Posts Tagged ‘bunny rabbit’

In My Zone

February 27, 2016

On my bike.

Whipping along 46th avenue.

In my body.

Fog cool on my face.

Getting the ya yas the fuck out of my head.

I came home a little crazy.

A good girlfriend, thank you God for girl friends, talked me down off the ledge.

“Go eat some dinner, watch a movie, chill out, enjoy your Friday.”

I had gotten out of work early and the weather turned a bit toward the intense, heavy fog, so heavy it’s basically rain, and the visibility was decreasing rapidly.

I made the executive decision to scooter home instead of hitting the Church and Market scene to do grocery shopping, the nails, or the Our Lady of SafeWay crowd.

I was headed that way all day in my mind.

Some times the things I have in my head are completely fantasy.

When reality snuck up on me it was after a long day of cake making and crazy birthday party preparations.

One of my charges turns six tomorrow.

We made a birthday cake together.

Watching him and his younger brother lick icing off a spoon and run their fingers along the edge of the batter in the bowl, so sweet.

I also didn’t mind that they were having some sugar, I wasn’t going to have to put them to bed and I wasn’t responsible for dinner, and well, it’s a birthday and hey, you got to bend the rules some times.

I made a two layer banana vanilla spice cake with banana custard filling in between the layers, frosted with homemade buttercream icing and topped with a heavy hand of sprinkles, courtesy of the liberal shakes from the birthday boy.

I was very surprised that the mom wanted me to make a cake.

Last year they got a big chocolate six layer cake from Tartine.

It was a fun project to do and though it’s been a while since I have made a cake from scratch it was just like riding a bike.

It was a blast teaching the six year old how to separate egg whites from yolks, squeeze lemon juice, cream butter and sugar, and whip egg whites into peaks.

“Carmen, can you mix it for awhile, I’m tired,” he said leaning his sweet head against my hip.

“Of course,” I took the whisk and whipped the egg whites into peaks.

“Oof, this is hard,” I said, as my shoulder began to chatter with me, “I am going to need some love to keep going.”

He hugged my arm.

He hugged me a lot today.

He’s been such a sweet snuggle bunny with me.

Oh.

God.

Speaking of snuggle bunnies.

Fucking Rainbow and the barrel of overflowing Jelly Cat bunny rabbits.

(HA!  I just re-read that sentence above as I was editing and I thought, only someone who live in San Francisco knows that Rainbow is a high end hippie grocery store and Jelly Cat is a brand of stuffed animals that they sell in the kids aisle, but it makes a great visual if you don’t know the context!)

I almost threw myself in the vat of them while I was busy spending my paycheck on toiletries.

There was one mint one, like dinner mint green, those soft pastel melting mints that you get at the steak house after a big filet and sizzling plate of hash browns, the ones in a glass carafe at the hostess desk, yeah like that.

That bunny there, mint green with the softest little pink nose.

Dude.

I don’t know how the hell I restrained myself.

Give me all the bunnies.

I stood in the aisle for a good minute or so thinking about it, stroking the candy colored rabbit’s ears and then, with a last squeeze, I walked over to the produce area and got the apples I had come for.

Yeah.

So I got some good love on today with the boys.

“Carmen, I’m putting all my love in your heart,” the three year old told me as the mom was passing by, and then threw himself into my arms.

I just about burst into tears.

Yeah.

Still got the sads.

Slightly tempered by the pissed offs.

Why do I do the things that I do to myself?

Haven’t you learned yet?

Fuck.

I was beating myself up pretty bad.

Then the family left for a dinner at Rintaro as I finished up the laundry and tidied up the house for the weekend, birthday celebration.

I left my boy a small stack of presents and a hand made card on the kitchen counter and put his paper birthday crown from school on top of the domed cake in the kitchen.

I got him a bunch of model planes to fold out of paper and cardboard as well as a self-propelled rocket launcher that works on green energy.

It’ll shoot the rocket up to thirty feet.

Dude.

He’s going to be over the moon.

“Carmen, I used up all my love, I gave it all to you,” he said after licking the whisk reverently with half lidded eyes–banana custard, I mean really, I don’t eat sugar, but this was intoxicating to make and the smell, oh my, heaven.

“You know, I accept all your love, I always will, I love you heaps and bunches and to the moon and back infinity times infinity,” I said and stroked his soft face.

“That’s a lot!”

“Yes, it is, but you know the amazing thing about love?” I asked him.

“What’s that?”

“It’s an infinite resource, there is always more love to give, you can’t run out of it, whenever you breathe in the air, you breathe out love, it’s just natural, it’s just always there, I promise, you’ll never run out.”

“That’s a good thing,” he said and continued dreamily licking off the spoon.

“I agree.”

And I remind myself of the same thing.

Love.

Infinite love.

I have it always, deep down inside me where that small quiet voice presides.

So.

I locked down the scooter, ordered some take out from Thai Cottage, I ate an awesome pumpkin curry and then pumped up my bike tires and got my bicycle ready for a sprint over to Vicente and 41st, hang with the hoodlums in the Outer Sunset.

It was the best thing to do.

I heard everything I needed.

And I got my God on good.

Then.

The ride back, the soft fog still thick and wet, I was pretty soaked by the time I wheeled my whip into the garage, the air on my face, the smell of the sea, the crash of the waves on the beach, soul sluiced with sweetness.

Sometimes when you’re dreaming I see a light.

I walked into my safe, warm, glow globe room and said, “thank you,” and “hello house,” and “I love you.”

Because.

That’s how I roll.

Infinite love.

All the way deep down in my starlight soul.

All the way to the heavens and back.

A thousand times.

Giving myself the allowance.

The band width to be human.

With just a tiny bit.

Of.

(Infinite)

REVERENCE.

And.

God in the mix.

Not a bad way to start the weekend.

Hello you.

Let’s be friends.

 

 

I like All The Bunnies

October 29, 2013

He said chuckling over the pair that are making out on the back of my toilet in the bathroom.

One of my favorite tchokes that I have which I purchased for 8 Euros in Paris at a flea market outside of Pere LaChaise in May of 2009.

I have another couple of bunnies in the mix.

One is a pink glitter bunny that I got at a shop on Polk Street one year for Christmas and when it was time to take down the tree I couldn’t bare to put it in its tissue paper and sequester it in my Christmas box.

Which some of you may be amused to know is a peppermint candy box from the Angelic Brewing Company.

Man that box has seen a few places.

Another bunny is one that I bought at Scout in North Oakland, when there was still a store called Scout next to Bake Sale Betty’s, it is actually a jack-a-lope and multipurpose, it serves as a piggy bank.

Despite me not putting any money in it.

Another bunny, is a squat white marshmallow that looks a little like a Japanese anime cartoon–that, if you ever break into my studio and need parking meter money–is the one with the pennies and nickels and dimes saved for a rainy day artist day treat.

I fill it up and when it’s full I go and turn it in and whatever is left is play money.

The last bunny is also from Paris, I got it at a store in the Marais and it is bright fushcia and I write little notes and prayers on it.

I call it my God box.

I think about Richard Adams and Watership Down, the mythologies he writes about, the stories the rabbits tell each other and how God is a rabbit.

I rather like that.

My God is a little bit bigger than a bunny, but that’s about all I can tell you about that.

Sometimes I react like a bunny and bolt.

Today I just sat through the day.

It was a rough one, the baby was sick, threw up everywhere, in the crib, all over the bedding, in my hand, I caught round two in a cloth diaper that I managed to thrust under his little mouth.

Ugh.

Last week the dance of diarrhea in the jumper.

This week, the puke.

Oh well.

That’s what happens.

You know the rest.

But as I rode my bicycle home tonight down Irving, past the fish markets, the Vietnamese restaurants, the people double parking by Andronicos, and the rally of cars and people looking for parking, it flashed through my head, “God, I love my life.”

This is utterly true.

I can get into the future and I can cram so much into so little that I don’t take the time to be in the present, but being on my bicycle, it’s hard to check out of the present moment.

Really hard.

I run the risk of getting schmucked by someone not using their turn signal and whipping a u-turn in front of me to get parking.

But it was there.

And that thought is there more often than not.

I realized a little something yesterday too, that acceptance for me takes time, and I have been on a whirl wind of a year.

Looking back one year ago, the 28th of October, I was three days away from the grand Paris Experiment.

How far I have come.

To land in the Outer Sunset where the gale winds banged and boomed and the surf roared as it crashed upon the shore last night as I fell asleep, head full of silly sauce and some relief for having written out my continually struggles with my own understanding of my nature.  I was snuggled into my comforter and I really did feel safe and taken care of.

Grateful too.

My head wanted to get busy filling in the empty spots in my weekend, but I resolutely have held out, thinking on and off of my friends words yesterday and my own comprehension and slow acceptance of how I have to change if I expect change to happen.

So, Sunday, yes, this Sunday.

You know what I am doing?

Me either!

I have not put one thing on the day.

No trying to cram eighteen new hobbies into the day or writing a graphic novel in a night, not going to re-edit my entire first manuscript or try to improve myself in any way.

I am just going to let the day happen.

Maybe I will go surfing.

Maybe I will go swimming.

Maybe I won’t.

I am just not going to book it up.

I am going to give myself space to be with people.

Whether it is friends or fellows.

Just holding some space open for the Universe too, to surprise me with.

I have no plans except to not plan it.

I want to.

Oh, yes I do.

But I am giving this up, surrendering to the acceptable idea that I don’t know how best to fill my time.

I don’t.

I am also not going to panic like a bunny and bolt at the first thing that lands on my lap.  Maybe I will try saying, “let me get back to you.”

I have already booked up Friday and some of Saturday, although there’s a big gaping hole in the middle of Saturday afternoon, perhaps a trip to Flax, pick up myself that new notebook that I am itching for, and some, uh, yes, some stickers.

I like ’em, go to hell.

Because the one bunny I don’t want to be is the rabbit that is in front of the grey hounds.

The one that never stops, never rests, relentless circles in the air, a striving for some unknown perfection and speed that can never be reached.

At least not safely, in my experience.

When I go as fast as I want to, I get in trouble.

Just show up, have fun, no expectations, for myself, what the week will bring, or how I “should” fill it.

“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date,” said the white rabbit to Alice.

Nothing, truly nothing, is on my schedule.

I am not late.

I am perfectly on time.

With myself, this experience, and you.

Yes.

Who Is In Charge Right Now?

September 17, 2012

God, I whispered over the phone.

“No,” John Ater said, “try again.”

Well that fucking stumped me.

“The little girl is in charge.”

Well, I could have fucking told you that, jesus, you think I had not just been to Therapy or something.

Therapy the store.

I had bought a stuffed bunny rabbit.

Hush.

This here is the blog where I get to be emotionally vulnerable and if you do not like it, fuck off.

If it makes you vomit in your mouth.

Fuck off.

If it stirs your pot.

Fuck off.

All, really, in the nicest way possible.

That would be the teenager speaking.

I vacillate between completely frozen panic and fear to the most rebellious of attitudes.

The experience, I reckon, will come full circle when I return from the Sunshine State a ‘changed woman’.

Until that time I go back and forth.

Of course, this morning I could see nothing of it and wonder why I had such a flat affect.  I was in Grace Land, the house was cleaned (de-furred all the furniture, changed the cat boxes, cleaned the kitchen, striped the bed, washed laundry, worked out, ate healthy breakfast, wrote, pick three perfect raspberries out of the garden, meditated, showered, made bed, played with cats) and slowly, but surely as the morning leaked into early afternoon I felt it coming.

The dread.

The fear.

The panic.

Except, I did not see it as such.  I did not know until I was situated at Maxfield’s with Carolyn how much fear I was in.

It was suffocating.  It was hallucinatory.

It was completely overpowering.

But I walked through it step by step by step.  I related my experience amending my relationships with people this past week.  I went over further actions that needed to be done–number four tomorrow, eleven a.m. and discussed a plan of action.

Then I talked about my mother.

I was still irked and agitated and annoyed and judgemental and I told Carolyn what a hard time I was having.  I read what I had written and then got angry again.

We talked some.

She shared her experience with me.

I expressed a little more.

Then, there, there it was the hole got poked in the dam and the tears began to fall and I said, “this, fuck, this, this is what I have had a cork on all day.”

And the tears drifted down my face.

Subconsciously I must have known.

I was not wearing black eye liner.

Instead I was dressed up in my favorite purple frock and I had just had my nails done at the salon–lavender with sparkles–and my hair was in pigtails.

Could you say I was channelling a child?

Good grief.

Really, I had no conscious idea.

We talked more, we discussed and discoursed and I shared about Juniper’s mom and how that was how I wanted to be a mom and how that it was hard some times to watch that relationship, especially when I had been in it as the nanny and see how a mom is supposed to treat their child.

How that hurt in some odd kind of way.

Jeannie said tonight as I huffed in a chair blowing air in an out my mouth trying to just sit in the second row and not bolt and not run to BART and not run away, that neglect is worse.

It is worse than being hit.

The pain stays with you in a more immutable way, diffused throughout your body and psyche and soul.

But that I was experiencing growth and of course it was painful, but how brave I was.

Let me acknowledge this now before I move forward, before I loose that nugget of truth, before I distort it.

I am brave.

This is hard.

I am allowed to be afraid.

I went and bought a stuffed bunny at Therapy.  I knew the little girl in me was terrified, four, in the dark waiting, just waiting for the terror to commence.  I had to calm her down.

It was a like a scene from David Foster Wallace’s novel Infinite Jest where the young tennis pro stumbles upon an ACA meeting of men with teddy bears when he is trying to find help getting over his addiction.

I had myself a one woman meeting.

The clerk at the check out oohed and ahhed over it.

“Oh, so darling, who is it for?”  She asked clipping the tag off as I said it was a gift.

“For a little girl.” I said and smiled and handed over my ATM card.

Then I tucked it into my bag and walked my bicycle to BART.

I reached into my phone and called John.

“Who is in charge right now?” His voice thundered in soft Texan baritone.

“God,” I said with a whispering pause.

“No, God is not in charge, who is in charge?”  He repeated.

“I don’t know, I,” I trembled, please let me not displease another adult, please.

“The little girl, honey, the little girl is, so take her home and be nice to her and stick her in a hot bath and let her know you are taking care of her, soothe her.”  He said, his voice its own kind of soothing balm.  “Tell her you are going to take care of her, tell her you will not let her get hurt.  Tell her.”

The rebellious girl in me and the four-year old monkey joined hands, lifted her one speed fixie midnight blue bicycle with rock star glitter onto her shoulder and went down the stairs to the (basement) BART station at 16th and Mission.

“She is not going to eat us,” I said to the little girl, took her hand in mine placing the bunny rabbit in her right paw.

“Come on, let’s go home and take a bubble bath,”  I added, stroking the plush velvet ear of the rabbit.

And so we did.


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