Posts Tagged ‘coast’

Jam Packed

December 1, 2017

And now.

Just chilling in my bunny slippers.

It’s been a busy week and I can’t believe tomorrow is Friday.

I mean.

I’m hella happy it’s Friday, it just seems incredulous to me that the end of the week is almost here.

Of course that speaks to the amount of things that I have been juggling.

Just a few things.

Practicing my lecture for the People Who Usually Don’t Lecture series.

They posted my headshot today and the nicest write-up.

I was really quite taken with what they wrote about me.

It was really flattering.

They took the bio I sent them yesterday and extrapolated it and made it more personal somehow and also a bit more polished.

It was nice to see it and I shared it to my social media.

It’s going to be interesting whatever happens as I will be getting quite a bit of exposure from it, I’ve been dark on my blog for months now, since May, nearly seven months, for the sake of working with my therapy client, so this will be a kind of exposure I haven’t had in months.

I’m reconciled with it.

I doubt, highly doubt that any of my clients will stumble on this, despite social media and it’s far reach, but the video will be posted to YouTube and I do wonder about that.

Then again.

I’m not that fucking special.

Although my supervisor forewarned me that there will come a time that as a therapist I will have a client stalk me.

Great.

Thanks for the cheery news.

I didn’t share with him that I have been stalked before.

I’m not sure how I would take it a second time.

I’m sure, though, that I will respond to it far differently.

Anyway.

I’ll be out in the public eye for a moment and then something else shiny will be in the eye of the public and my ten minutes of fame will dissolve into the ether.

I’m excited to do it and have the experience.

I think that’s the biggest thing, it’s a cool experience to get to have and I’m excited for that.

I like experiences.

I’ve had an idea vaguely growing in the back of my mind that I may have to take a little mini road trip in my new car once I clear the hurdle of the semester.

Maybe go see some lighthouses.

Drive down the coast.

Just a little jaunt.

I think that could be a lot of fun.

I don’t however, have much room in my head for figuring that out.

I’m just trying to make it through the next seven days until I hit my last weekend of classes.

I have plenty to do in that seven days.

I’m going to knock out the rest of the online stuff and get at least one of my papers written this weekend as well as crafting the worksheet I’m going to hand out to my classmates in my Transpersonal Psychology class as part of my final group projects.

Gah.

I hate group projects.

I got a bit overwhelmed with one of the people in my group over the last couple of days and I realized this morning after reading another text that I was just being anxious and that I could respond with kindness and just let her know I was doing my best to manage my overwhelm, that I would contact her regarding the project, but she was going to have to wait until Sunday.

And it all worked out and after some more messaging later today, it feels like it’s coming together and I’m going to be ok.

What with the rehearsal I have resigned myself to not getting all the paper writing done that I was hoping to get done, but I will finish at least one of my papers and hopefully get a good start on the second.

I also, note to self, still have to write-up a dream for Jungian Dreamwork, not a hard thing, but a two pager that still has to be done.

And that needs to be done before class as well.

The final paper for that class is due the 15th of the month.

Fuck.

December.

Tomorrow.

It’s December.

How the hell did that come up so fast?

I have decided one thing though.

I will let myself get my Christmas tree when I finish and turn in my Jungian Dream Work final paper.

That will be incentive.

And it will be a fun thing to reward myself with when I am all done with the semester.

I had briefly entertained the idea of getting the tree this upcoming weekend, but no way, too fucking busy.

Then I thought.

Maybe when I wrap up classes for the semester, next Sunday.

But then.

I realized that it would be the best feeling if I did it when I had absolutely nothing hanging over my head and that won’t be until I hand in every last piece of work that the semester is demanding.

Then.

The tree.

It makes it more special.

It will be a way to mark the end of classes and a sweet way for me to celebrate.

I can almost smell the evergreen now.

Sigh.

Three final papers.

One dream reaction paper.

Finish my online portion for Psychopharmacology.

And.

Do the final project presentation work.

Just a few things standing in between me and that Christmas tree.

But no worries.

I will get it done.

I always do.

Always.

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Date Night

April 24, 2017

Date Night* Written 4/20/17 WordPress site down

 

And Debussy.

I am listening to Clare de Lune and my heart feels full.

It is a good thing.

I just got back from a date and it was really quite lovely.

Lovely is not quite the right word, I am sure I will find the correct words, they elude in this moment.

But.

There is poetry here.

Sitting by the fire.

In a space full of recognition.

The doorway after the threshold.

The moment.

The moment when.

The moment, a monument of time, a granite faced creature to scale.

In that moment when.

I looked into the eyes of those across the table and did not feel shy about my history or my lineage or my drama, trauma and crazy, when I realized I had so many words, so much to say.

I could embarrass myself with a wealth of things to say, so many words.

All the words.

Piled on the table like small crudities, rare and delicate and delicious.

A smorgasboard of words.

They tumbled from my mouth and I could tell stories.

Oh.

The stories.

There are so very many.

I don’t often have the luxury of expressing myself the way that I expressed myself tonight, and all the words lined up in my mouth, a minuet of dancing syllables and vowels that bowed and courtesy and waltzed out across the table, into the air, fragmenting into poetics and poesies.

Chains of daisies, a small girl, yellow sun dress, the kind with the little elastic ribbing and the shoulder ties in string bows, sitting cross-legged in a field.

Clover.

There.

That smell.

The one field on the drive into work.

The rich, verdant, lush, overbearing sweetness of it.

Almost, but not quite a velvet purple crocus of sweetness, but deeper, with an edge, just a tiny peppery edge, that alleviates the sweetness to make the smell palatable.

All those things.

In the cross hatch of the tablecloth.

The tea bag, white Moroccan mint.

I don’t even like mint tea.

But there I am ordering it, as my mind is not concerned with the tea.

No.

Just the company.

The stories.

The tall tales.

The tall man across the way.

A waiter takes our order.

He has blood trickling from his right nostril.

I point it out to him, he walks to the bar, wipes his nose on a napkin, returns, takes our order and brings me mint tea.

The shimmering line between strings, either ecstatic in the exuberance of the violin-cello.

Or.

Discordant, the chop of a credit card breaking piles of cut cocaine in the employee bathroom.

The whisper in the hallway of the deeds done and remembered, recalled, and integrated now, the fire in the hearth.

The echo down the history.

The pub.

Harold Pinter plays.

Shakespearean sonnets with turns in the quatrain and the final couplet sings to me of the music of the spheres and the lifting of eyes toward heavens as yet only alluded to.

“Do you ever get up early in the morning and go down to the beach and drink coffee and watch the sunrise?”

No.

I never have.

The sunrise on the beach.

The mermaids they sing each to each.

The shells in a paper sack, mussels, indigo violet, malevolent blues studded with dried seaweed, the remnants of drift wood fire.

The sunrise.

The drive up the coast.

The view of the ocean from the red checked table-cloth booth, a vinyl booth my little girl legs stick to as I wait for pancakes and syrup to be set in front of me.

The sun.

The sun in my mother’s hair, reddish fired tinge, a halo of gold in the brown, mirroring the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

Undone by the beauty of my mother I dragged my fork through the buttery stickiness and surreptitiously lick the tines to catch-all the maple sugar in my mouth.

I think kissing you would be.

So sweet.

Yes.

Down to the ocean.

To the beach.

Let us go then you and I.

I shall wear my trousers rolled.

Or at least my bib overalls, and watch the foam-flecked waves throw themselves at my feet as the sun comes up again over the promises of urchins, spiny, but broke open, buttery cream orange uni, the soul, just there.

Just there.

You will kiss me in the dunes.

And all the words will come undone.

Tossed into the sand.

Where they will stay.

Like.

Scattered dropped magnetic poetry.

On the old fridge down the hall in the artist loft.

Rearranged once in a while by the hand of a passerby.

Blue scar pretty jealous skin.

 

 


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