Posts Tagged ‘Chain of Lakes’

I See You

November 13, 2015

I whispered to him as he sped across the road and disappeared down the walk way adjacent to Chain of Lakes.

I saw my first coyote this evening on my way home from doing the deal at Cafe Flore.

I was just turning onto Chain of Lakes on my bicycle, a smooth, no stop turn, the whistle of the cold wind in my ears.

It’s cold out baby.

I could use a warm snuggle right about now.

I was thinking of warm snuggles in fact, it helps to keep the cold at bay to think about the warm.

I was thinking about all sorts of things.

I was thinking about Paris.

I was thinking about the press of the stars in the sky and how low they swung this evening, perhaps as I was coming home through the park at a slightly later time then I normally do on a Thursday.

I was thinking about kisses.

I was thinking about poetry.

I was trying to not think about school.

I woke up this morning a little anxious and I recognized it quite quickly as school anxiety.

So.

I did my deal, I knelt, I prayed, I read some things, I said some things, I had some breakfast and then I wrote.

I wrote it all out and by the time I was done, starting with the smallest thing, the only thing, the one thing that is important and true, my sobriety, from which all else stems, I recognized and wrote down all the good things I have going on.

If nothing else that above fact, makes my life manageable and contained and there really is nothing wrong.

Add to that the gift of being in school, it is a gift to be there.

The job.

The little in-law I live in.

My dear and darling friends.

My bicycle.

My scooter.

My scooter for which I am 3/4s of the way towards having all the paperwork done so that I can apply for a child care parking permit and park in the neighborhood where I work.  I have only to wait on my insurance paperwork, that should be here any day now, to finish up the application.  That and a check sent in to SFMTA and I’m set.

Of course.

The small print–it will take up to 21 days to process.

But that is fine.

I can continue to ride my bicycle to work and it’s just a little delay.

Yes.

Grateful for the scooter, for a home to park it in front of, for having taken the motorcycle safety course, for the entire thing being paid in full.

Grateful.

I rationally wrote all these things down.

Acknowledged my fear of there not being enough time and said, so what if there’s not enough time?

The time is that there is time.

Time and more time.

I could measure it in teaspoons.

Hang it from the cusp of a moon.

I could wander down halls lit with lanterns of time.

There is time.

And more time.

To fill the hours.

The days.

The moments.

Infinity in a parsec.

I have all the time in the world.

I am of time.

I am in time.

The slower I go.

The more time I have.

Time.

Always this time.

The watching hands on my wrist.

The call of the hours at noon on Tuesday.

The wind in the high trees.

The sloughing sounds of leaves telling the time of autumn.

The fall of time.

Marching down the long avenues.

Getting stuck in the church pews.

Swinging in an incense pot.

Red light candles and the decrepit

Crumbling of stone in St. Augustin.

I have more time than I could ever use.

There is no lack of time there.

There is only more and more.

An infinity.

A chorus of seconds and milliseconds.

Of minutes stretched between the high pillars

Hiding under the doom of night.

There is only this.

And.

In this this.

I exist.

At one.

Apart.

Final.

Complete.

In this time.

I am time.

Wounded.

Solaced.

Loved.

Graced with the singing.

The music of the spheres.

The metronome of God.

Art installation Centre de Pompidou

Clock at the Musee D’Orsay

DSCF5270

Ahem.

I have no idea where that all came from.

Ha.

But I rather like it.

A little inspiration from the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by my favorite poet, TS Eliot.

I like how Eliot writes about time.

There is a succulence there and a tenderness that is also hard and can at first seem as though the poet is battered on these shores of  millenium and the magnitude of time.

And.

There is a bubble of love.

That in which the eternal is always here.

In this moment.

Where.

Yes.

Mathilde.

Everything.

EVERYTHING.

Is perfect.

There are no problems in this moment–there is tea in the cup, sweet candles burning, Coleman Hawkins on my stereo, there are flowers in a vase, a tidy home, a warmth and glow to it, there is love.

“Are you poisonous tonight?”  I asked the five-year old who was cuddling with me on my lap, decked out in aqua blue and sea-foam green striped pajamas.  He will tell me that he is poisonous when I make the attempt to eat him.

“Maybe,” he said, “you’re not really going to eat me though, are you?”

“Nope,” I replied and touched the tip of my nose to his and wiggled it softly.

He scrunched his face in delight.

“Then how come you always say that?” He asked, all seriousness.

“Because you are delicious and I want to eat you!” I replied and squeezed him.

“No, that’s not it,” he folded his arms and looked at me with big deep brown eyes.

“Hmm, well, ok, it’s because you feed my heart,” I said.

“How?”

“You know how all living things need air to breathe and water to drink and sunlight to grow?”  I asked him.

“Yes.”

“All living things need love too, I need it to grow and thrive, and when ever I am with you, you feed my heart with love and it gets bigger,” I took a deep breath, I hadn’t known those words were coming out of my mouth, and tears swam in my eyes.

“Carmen, I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said and hugged him tight.

“I am going to marry you!”

“Well, you’re a little young for me, but you will always have my heart, I promise.”

And in the dark of the moon, the coyote turned his sharp nose and trotted across the street in front of me.

Trickster.

Clown.

Totem.

Creative energy.

Magic.

Sex.

Rutting.

Moon and star.

Time magic.

I felt kissed with love and my heart grew bigger and I thanked God for my life and all the things I get to see and feel and do and be.

Even anxious.

Even scared.

Even uncertain and uncomfortable.

Because that too, is where the growth is.

And the love.

I must have them both to grown.

Sprinkle a little coyote mysticism on it.

Bake it in the oven.

And I will shall have it with tea and toast.

Or apples.

Yes.

Apples.

Belle pomme de Boskop.

S’il vous plait.

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Cold, Grey, Foggy

May 23, 2015

But not lonely.

Alone.

But alright with it.

Not whistling in the dark.

Whistling through the dark.

The buffalo paddock was glowing with mist as I rode my bicycle through the depths of Golden Gate Park on my ride home this evening, the bounced back light from the underbelly of the low-lying clouds and the thick fog swirling in from the ocean, made the meadow look as though it was laced with snow.

And it felt cold enough on my ride home for me, for just a moment, to actually think that the field was full of snow.

I did a bit of a double take and then chuckled at my misperception.

I should always chuckle at my poor perspective, my inability to ever see anything quite clearly.

It does seem like so much is shrouded in fog and mist.

I can be magical though.

The ride home, especially the stretch from the waterfall through to the buffalo paddock always does it to me, especially when there is little or nor traffic on the road and the glimmer of the lamp posts marching stolid through the dark makes me feel like I am on the cusp of the wilds, that I am in that in between land.

Could be fantasy.

Could be reality.

Sometimes I call it Narnia.

I am reminded of the Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, the lamp-post in the woods, the snow flurries around the halo of light, I feel like that when I ride through the mists and fog and head home to my small spot by the sea.

“You’re all the way out there,” my friend said to me as we caught up hanging out on the side-walk across from the SafeWay in the Church and Market neighborhood.

Three more blocks and I would be at the sea.

There’s a special kind of absence of light when I turn off Chain of Lakes and make my final descent down Lincoln Avenue to 46th, cornering like I’m still riding my bicycle in fixed gear, there is a blackness, a lack of light, that even should I not know the sea was there, is indicative of the ocean being there.

The edge of the world.

I could just drop right off the edge.

Not that I plan on anytime soon.

I could become morose, I could wish for more than what I have, but that is just a misty shroud of self-pity that doesn’t serve me or my fellows.

It’s really just selfishness masquerading around in fancy pants clothes.

I love my warm little space.

It is exactly as it should be.

Pretty and quaint.

My life is exactly as it should be as well.

And I have a three-day weekend.

That is nice.

I did have a moment when I was in the middle of the day, a stretch that is not always relaxing, but heralds that it is closer to the end of the day then the beginning, and I thought, I am just not going to make it all the way to the weekend.

And what do you know.

I did.

And it’s here.

And yup.

No plans.

Get excited.

I remind myself.

Things are going to happen.

Stuff is happening things are brewing.

There is not a single reason in the world to be troubled.

Just because I can’t see through the fog doesn’t mean that something fabulous.

Amazing.

Astounding.

Miraculous.

Out of the ordinary.

May happen.

I have a confession to make, now that I am through a good chunk of the blog and have lost a number of readers, I mean, how long can you wax poetic about fog and mist before someone decides to go watch some down loaded porn?

FYI.

I write about working for love and being a nanny and I get like zip reads.

I write anything about sex.

I get reads.

I know what you all want.

I know my audience.

But do I know myself?

Here’s one.

I need to stop looking at my ex-boyfriends FaceBook page.

I’m about to unfriend the man again.

It’s just about to start taking too much time of mine.

It’s just about to start.

Ha!

I make myself fucking laugh.

It is taking up too much of my attention.

He posted something and I found myself reacting and I was like, no, no, no.

It’s not my business where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s hanging out with, but, dude, we’re supposed to be doing that together–fucking jealousy.

Didn’t I already work through this?

And then I knew I have not, not completely,  there’s always a little more work I get to do.

I have to stay away.

When I go down that road it isn’t shrouded in mist.

It’s a bright fucking light that says, you’re not good enough, he didn’t want you, nobody wants you, might as well go cry in my tea.

And then I focus on all the things that are lacking in my life.

Which is nothing.

Once I get disgusted with myself and tear my eyes away from the stream of posts, that are.

NONE OF MY BUSINESS TO BE READING.

Ugh.

So.

Maybe I’ll try that this weekend.

I won’t check his Facebook feed for the rest of the weekend.

That will probably help me see what is actually happening in front of me.

Maybe I’ll actually be available to the man I’m supposed to be with instead of focusing on the one who didn’t want me.

Good rule of thumb.

Focus on what’s in front of me, rather than focusing on what I do not have.

That whole compare and despair thing.

Because I am enough.

There’s not a thing wrong with me and my ex and I aren’t together because we’re not suppose to be.

That’s all.

It’s not some big mystery.

It’s just life.

It’s just an experience.

And the nice thing about coming in from the fog and the chill, with my fingers stiff from riding in the misty weather, I can always warm up, change my perspective, get cozy, and be happy that I’m not having a mystical experience.

I’m just having an experience.

It’s called living.

And it’s pretty damn good.

Especially when I mind my own business.

It’s good then.

REALLY.

REALLY.

REALLY.

Good.

While I’m Blogging

March 19, 2015

There’s an egg cooling off in a pan on the stove.

The new late night snack for me.

Protein.

Delicious.

Although I will miss my little apple and yogurt duo, it’s time to try something new.

It helped that I had it one last time last night and it was like saying goodbye to an old lover that just wasn’t treating me right any longer.

And I was checked out when I ate it.

So tonight I committed to try something different.

It will be what it will be.

I promise I won’t blog this entire post about a hard-boiled egg either, though it will be lovely, warm, creamy yolk, Judy’s Jumbo organic brown egg, with a sprinkle of pepper and sea salt.

Every time I eat a properly, for me boiled egg, I am always reminded of that movie about the woman who blogs all the Julia Child recipes after having made them and then eaten the results.

She, the character, grouses about eating a poached egg and then when she finally does eat it, all the richness and complexity of it, if it’s done right, a poached egg is heavenly, almost cheesy in its flavor and texture and really delicious.

A soft-boiled egg is the same for me.

And I should be able to eat it and not check out and it should be enough to tide me over until the morning breakfast comes.

I had lots of nice food today too, it was a busy day with the boys and the parents have friends visiting in town, so take out was ordered.

I had the burrito bowl from Papalote for dinner.

A burrito bowl, for those of you not in the know, is a burrito sans skin, meaning, no wrap.

“Will you get sick if you eat bread,” my five-year old charge asked me on the way back from the park, “can you touch it?”

“Of course I can touch it, I made you a sandwich yesterday with bread, I just can’t eat it, it makes me feel bad,” I said.

Which is far closer to the truth than most people can comprehend.

I am not a celiac, I am not gluten intolerant, I have an allergy to processed sugar and flour.

I break out into more.

And I want to eat it all.

It is no fun and I don’t like hiding pastry in my bag, so I don’t do it.

And I have a solution around it and active recovery.

Enough said.

Was it not a lovely sunset tonight?

It was glorious.

On Wednesdays I get done with work and instead of doing the deal in the Mission or the Castro, I rock my bike home and hang out in the Outer Sunset.

“You live out here?” He asked me as the lights came up in the candle light room.

“Yup, about a year and a half now,” I said, “right down the street, 46th and Judah.”

“Man, I want to live out here, it’s great,” he said, “I’m jealous.”

It’s not bad.

It’s pretty fucking good, who the hell am I kidding.

I love the ocean being so close and the sunset on my bike ride home through the park, then cresting down Lincoln Ave from Chain of Lakes, the air was bedazzled with burnt umber and gold and glowing with the sun floating into the sea.

I was blown away and smiled as I drifted down the last few blocks to the home front.

The only drawback is that I am riding my bicycle directly into the sun and it’s hard to see.

I don’t like riding without my glasses though and I don’t have prescription sunglasses.  Which I am starting to think I better get.

Especially for Burning Man this year.

I’m going to have to prepare myself for a lot more time outside.

A lot.

This means extra sunblock and some sunglasses.

Last year I went to the eye doctor and found out that my eyes have developed an astigmatism and I can’t wear contacts.

Which would have been perfect for the playa, but nope.

In the past few years, especially the last two, I have not done a lot of out and about during the day, I ended up being in the trailer of the family I worked for.  The little guy was super heat sensitive, so we spent a lot of time in the a/c.

I don’t foresee a/c in my next Burning Man adventure.

Although, who knows what’s going to happen.

I still don’t.

“You were a nanny at Burning Man?” The visiting mom and dad said with incredulity.  “Really?  Did you have any fun, did you have any time off to go and play?”

“No.” I said pretty succinctly.

“Oh tell them your playa name,” the mom I work for said, “it’s just awesome.”

I laughed.

“Mary F’ing Poppins,” I smiled.  “One of the mom’s I used to work for said I was like Mary Fucking Poppins with tattoos, and thus, my playa name was born.”

“Wow, I had no idea people do that,” the mom said, poking at the dad, maybe we could go…..”

I smiled and left the room to attend to the monkeys at the table, two visiting girls and my two guys.

And my burrito bowl.

I am going to be having a bit more of a conversation about Burning Man with the family come this Friday.

I realized that Friday is our six months anniversary working together and we should have done a performance evaluation at 90 days, which never happened.

Suffice to say I know that the family loves me and I love working for them and it’s a great fit, but I did think to myself it would be good to touch base about moving forward, especially since I know what my graduate school dates are for the retreat and the first weekend of classes.

And since I want to go to that thing in the desert where they burn the man, dude.

Both the mom and dad said we don’t have any criticism of what you’re doing, when I brought it up today, we don’t need to do an evaluation.

That was nice to hear.

But I made it clear that it was also about defining our goals moving forward and what they want from me and I from them and starting the communication process now instead of waiting until a month before the event and saying, uh, yeah, and I want to go to Burning Man too.

Mostly it’s because I want to take my vacation time separate from when the family does theirs.

Meaning I want to be paid for my time off.

And that may take some navigating, but I know that I can.

I feel really lucky right now.

Graced might be a better word for it.

I have a good job.

I have a good home.

I have a good life.

I am going to graduate school.

I am going to Atlanta.

I am going to San Diego.

I think I will be putting “I’m going to Burning Man,” onto that list soon.

And now.

It’s time for my egg.

I almost didn’t write my entire blog about my snack.

Almost.

Heh.

I’m Free

March 2, 2015

I was drifting down towards the sea on Lincoln Ave after just by passing a long line of cars on Chain of Lakes, on my bicycle, happy, happy, free.

I’m free.

I smiled so big I think I could have broken my smile muscles.

But no fear.

They still work.

I’m smiling now.

I could also entitle this blog “I Don’t Care.”

“So how do you feel about that,” he asked me over roasted herb chicken at Firewood Cafe, “about…”

I interrupted without thought, “I don’t care.”

I smiled.

I really don’t.

We were talking about the few dates I went on last week and how that was and what I was thinking about it and it just popped out.

I don’t care.

Oh my god what a relief.

I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t care if I have a date or not this next week, I’m happy.

I’m doing so well in my life right now.

Things just seem so smooth that I could care less whether or not I’m getting asked out or asking out anyone.

In fact, I’m sort of bored with it.

The asking out thing.

I mean, I am so grateful I did all that work and worked some more around my ideal, my sexual ideal, which is just a version of myself that I am striving for, I don’t expect him to come in on a white charger to save my ass.

I already saved it.

I didn’t have some wild and crazy Sunday, it was sunny, I went grocery shopping, I rode my bicycle along Great Highway and saw the ocean, I did some laundry, I met with a lady bug and talked about amending behaviors and did some amending myself.

With no thought as to the results.

I don’t care.

I took the action.

That’s where it’s at, the action.

That’s where the faith comes in.

I believe in myself and I take action to care for myself and when I looked around my sweet little studio, with my new antlers hanging on the wall (on a back board of wood in the shape of a heart), my fresh made bed, my jackalopes perched in their corners, my bunnies all arrayed in their spots, I knew that there was nothing I needed.

I have it all.

I don’t know how long this feeling will last.

This too shall pass, the good and the bad, it all passes, but the serenity in the face of the ups and downs and the passing and going hither and yon, I don’t think that is going to pass.

As long as I continue to take the actions indicated and not rest on my laurels.

When I was riding my bicycle to the Castro to meet with my three o’clock sit down and do the deal, I was reminded, a scent memory, a visual reminder, of a day in my childhood with the bright sun shining down and the carnival or circus or fair I was at with my mom and dad and grandmother.

I remember the palm trees shaking against the blue sky and the little rubber ducks that went by on a stream of water and the small, bright, balloons on the peg board, I remember holding a hand, my grandmother’s or my mothers.

I remember strings of lights over head, but they weren’t lit yet, it was still sunny, I remember the feel of asphalt under my feet and the white paint that felt just a touch tacky as if the paint was still wet.

I was in a cotton dress.

Violet or soft purple, I can’t quite see it, it flits at the edge of the memory.

I remember walking through stalls, as though at a farmer’s market, so perhaps it was the state fair, I don’t know.

But the memory washed over and my heart opened and I grinned happy to know that my life is so full and rich and wonderful.

I have a lot of memories that I don’t remember from my childhood.

That is a side effect of trauma.

I went through a lot of it.

I don’t remember it.

Thank you God.

Instead, I remember the smell of popcorn on the wind and my grandmother buying me a small plastic bird that she stopped to fill with water and when I blew on the stem it bubbled and spit a little then trilled a warbling song of childhood.

A memory of laughter caught in the plastic throat of a toy bird.

I remember my grandmother giving me a glass of coconut milk from the white paper pint carton in the refrigerator.

How sweet it was and the pulp that squashed between my teeth.

“You’re golden, like someone from Polynesia,” he said to me on Friday.

I laughed, “I’m half Puerto Rican and Polynesian, as a matter of fact.”

No wonder I love dousing myself in coconut butter lotion and hair conditioner.

I just did.

I climbed out of the shower after my day of bicycle riding and grocery shopping, of cooking (Chicken and shrimp with ginger and garlic, onions, green beans, carrots, broccoli, pea pods, cabbage, and brown rice–throw some Braggs Amino’s on that and it’s a party) and I heard Regina Spektor on my stereo and I thought.

I really am free.

Free to do what I want.

Free to be the woman I want to be.

Free to wear funky eyewear and a flower in my hair.

Free to remember the good parts and not be ashamed of the hard things and the growth experiences I went through to get here.

It’s all a gift, folks.

This life, this love.

This light.

This sunshine.

So much love.

So much freedom.

“I don’t care,” I smiled, then I laughed, I laughed so hard I almost cried, a tear slid out from behind my fabulous eyewear and I took off my glasses and wiped it off the top of my cheek.

“It’s amazing!”

“Girl, you’ve done the work,” he closed the book and held out his hands to me.

We held hands and said some words and breathed and the world breathed right along with us.

I’m free.

Sings so soft as if she’ll break.

Laugh so loud.

Because I know that there’s nothing wrong.

For on this day I’ve learned to fly.

Will There Be Naked People?

October 8, 2014

He asked as we cruised up Chain of Lakes hitting the pavement one bicycle after the other.

I laughed.

“Maybe, yes, probably,” I chuckled to myself, “maybe not the kind of naked people who you want to see.”

The last time I saw a naked person at Decompression was about three years ago and she wasn’t exactly naked, but she was shirt cocking (what does one call it when it’s a female doing it?  Shirt cunting?) and it was disturbing.

I don’t know why, I didn’t stop to analyze it.

I don’t like shirt cocking in either male or female of the human species.

If you don’t know the reference it means a person, usually male, usually gay, usually a little older, who is sporting a white (I suppose it could be another color, but they always seem white, like the person is compensating for not wearing tidy whities thus they wear a white shirt) t-shirt with no pants underneath.

No underpants, that is.

The line of questioning was brought up by my companion riding through the park this evening.

“Carmen!”

“Hey, Blake!”

Glad I remembered your name, always a touch awkward when you meet someone and then can’t recall their name, although they never seem to fail to nail yours down at the moment of reconnection.

I met Blake last week, Thursday or Friday evening riding through the Pan Handle.

“Nice rim,” he said to me as we were waiting for the light to change on Masonic.

“Thanks,” I smiled, “you’ve got a nice ride too.”

He started peppering me with questions about my bicycle, have I always ridden in fixed, how is it riding in San Francisco with only one speed, where did I get my bicycle, how did I navigate the hills, etc.

Turns out he had just moved here two months ago.

I departed my twelve years living in San Francisco wisdom, “The Wiggle is essential,” I said.   And it really is, especially for anyone who lives on the Western edge of the city, it’s the only way to avoid the big hills.

I also diverted from the path a slight bit as the bike route will take a bicyclists slightly off course and I thought I had lost my riding companion to a different course, when he popped up again on Martin Luther King Jr.

“How did you get past me?” He asked.

“Oh just a little short cut, you’ll catch it sooner rather than later if you keep riding this way, where are you headed?”

“46th and Kirkham.”

“Neighbor!  I’m at 46th and Judah.”

We rode through the park together and chatted about the differences in bicycling in San Francisco versus Austin, where he’d just moved from.

I have ridden in Austin and the predominant flatness is quite appealing.

But there is something to the briskness of riding a cool October evening through Golden Gate Park that fills a space inside me with lightness and an expansive sense of gratitude to be alive.

It’s nice to make a bicycle friend.

It was nice to reunite on the ride home tonight.

I like knowing the people in my neighborhood.

“You live in the best part of town,” he said to me, shaking his head with envy, “the beach, all those cafes, the beach, surfing, the beach, do you surf?”

“I’ve gone out a whopping three times,” I said, “but I do love listening to the rumble of the surf as I write in the morning or blog it out at night.

In fact, I can here that roar right now, in between the spaces of the words I am typing, it’s a nice counterpoint and rather meditative.

Especially at the speed I type at.

I am lucky to live here.

I did contemplate what it would be like to be back in the Mission though, today as I whipped onto Valencia Street from 17th as I headed into work this morning.

Man the commute would be so much easier if I was in the Mission.

I would move back to the Mission if something became available that is comparable or better than what I have now.

I would.

I love my spot though, and it is home and I doubt that what I have here can be replicated there.

It will make a long commute to Decompression this Sunday, however.

I did it last year and I rode my bicycle.

I met a friend for coffee at Four Barrel then we rode our bicycles over to the Dogpatch for the party.

I actually wasn’t on the list to get into the event, but I ran into my, at the time, employer, who was going in with her husband and the little boy I was taking care of.

I danced and roamed and hung out with friends and had a mini family reunion, mostly of little people, all my little Burning Man charges, and I am hoping for some more of that this weekend.

“What’s Decompression?” Blake asked.

He and I were talking about weekend plans and I had mentioned that I was going and since he was new to the city he had to go, it really is such a San Francisco party.

“It’s the official San Francisco after party for Burning Man,” I replied.

Which led to the naked people comment.

I think that there is a contingent of people who look at Burning Man as one big beautiful naked person festival.

And granted, there are some gorgeous naked people who get groovy out there in their birthday suits, I mean, they are certainly the ones getting their pretty selves photographed and in Rolling Stone.

But just like when you go to a nudist colony, there’s more than one Uncle Bob shirt cocking his wrinkly bits to put me off the idea that the majority of naked people are attractive.

The opposite is true is what I find.

But who am I to break someone’s fantasy.

“There’s naked people,” I said again, “and dancing, and music, and art, and fire, and it’s of course, loads of people in costume.  You should definitely check it out.”

“See you later!”  I called as I spun down Lincoln off of Chain of Lakes for my last leg of the journey home.

Blake crossed over Lincoln with visions of naked girls dancing in his head.

“Yeah!  At Decompression.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

Fully clothed.

“Night!”

“Night, neighbor, safe riding.”

I smiled and whipped the rest of the way down the road.

See you at a Dogpatch near you soon!

Nice Vespa!

April 25, 2014

What year is it?

1965.

Fucking awesome!

Thanks!

Then, kerchunk.

I killed it on the hill turning onto Fell Street.

Ha.

That’s what you get for flirting with the guy on the corner.

Well, I might have killed it anyway, it’s my newest challenge, going up a hill in gear, first mind you, while using the rear brake to stabilize me and then easing off said brake, letting out the clutch and giving it a little gas.

Not too much.

Not too little.

Just the right mix.

I have it down when I am in the flats and am getting proficient enough with it that I can smoothly slow down, down shift, stop, and ease it right back out after the stop and keep moving forward.

Most of the time.

I still have my moments.

Then, I have to think about the fact that today was time number seven, of being out on my Vespa riding, and three of those rides were short with someone else with me.

I took it up to Church and Market today to do a meet up at Crepevine and then head over to Our Lady of Safeway, except that I didn’t.

After my meeting at Crepevine it started to rain.

Not a lot.

But enough.

Enough that my companion urged me to skip where I was going and head home before it did start to really come down.

The rain wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow, but that’s what happens in San Francisco.

The weather can be a little tricky and I did not want to push my luck with it.

As it happened, I made it back without getting more than just a little sprinkled on.

And I can say that I am getting the hang of it more and more.

I still have what I call my pre-game warm up.

I get nerves.

I get anxious.

I have to breathe through it, roll my shoulders a little, loosen up my body, say a word to the powers that be and give myself more than adequate time to get where ever I am going.

There is a ritual involved to rolling it out and starting it up and I am getting a small routine, but it’s going to be a little longer before I just hop on and cruise off.

Granted, it’s getting easier to will my way into riding.

I expressed tonight at the restaurant that I am more scared than I would like to let on, but then, I have had moments of unadulterated fun, the moving through the park, on John F. Kennedy, has really helped, the green, the lushness, the Chain of Lakes, the Bison in the paddock.

Even, yes, the frisbee golfer warming up tonight as I headed home in the dusk trying to beat out the rain fall.

There’s another thing I can get myself into, frisbee golf.

Free.

Yeah.

I like those sorts of activities.

It would require a small investment to buy a couple of discs and I could hop my scooter and be over to the course in ten or fifteen minutes.

My friend’s partner, said friend who sold me the scooter,  got really excited for me when she saw me last, giving me a big hug she said, “it’s going to open up the city to you in ways you cannot imagine.”

I knew she was right when she said it, but I think I am just starting to get an inkling of what that might look like.

I am a bit bummed that there’s rain forecasted for tomorrow, I know, I know, we need the rain, but I would have like to have ridden the Vespa into the Castro tomorrow, met with my friends, then headed over to the End Up for some dancing.

I am not willing to take her out yet in the rain.

I will, I am sure, at some point take a ride in the rain, but unless it’s absolutely necessary, I don’t see the point.  I can take MUNI, not worry about my burgeoning scooter skills, and stay dry.

I had visions of perhaps going to Kabuki before heading out, but perhaps I will save that for the weekend instead.

Dancing is the only thing on the menu, so far.

I had my half day.

It definitely threw me for a loop, getting out of my routine, going in early, leaving early.

I did not care for it and I did not know what to do with myself, but I just told myself, next little action in front of you and see where it leads.

Lead me home, but not quite to the house, I buzzed by, on my bicycle, earlier, I am still riding my bike into my nanny gigs, and hit the Noriega Produce Market for groceries and supplies to get me through the weekend.

I knew the forecast called for rain, so I figured, get the shopping for food out-of-the-way.  Then back to the house, chop up some raw veggies, eat some hummus, have a bowl of homemade soup and do my “morning” pages, which were clarifying and helped me resolve to continue taking next action, which, yes, led to me meditating.

I can stand that.

The quieting of my mind.

Getting into my body.

“You are so hard on yourself,” she said to me tonight, leaning over the table, “you really don’t have to be.”

I don’t even know it.

I don’t see it.

I don’t feel it.

Once in a while I can see I am learning to ease up.

But most times not.

It’s rather like learning to ride this vintage Vespa, it’s a practice, an easing up, a letting out the clutch and an easing off the throttle.

I am so used to going full throttle and riding the clutch with a death grip.

Ease up.

Slow down.

Mellow out.

Be nice to the scooter.

Fuck.

Be nice to me.

I may not have gotten as much done today as I would like (laundry, cooked food for the weekend–black-eyed peas with kale and broccoli, laced with browned organic ground pork and onions and garlic, pot of savory brown rice–turmeric, garlic, black pepper, ginger, adobo, wrote four pages long hand–I had the time, rode my scooter, met up for tea with someone who has a better perspective on my life than I do, worked a half day, finished my library book–Telegraph Avenue, Michael Chabon) but I did do a lot more than I let myself acknowledge.

For today, for at least this moment.

I acknowledge I do a good job.

The best I can.

And that is pretty damn good.

 


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