Posts Tagged ‘bunny’

Dear Bunny

April 1, 2019

I miss you.

I have come so close to reaching out to you, I cannot even tell you how close I have come.

So.

Fucking.

Close.

So I made myself reach out to others.

That was hard.

When the one person I really wanted to connect with was you.

You to hold me.

You to help me through the pain.

Wow.

The pain.

Excruciating.

I haven’t experienced physical pain like this for sometime, if ever.

Not this long, not this bad.

It seems sometimes worse at night, when I’m tired and I know it’s time to sleep and I find myself lying in bed just after having said my prayers and hoping you’re being taken care of and praying for relief from the pain and from the sadness of not being connected to you and I go to bed crying.

Tears for the loss of you in my life.

Tears for the pain I am in physically.

Tears for not being able to ask the one person I’d like to most in the word to comfort me, to please, please, please, comfort me.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

I’m going to be super powerful, let me tell you.

But mostly I am just writing because I have this moment when I feel like I can.

I have wanted to blog the last few nights but all I have to see is that I’m in pain and it sucks and I’m probably going to have to call in sick tomorrow to work, at least my person is telling me I should and, well, if you saw what the shingles look like and you knew how much pain I was in, you’d want me to as well.

And I will.

Just not quite yet.

But soon.

They haven’t gotten much better.

Although I think I’m getting “used to” the pain.

Ugh.

Anyway.

I felt compelled to write and I have been thinking about you so much, so, so, so much.

I had a dream about you last night.

I didn’t actually have dreams about you until recently and I was wondering when I would and then this last week, dreams galore.

I dreamt you came back early from Hawaii sick and showed up at the Wednesday night spot we used to frequent.

I dreamt that you came back as Robin Williams, but I knew it was you, while I was at the Castro Theater watching the Princess Bride and you told me you’d be back for me in a year.

And this morning I dreamt you where in my kitchen, leaning against the sink watching me sleep.

I was so mad I woke up.

You looked so handsome in a navy suit, with the top button of your crisp white shirt unbuttoned, and the look in your eyes as you smiled at me.

I woke up because I was in pain.

The shingles are spread all over my right side hip, right side of my back and on the right side of my tummy.

I wake up a lot from the pain, I haven’t gotten solid sleep for the last few nights, although I’m certainly “resting” quite a bit, propped up on my bed, in my bunny slippers, with the soft pink velvet throw over my lap and the JellyCat pink bunny you gave me for Christmas two years ago tucked under my arm.

I spend a lot of time on that bed.

I wanted to fall back asleep and see what happened in the dream.

Would you come over and hold me?

Would you make it all better?

I recall with distinct detail how you told me if I ever needed you, you’d be there.

And I have felt that so much these last few days.

I need you.

And.

I can’t have you the way that I need you.

So I haven’t reached out.

Suffice to say that’s been painful too.

Loving and needing you and there’s just not enough to go around.

I miss you bunny.

I miss you so.

And like that awful, good, sad, stupid, country song of Willie Nelson’s, I don’t really think I will get over losing you, but I will get through.

It’s been five weeks now since we saw each other.

And it’s been terribly hard.

And I’m getting through.

With shingles now, thanks God, that was just un-fucking-expected.

But I am getting through.

A friend came over yesterday with his slow cooker and made me a pot of black-eyed peas and suggested that I needed to get laid and get over you.

But I don’t actually think that will work.

And frankly, with the shingles I don’t think such a great idea.

My heart would break more from it not being with you.

Maybe one day, just not today, or in the foreseeable future.

I guess why I’m writing all of this is that there was something about dreaming you up in my kitchen, seeing you there this morning as if you were really there, that has softened me and I felt forgiveness slide over me warm and soft and comforting.

Oh, I’m still sad.

But I don’t feel so angry anymore.

Maybe that’s the shingles, all that anger and hurt flashed out on my body, blistering and tender and raw and shear pain.

I told my girlfriend who came over today that it was like someone has taken the little torch they use in kitchens to make creme brulee to my skin.

The anger and hurt are there and I think that I’m completely ready to let it all go.

You did the best you could.

You love me and I know you still do.

I love you.

And if it was meant to be I can’t fuck it up.

I can’t.

If we are supposed to be together the Universe will conspire to make it happen.

And if not.

There’s not a damn thing I can do to manipulate it into happening.

Which, in the end, is really why I haven’t called you.

I didn’t want to use the physical pain I’m in to wrangle you back into my life.

If I’m to have you.

I want you fully.

All of you.

And if I can’t, no amount of manipulation will make it work.

So best to leave you alone.

If you’re supposed to come back to me, well, you will.

And in the mean time.

I really, really, really need to heal from these shingles.

I love you bunny.

I hope you’re doing ok wherever you are.

I hope you are finding your way to happiness.

I really do.

xoxo

Always, your baby girl.

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Swimmingly

August 25, 2018

I did not forget my swimsuit today.

Nope.

I had that puppy packed in my purse.

I go just about nowhere without my purse.

I pulled it out as soon as I walked in the door at work, “look what I didn’t forget,” I said triumphantly to my charge who was very excited to see it but still asked why I hadn’t remembered it yesterday.

I ruffled his hair, said I was sorry again for forgetting and promised I would do a lot of swimming with him to make up for it.

And I did.

I also went down the water slide to appease him.

I was not really interested, it’s meant more for kids and it was sort of awkward to climb, but he really wanted me to and I wanted to humor him and we were just having the best day, so yeah, I clambered up and went down and it was cute.

He was so happy today.

And so was I.

Although I had my moments of sadness.

Happiness too.

Swimming is happiness for me.

There is nothing quite like it.

I feel so in my body and alive and it’s just exhilarating.

The mom actually told me to take some time to myself today and I got to put in 500 yards.

That’s not much, but it felt great and I was happy to have some time to swim.

I have also set my alarm for tomorrow morning.

I will be getting up and going to Sava Pool to swim.

My swim bag is packed and I’m air drying my suit in a place that I won’t forget it.

It was also really such lovely weather, sunny, bright, not too hot, but hot enough.

And it made me think of you, bunny.

I realized that it wasn’t just the Marin hills that made me think of you, it was swimming as well.

I had the same feeling in my body, in my heart, when I went swimming in the Mediterranean when my best girl friend and I went hiking into the Calanque de Sormiou outside of Marseille.

It was the sun, it was the salt water, it was the dry hills and the green trees, very reminiscent of Marin, but also it was the feeling.

It was the feeling of being so in my body and I kept feeling that you should be there with me, that we are meant to be somewhere sunny with you sunbathing, as I know you like, tan and golden and glowing like some leonine thing in the light, and me swimming and emerging from the pool or sea to sit next to you and bask in the sunshine.

Then I realized it at a deeper level.

Swimming reminds me of you because of how at ease in my body I am in the water.

I found that same ease with you.

I have never felt so at home in my body than when I was with you, making love, or laying together, spent afterward, completely glowing and happy and alive, so alive.

I teared up at the pool when I made the connection and realized that was one more thing that was so good about being with you.

I was myself.

In the pool, in the water, I am myself.

When I was with you I was myself.

Unapologetically me.

I wanted you there by my side because I was myself and free and happy and I associate those feelings with you.

And I can’t share any of this with you.

And we never went swimming together.

Although we did bask in some sunshine.

It wasn’t enough.

I am such a good addict, just give me some more please, more of you and more of you and more of you until I am satiated.

Which I never am for very long.

Sigh.

I miss you my love.

And I am grateful to have made the connection today with what it feels like to be in the water, to be in my body and how it reminds me of you.

It will incentivize me to swim.

And one day.

I can dream.

I can.

I do hope.

I really do.

That I will get to go swimming.

I will get to share this feeling.

I will get to go.

And.

Be.

Once again.

With.

You.

First One Down

January 29, 2018

I did it.

I got my first paper of the semester written and turned in.

It was a small guy, five pages.

I was a bit resentful of it for a few days.

First, fucking christ, the first weekend of classes was last weekend, give me a god damn minute to have some time off.

Second, I got a notification yesterday that it was due at 4p.m. today.

What the fuck?

Four p.m.

Listen.

I have a god damn life, I have things to do, and this day, this was my first day off in two weeks, two, and you’re giving me a hard limit of 4p.m.?

Fuck.

Ugh.

Yeah.

So that I found annoying.

But.

I told myself to shut the fuck up and do the fucking work.

I also let myself sleep in.

I was on the phone late last night with my best friend and my God, do we know how to talk, like two highschool girls on a school night dishing all the things, I could talk forever with my friend, it is always so hard to say goodbye, goodnight, until we talk again, it never feels like it is soon enough before we can talk again.

I was going to go to an early morning yoga class, but decided to just let myself sleep and maybe I would catch an afternoon yoga class after I had written the paper, or maybe nothing, fuck it, fuck yoga, fuck it all.

Except.

Well.

Ha.

My body had other ideas.

Sometimes my feet are smarter than my brain.

I did miss the early yoga class, but I woke up in plenty of time to hit the 10:30 a.m. class.

I still got up and out of bed thinking, telling myself that I wasn’t going to go, I would use the extra time to write my paper, or maybe doing my Morning Pages, God knows I have had plenty of fodder for writing.

Oh my god the amount of morning writing I have done while I have been going through my recent experiences, so much.

But I am grateful for the outlet, grateful for the pen on the paper, the feel of the pen moving across the lines, the words tumbling out, prayers and affirmations, gratitude lists, longings and dreams and desires, all of it, bumbled down on my Claire Fontaine notebook and then a little sweet sticker next to my entry, a way to mark my heart on the page, a mandala, a rose, a butterfly, a baby bunny, something small and sweet to tell me where my heart lies in between the words the dance of magic and poetry that I sense is still there just waiting for the right moment to spring forth again.

Like Athena from the mind of Zeus.

All the poesie and love and magic, the passion, the words, so many words of love and adoration I have.

So many.

Ah.

I digress.

See, I think of love and poetry and get lost.

Adrift in worlds of magic and sorcery and the poetics of my life, the romance.

My God.

The romance of it.

Sometimes, yes, it is a little dark, a lot emotional, a kind of deep swooning romance that is historic and deep and has an uncanny beauty writ large in the stars, the blue moon waxing full.

But it is so beautiful and I am so grateful for it, the gift of it.

Seared into me.

Pierced into me.

Literally.

As such, I was compelled to let myself write, but instead I found myself putting on my yoga clothes and then signing up for the 10:30 a.m. class.

My feet had better ideas than my head.

And I am so glad I went.

It was a terrific class, I got to do a lot of heart openings, as though my heart has not been opened enough of late, but it was good, and hard and painful and when I felt stuck, I just breathed through it harder and thought of the love I had and sent it out into the world.

I thought of wrapping my love around my love, a warm cloak, a blanket, I pictured the sun surrounding me and then held my love in my arms, buried my face in the back of his head and then smelled the nape of his neck and I started to cry in yoga.

Sigh.

Truth be told.

I did not mind.

It felt good, a washing of love, a rendering of myself in the moment, a supplication, a surrender to the feeling, to let it go as I lay prostrate on the mat.

And the sensory feeling of putting my arms around the love of my life and covering him with love was so relieving too, as though I could buffet his heart with my love.

It felt right and good even though it felt sad too, just to have another moment to hold him close to me, even if imagined, even in revery, felt so good and real and right.

So.

Yes.

Grateful I got out to yoga.

And then did all the other things.

Shower, breakfast, reading, writing, working with a new lady who came over to the house and we met and read things and talked about life and recovery and doing the deal and that was fantastic.

And when she left.

I got to it.

I pulled out my books and notebooks and syllabus and I got into the paper.

It flowed so well and smoothly and just dropped out of my head and onto the page, well, I was a little amazed.

It just came and I edited it and read it and tidied it up and had it sent off to my professor by 3:50p.m.

Ten minutes before it was due.

Thank you.

Thank you very much.

Grateful as hell that I know how to write a paper.

I also collaborated with my partner in another class and mapped out the work that needs to be done for a project in that class.

I have my writing calendared for the next week, mostly next Sunday, but also some writing will have to be done Saturday too, I suspect.

And.

I have all my readings prepped for the next weekend of classes.

I will bring my books with me and again sneak in the pages and chapters when I can, where I can, in between going to and from supervision, work, internship, doing the deal, and all the other things I am juggling.

I will have my books with me and when I can, well, I’ll be reading.

It’s my last semester of my Masters program!

Holy fuck.

I have my first assignment in and done.

One tiny step forward.

One tiny march of faith into the future.

I know not where I am going.

But.

I am assured.

That it will be bright and beautiful and full of love.

Love.

Always that.

Always.

The Music In My Heart

February 14, 2016

Keeps me company in the ghettos of my soul.

Those dark places and spaces that I dare not always go, but how I long to illuminate them.

So, I tip toe, with a candle, can you see it, brass plate, a curled cup handle, the flicker of the flame, the shadows so much bigger than the fear and in I go.

I am listening to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel.

LOUD.

God damn.

How music can re-make me, burn me, find its way into the crevices of me and fill me with a new kind of lightness and joy.

I am full of joy.

I am in my joy bubble.

I can float, rather than wander lost, through these chambers, grateful and buoyant.

And yes.

There may be puddles of pain I drift across.

Skeins of shadows, slicks of sorrow, I will feel the pull and the longing to let it in and delve in it, or press past without looking too close.

Forgetting.

Tears.

Are just pain leaving the body.

Toxins that need to be released.

I let go of a lot today at school and it was just an amazing experience.

Extraordinary and cathartic.

I was overwhelmed and yet, I found a place, a boat made from the cup of my heart and the billowing sails of the psyche, the gossamer stronger, so much stronger than I am willing to consciously admit.

Yet.

I know.

I know so deep within me that I am capable of steering this small ship out into the grand and grandiose ocean.

I am taken care of while I do this exploration.

I got a spiritual solution for your desperate aim.

How amazing that?

I saw a way through.

A way to keep pushing and keeping on keeping on.

With flowers always in my hair.

With my heart always on my sleeve.

It needs the room to breathe.

There’s no need to go home when you are always at home in your heart.

I am always there, deep within the chasms, the spirals, a nautilus, a whispering echo of a kiss, sentimental and tinged with the dusky dried rose petals from bouquets of imaginary flowers.

I walk under canopies of plum blossoms, drifting like snow through the air, kisses from God scattered before like all the promises I made myself as a child not knowing how far flung those wishes would carry me.

Look.

Love.

How far we have come.

Buttercup.

My pink, baby bunny, my sweet serenade as I kneel, bowed head, naked at the foot of the bed, curls cascading down, vulnerable and tender and known and carried.

I will rise, cross the threshold, and then crawl, exhausted those last few inches, into the warm hand, the cup of love, the bowery of teal heart and pink ribboned adoration.

Change like the shifting night.

And this is change.

A change is coming.

I can wallow there or I can rise, rested, rise a reflection of lost light pooled and gathered in the heat of sleep, arisen, burn in the new sun, the ashes as soft as the flower petals.

Death of self.

Death of expectations.

Surrender.

Forgiveness.

Behold the heart of the beauty.

Behold the flowers crowning her hair.

The star light, the dead light, taken in, and re-ignited in the alchemy of love and yearn, to be turned back out into the world.

Hair up, head high.

Dancing skirts twirling out and the spotlight of God on me no longer a frightening thing.

Rather a place to rest.

To bask in the warmth rather than recoil from the field.

I grow forward.

I need not know what into.

Just that I do.

The desert dreams that haunt me collapse in this light, the urges and whims, the lies that brusk themselves against my lips as though to convince myself more than you that it will all be alright.

It will.

It will.

I press the poetry back agains the roof of my mouth.

Sometimes when you’re dreaming I’ll see a light.

The dark Marilyn.

The light jumping feet, bare foot against a screen of blue.

Joy, leap with me, toes curled underneath, tender and vulnerable to my gaze.

Am I there?

Am I here?

Do I need to orient myself to the pulling stars circling round another light, do I need to be raised up into this brightness, do I need to know why my heart carries me so?

No.

Not when my heart is my home.

Not when I am cavorted with, playful and joyous, shouting out in the song of myself, in the knowing that I go forth no ones woman but my own.

No ones woman.

Rather all Gods.

And therefor.

Mine.

All mine.

Sweetest heart, dearest one, longing and soft, I call to you and we will go in a field of daisies, marguerite, and dashed with the toppled heavy heads of sunflowers, their velvet leaves kissing our elbows, a soft remonstrance, your mouth on my skin, a remembering soaked in the blooded lost love from the press of my mothers chapped lips on my forehead in the light falling from the doorway.

I rise up.

This time.

I go toward the light.

I take the hand.

I let the nightgown fall down my legs and I stop shaving off pieces of me.

I build them back in.

I shine them back on.

I bedeck myself from the shift of vulnerability and innocence to the strength of better days and the promises, wishes catapulted from the billowy heads of dandelions and the soft sun soaked joy of warm grass under my bare feet.

I choose now.

I mix the memory.

I re-write the script and whisper softly.

Go, girl, go.

Fly away on the backs of geese at sunset drifting through the fog burning off from the rising sun.

Scatter the pain below you into the lake and let it all go.

Love.

Lovely.

Love.

Blessed with the crenellated masonry.

I choose to climb down the battlements.

I will live in the fray.

When the night is long.

The moon’s in the blue trees.

I will still choose to sing my song.

Love.

I love.

No matter what.

On fire, fraught and full, fallen on my own sword to die the many deaths and to let go again and again until the flowers fall behind and I stand.

And I will.

I will.

Stand.

Get A Room!

July 1, 2015

It’s an embarrassment of riches, this.

I just got a room in Atlanta.

After all the kerfuffle with the bed and breakfast, I got a room.

I don’t know that I had mentioned it in the last few blogs, but I found out late last week that the bed and breakfast that I had made reservations back, oh, I don’t know, four, five months ago, had a sudden and very unexpected plumbing problem come up.

I was told that the extent of the issue was such that the entire facility was being shut down to address the issue, and so sorry, we don’t have a room for you, we hope you are able to find accommodations and enjoy your time in Atlanta.

Well.

I wasn’t even fazed.

I was later.

But at the time that I received the e-mail, there was a small quiet voice that said, there’s something better for you and don’t worry about it, it will get taken care of.

So.

I didn’t worry about it.

I went about my day, I did my job, I talked to my friends and I enjoyed the sunshine in Sonoma.

Although as my friend said to me later on the phone when I broke the news to her–she was going to share the room with me in Atlanta, so she was getting screwed as well, “working in paradise is not the same as vacationing in paradise.”

So true.

I like working back in the city much more.

Granted.

There were some really nice perks with being in Sonoma, but it’s so much easier for me to deal with my job when I can actually leave my job and have some private space.

I haven’t been woken up once this week by a tantrum or crying boy or a slamming door or loud booming steps running past my door.

That’s been really nice.

Plus my breaks have been a little more regulated, and that makes my work day a much happier day.

A happier day and a surprising day today.

I awoke this morning and turned off the alarm on my phone, threw off the covers, swung my legs over the side of the bed and took a big inhale of breath and broke out into a smile.

I was gifted some lovely art yesterday.

In fact, I was gifted two pieces of art!

I am the luckiest girl in the world.

I had a lady bug give me a painting that she had done herself and wrapped up in pretty pink and blue and white paper and top with a big pink bow.

“Congratulations!”  She said and hugged me.

Oh.

It’s so nice to be seen and loved.

It’s a jackalope!

On a hot pink background.

It, uh, hahaha, fits right in with the rest of my apartment.

Apparently you may now consider me the bunny lady.

At least I’m not the cat lady.

Even though I do miss having a cat, I do.

Then last night another friend texted me as it was passing the ten o’clock hour, “you still up?”

For you friend.

I’ll get out of bed.

Just saying.

“Of course!”  I responded.

“I have something for you, can I park in the drive way?”

I walked out and there he stood with a Diebenkorn in hand.

Oh dear God.

Thank you for loving me so much.

Thank you for art.

Thank you for keeping me sober and abstinent today, for not having me smoke cigarettes, for not having me eat sugar and for having me do all the work that ends up with me being given so many precious gifts.

Gifts I never.

Ever.

Ever.

Expect.

And gifts that I am learning.

Sometimes quickly.

But mostly slowly.

To accept without saying anything other than, “thank you.”

Not, “I don’t deserve this, or you shouldn’t have!”

Nope.

Just a sweet simple thank you and my heart grows ever bigger.

More room in there for more love.

Who knew it could get this big.

Bigger than the moon rising over the Castro as I stepped out into the still warm evening air and read the series of text on my phone.

It was the travel itinerary of a woman I have never met who got my number from a man I have never met who does this thing once a week in the city on Wednesday nights with a friend of mine and I was passed his information and called him as I was touching down in LA.

“Hey, __________, I’m a friend of ____________ from ___________ he said you might have a room?”

Turns out he had a block of rooms with space in one of them.

He said I could have it.

Whoop!

Then I went off on my LA adventure and had my celebration like there was no tomorrow.

The best way to live, by the way, not in tomorrow, but in the right freaking now.

That’s where the God is.

The juice.

The love.

Right here.

Right now.

In front of my beautiful new art.

As I mentioned, the other piece I was given was a Diebenkorn, Ocean Park No. 67.

It is glorious.

A print from the DeYoung that was mounted on wood and cropped such that the title and DeYoung logo have been taken out, it’s heavy and my friend is going to help me mount it up on the wall.

Right now it’s in front of me, luminous with light and blues and greens, sage, creamy soft buttery yellow, I told my friend that it remind me of the ocean, the dunes, the green grass and the way the light is at the golden hour.

I had not known the name of the piece when I told him what it looked like to me, so when I googled it, I was pleasantly surprised to see the title of the piece was Ocean Park.

It made me smile.

Seeing that painting as soon as I woke up, all the colors in my room coral and beach blue and cream and light, love again, there, against the wall, waiting for me to awaken and walk towards it.

I walked toward accepting it all.

Just like I did a few hours ago when I stepped out underneath that glowing moon.

I told the woman who got my information from the man who offered me a room, that I would take over her reservation.

Sure.

It’s more than I was going to spend.

But who knows.

Maybe a friend needs a place to stay.

Or maybe I’m just supposed to have the experience of being on my own.

I won’t be alone.

And though I may feel lonely, I can, even in a crowd of 80,000 people.

I know that I am not alone.

I am loved.

Lit up.

Surrounded my art.

My soft, sweet, bright room.

And love.

Yes.

I got a room.

A room of my own.

With a window on the world.

My view from here.

Spectacular.

Caught In A Down Pour

October 26, 2014

I was suddenly in Paris.

I was really in Noe Valley.

The rain was that sudden, heavy, sharp, the color of the sky, light soft pink around the dark grey edges, the mottled heavy clouds shifting and massing and splitting apart as the wind scuttled them through the valley, it could have been Paris.

I almost ducked into a doorway to wait it out.

It was certainly passing through fast and I knew there was nothing behind it, clear skies, sharp air, the whisper of smoke from a chimney up the hill, I ran for it.

I was wet.

But happy for the rain.

As is anyone who is aware of the drought situation here.

I wasn’t thinking about that, however, I was thinking about the rain coat I had pulled out of my closet and then put back in.

Of course I had.

It wasn’t going to rain, didn’t the universe know I was on my scooter and the last thing I wanted was a wet, dark, rainy ride home up and down the hills of San Francisco.

I mean, hello.

But there it was the rain, and I was glad for it, glad for the sudden deluge and the popping up the hood on my sweatshirt and the fact was I would be dry and warm soon with hot tea and grand company.

We sat for an hour and read and got right with the world and had some laughs and did some work and it was exactly what I needed.

I always get what I need when I get out-of-the-way, but I have a habit of stepping on my own toes.

So I was happy, am happy, to report, that I did not step on my toes tonight and I have a date for tomorrow.

Yup.

Like that.

“Now that you’ve started doing the work, the date last night, well, you’re going to find that the universe is going to open up the door.”

I smiled.

I actually believed.

And I acted.

I’m not going to say a whole lot more about that, I have a hard time writing about certain things at times, this is one of those times.

Suffice to say I rode my little Vespa home, up and over the hills and through the woods, well, alongside them as the case may be (I ride home along the park and it does feel like the wilds sometime, I can sense all things verdant that used to be the edge of the world–the old growth trees in the park often humble me with their strength, silence, longevity) with a smile, nay a grin on my face.

Let me say when there’s no chemistry it’s apparent, even when I wouldn’t mind if there were, even if he’s a nice guy, even if.

But when there’s chemistry.

Oh.

Then, why, I grin.

And I am grinning now.

It’s sort of hard to write this and keep things close to my chest, I like being transparent, but I also don’t want everything in my life on this blog, somethings, my dears, are just for me.

And onwards.

Halloween.

Next weekend.

I’m doing something.

I am going to get my Halloween on.

I am really quite surprisingly pleased that a number of my friends are going to be doing something for the holiday.

I had a friend ask me last week if I would go with her, if we could find a ride, over to a big party in San Rafael; only to find today that another darling friend who I have not seen since I got back from Burning Man, is going.

Then another friend tonight mentioned that he’s got a friend from camp at Burning Man staying with him next weekend and they too were contemplating heading over to San Rafael.

I guess I need to get myself a costume.

My first instinct is to go as  bunny rabbit.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I have something for bunnies, I don’t need to get all psychological about it, I just like the little critters, and yes, I did consider going as a jackalope, I mean, come on, how fabulous would that be?

It’s the horns that are tricky.

I did find a super cute head band with horns and moss and flowers on Etsy.

But, uh, for $130 I don’t think so.

I could afford it, I paid rent early today and took care of my student loans and put money in my savings account, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to drop that kind of cash on a set of horns.

I can, however, probably pick up a set of bunny ears and draw some whiskers on my cheeks and a little nose, and wear some pink and call it a day.

I also thought about going as a modern-day interpretation of the queen of hearts, you know since I am trying to put myself out there and date and be vulnerable and stuff.

And stuff.

Ha.

I could wear my heart tights, a heart sweater, my heart earrings, wear my hair up in braids on my head and get a little tiara from a Multi Kulti on Valencia Street and maybe stick some roses in my braids, some bright red lipstick and voila, she’s wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Conceptually I think it’s cute, but that may just be me.

I’m not interested in being some sexy vixen thing for Halloween, but I do like to look pretty.  Of course if sexy happens, then cool, but that’s not always the aim for me when I have dressed up.

Last year I did wear bunny ears with my little girl Thursday that I was nanny for on the day of the holiday, her grandma made her the cutest little bunny outfit and I did her makeup and also sported a pair of ears to music class with her.

So maybe, bunny rabbit is out, now that I realize I was a bunny, however fleeting, last year.

Queen of Hearts it is.

Seems apropos.

I’m going to stop blogging now.

And go back to grinning.

 

Put Your Money In the Bunny

December 16, 2013

Bank baby.

Save it for a rainy day.

Or for your birthday.

Which is the case with my bunny bank.

I have a bunny bank, not a piggy bank.

I actually have um, uh, yeah, three bunny banks.

Heh.

Plus an online account that I deposited to today.  I almost have the money to give to Barnaby to pay back the Paris ticket he bought for me to get home with.

Almost.

Another couple of weeks and I will have it.

I vacillated as I was looking at my checkbook, my birthday is Wednesday, I should, could, would like to, spend money on…

But the fact is I already spent my birthday money, today.

So, I put some more money in my savings account and mentally thanked my friend once again for helping me get back to where I need to be.

My “piggy bank” though is a different story.

I save up my money in my bunny bank, or banks, as the case may be, and the money that I save goes into my paw and I spend it on, once a year, whatever the fuck I want to spend it on for my birthday present.

There was not a great whopping load of cash in the bank this year, but I did get a new skirt and I took myself out to dinner.

Which is pretty much what I was hoping for.

I also took myself out to get a little pampering.

Manicure, pedicure, eyebrow wax.

I won’t have time for it the rest of the week.

Despite taking off on Wednesday, I still have a fairly heavy week, with extra work on Friday since I took off Wednesday.

And I start the holiday house sitting gig on Thursday.

I picked up the keys yesterday and met the cat, Stella, a golden little minx of a girl, orange tabby with the biggest eyes I have seen on a cat.  She cuddled right up to me and I thought, aw, this will be nice to have a little kitten to snuggle with over a week.

The house is also really pretty, a two bedroom on Dolores at 18th.

Right in the prime of the prime neighborhoods.

I will be in the Mission for Christmas.

I will miss my little tree with her twinkling blue lights, but I have really enjoyed having it and I will keep it up until New Years.

Then I think I will take it down and burn it at the beach, let go of the old ideas that I have carried with me over the year in a ritualistic Christmas/Burning Man/New Year resolution/surrender to it sort of move.

Burn it down baby.

But not today, today was not about burning the candle at both ends.

Besides I sort of got to do that Friday night anyhow.

No, today was about treating myself nicely.

Sleeping in.

Not that 9 a.m. is a huge sleep in, but when I normally get up at 7 a.m. it feels luxurious.  My brain really doesn’t care to let me linger in bed once I have gotten around 8 hours and I have no patience for listening to its morning rap of doom, gloom, financial insecurity, and fear.

I just get the fuck up.

However, I took a leisurely morning, writing, drinking an extra cup of coffee, hula hooping, sitting out in the back yard in the sunlight, in my flip-flops (super grateful it has warmed up to a normal temperature), meditating.

I took a walk around the neighborhood.

I went to a couple of art galleries.

I made a nice healthy lunch.

I drank some tea and made some phone calls.

Then I took my bunny bank money and went to the nail salon and Cross Roads.

It was perfect.

I have matching lilac nails with glitter bomb top coat over them.

It’s my party and I will sparkle if I want to.

Dinner down at Church and Market and a good book to keep me company.

Meeting with a ladybug, a trip to Our Lady of Safeway, and a train ride home through Christmas light infused neighborhoods.

So grateful for my life and my lively hood, my friends, and my community.

And my bunnies.

Heh.

I don’t know what that is about, but it is my thing.

I mean last year for my birthday I got a jack-a-lope tattooed on my forearm.

In pink.

Oh yeah.

I have been thinking about another tattoo, a little anniversary coming up in January that I may wish to commemorate, although I don’t have any idea what I would be getting, just that there is the thought in my mind.

Imagine.

I could fly back to Paris for a weekend and get one.

Not currently in my price range though.

I did hear a rumour that Barnaby may be relocating to Hawaii, and well, gee, I have always wanted to visit there, especially since I am a quarter Polynesian and still have family in the islands.

I joke with friends that I have never gone because I am afraid I wouldn’t come back, but somehow the time has just never presented itself to me.  I do think about it though, especially when I see friends posting photos of vacations there and well, hmm, looks like a place I would enjoy.

Who knows.

Just for now I am here.

I am staying and I like it.

I like that I am my age.

I like where I am living.

I like that I am willing to do the work to change, tried a few small things today, took some actions, even updated my Okstupid profile.

One action–forgiving myself for being single.

Another action–being available to the man who wants to spend time with me.

It was suggested I try the online dating thing again and ok, sure, I will.

I don’t know who or how or when and I am just taking actions, letting go the results you could say, but taking action nonetheless.

And taking, foremost the action of taking care of myself which does, yes, mean manicures and pedicures, they are a treat and I like to look put together.

“You have such beautiful lips,” my manicurist said, “what color lipstick?”

I love that.

I who used to never wear lipstick, who carried everything in her jeans pockets, clipped her keys on her belt loop on her jeans, and only wore lip balm.

Getting all fancy.

Carrying a purse, once in a while, ok, I admit it, I still mainly use a messenger bag.

Buying a skirt.

Growing my hair back out.

These are ways too in which I say, hey, look, me, available, looking nice, paying my bills, putting money in savings, living the good life down by the beach, I am available for the man who is drawn to me–I will get pretty for me, but I like dressing up for you too.

Yup.

I am even letting go of what that man is supposed to look like or be or have; although I won’t date a heavy drinker or someone actively using drugs, and my preference is going to lean very much toward a non-smoker and someone with a job and his own place to live.

But really letting go my ideas about other traits and qualities.

They, my ideas, don’t serve.

Most the time, they really don’t.

But the actions?

That shit works.

Even just the action of putting a little away in the bank adds up.

Pennies and dimes, nickels and quarters.

The small, aware actions that I take from flossing my teeth, to making my bed, to sitting in quiet contemplation and asking for direction to do the next thing in front of me, sweep the floor anyone?

These are the things I can do.

These are the things that add up to a life worth living.

And my God, my life is worth living.

So just getting started.

The best, my friends, oh yes, is yet to come.

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.


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