful, but sharp and painful and I can’t stop doing it.

Because I become the art and the beauty and it is my process and my love and me.

Not all me.

“I know you don’t write it all out, that’s for your morning pages,” my friend astutely observed as we talked about love, loss, stories, the nuances of feelings, the perspective of time and what it is like to make art in real-time.

I am an artist.

I love myself.

I forgive myself.

I accept myself.

“Honey, of course he called you an artist, you ooze it out of your skin like your sexuality.”

Wow.

I had not thought of that.

So I am the art, the piece and the parcel and the story, it is I and I am it.

Yes.

There’s my heart on my sleeve.

Was it any wonder that I can’t come up with a good costume for Halloween?

I was already dressed for my part.

And so.

I continue, and it’s here, but not here, you see it, there beneath the bevelled glass, a shimmering of truth, but frosted slightly.

I get the pain, you get art, vibrant and mitred on the skin of my being.

Tattooed with love.

Yet again.

Let Go Those Old Ideas

March 9, 2014

Let them the fuck go.

I had a list, she asked me to read them out to her.

Amazing what perspective and a little pen to paper can afford a person.

Well, this person anyway.

Old Ideas List–The Top Ten (I am sure there are others, but these were the ones that popped right out when I did the list)

1. I am not worthy of better

Better what you ask?  Better anything, better lifestyle, better job, better boyfriend (or even a boyfriend period) better clothes, better shoes, fuck, better underwear (I hate to air this one out, but this lady needs to go bra shopping, it is time), better toothbrush, better socks, better food (that one has slowly, significantly changed and I do a lot, uh, better, with that then I have ever had before).

2. I am lazy

Yeah, I know, I am.  But then again, no, no I am not.  What time did I get up this morning, on my day off? 7:39 a.m. I was awake, I was ready to go, but damn it, it’s my day off, loll about a little love, nope.  I was up and going.  By 9a.m. I had showered, made the bed, dried the hair (there’s a lot of it, it does take some time), made a homemade breakfast and fresh ground pour over coffee, written three pages long hand, read from a number of spiritual pieces of literature, and meditated.

By 9 a.m. on my day off.

Yeah, I am a lazy, lazy girl.

Yesterday I did all of that and rode my bicycle to work, 46th and Judah to 19th and Noe.  Worked a 3/4 day, left, rode my bicycle over to 850 Bryant, went to my traffic court deal, then rode back to Fell Street to the DMV, then over to 7th and Irving, did an hour-long commitment there, finally riding home back to my place, made dinner (nothing fancy, just an omelet, but still), then I blogged–even though the internet was down, I still blogged.

I do nothing all day long, I am sooo lazy.

Get you gone old idea.

3. I am a bad writer.

Nope.

Not really.

I mean, I am not the world’s best writer, but I am an ok writer, sometimes  a good writer, and once in a while, I can say I wrote something great.  I have had published authors read my work and say I am talented, I have had a professor tell me that I was the only student he ever had that had the likelihood of winning the Nemerov award (poetry award for best sonnet), there are people who read my blog that aren’t my friends, that I don’t know (consistently read too, for like years now, love you guys and thank you!), I have been thanked in person, over the phone, via text, by e-mail, for what I have written.

Folks would not continue to read if I was a bad writer.

Next.

4. I am always going to be single.

Yeah, pity pot, I am on it.  I hate this one, who cares if you are and you probably will have a boyfriend next week, so shove off old thought.

Somebody out there right now wants to date me, so who’s getting in the way of that?

Probably me and my old crusty thoughts.

5. I am always going to be poor.

Nope.

No, I am not.

I am not poor now.

Oh, I live below what I would like to, but I am not poor, I have many amenities, the least of which is a gorgeous bicycle, a great laptop (hey, I keep saying it’s about to die and it hasn’t yet), I have a wonderful camera, an Iphone (yeah, it’s a four, it’s still an Iphone), I have clothes and toiletries and nice candles.

I am not poor.

Poor people don’t have laptops or organic vanilla almond milk in the fridge.

6. I am alone.

Bahahahaha.

Such a crock.

I am not alone.

Two, no three people today told me point-blank, “I love you.”  I have wonderful, incredible, amazing friends in my life.  I am alone in the sense of the word only at this moment as I sit in my in-law writing, and even then, I am not alone.  I have a relationship with a little, big, something called God and if you don’t care for that, not my problem.

I have a spiritual connection to my world and I do not apologize for it.

Alone I am not.

7. No one loves me.

See above.

Such a bullshit, scared, cowardly old idea.  I am loved, I am lovable, I am worthy of love (yes, I hear you Stuart Smalley, we can do our affirmations in the mirror in just a minute–I forgive you and accept you–just let me finish my blog for the night).   I have so much love in my life, I can just look at all the photographs of amazing little people on my phone that I get to work with every week to prove that.

Then I can extrapolate that out to all the children I have been privileged to have in my life.  Next add in my mom and my dad and my sister and my aunts and my grandparents and uncles.  Then throw in a few best friends and some amazing mentor relationships, even toss in the lovers, the ex-boyfriends, the former employees I have gotten to work with, I mean, my life is a long list of love.

I just don’t always acknowledge it or recognize it, because I am too busy paying attention to an old idea that doesn’t serve me or my way of life.

8. I am not enough.

Not smart enough, not sexy enough, not pretty enough, not fast enough, the list could go on ad infinitum.

Such craziness.

I am not perfect enough, I am not a good enough nanny, I am not, blah, blah, blah.

Even I am tired of listening to this one.

I am enough.

There is no improvements that need to be made.

I do not have to self-improve.

I am just right.

End of story.

9. I have to figure it out.

Ugh.

This one is awful, it means that I have the ultimate responsibility to make everything work, your schedule, my schedule, potty training three different charges, juggling this that and the other to “make things work”.

What fucking things?

And who put me in charge?

And aren’t I just a bit presumptuous?

I don’t have to figure anything out.

In fact, it would be really healthy to not figure it out.

Let’s leave figure it out to someone else, okay?

10. I am not allowed success.

Says who?

Hell, just looking around the place I live I can see that I am successful.

It is my idea of success that is also the old idea–wealth, fame, accolades, notoriety–I have an amazing successful life.

I will continue to have an amazing life.

Just need to let this all go.

Daily.

One hour at a time, sometimes one minute at a time, and then, voila!

A new perspective, a space to breathe, a song catches in my ear and my heart swells, and I am loved, lauded, and held perfect, secure, and taken care of.

And awed.

Once again by this journey.


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