Posts Tagged ‘company’

Nocturne

May 18, 2017

Just out of a super hot shower and swaddled in blankets tucked away in the prow of the sleeping quarters on the houseboat listening to Chopin.

It is sweet and dreamy and all things rainy night in Paris.

I am finally not wet and cold.

It rained.

It poured.

It was a deluge.

I had Mike Doughty’s “Sad Girl Walking in the Rain” stuck in my head for hours.

However.

I was not sad.

I was dreamy.

I was bemused.

I was looking at all the things.

I was seeing the poetry in the wet cobblestones.

In the unexpected flair of a red rain poncho covering an old man as he pedaled his bicycle along the Seine.

I saw the heavy-headed peonies, blushing pink and sweet underneath the floral shop awning, drowsed with rain and nodding on their pale green stems.

I smelled roses, drunk with rain and walked underneath flowering chestnut trees.

I got wet.

Oh.

I got so wet.

Drenched.

Doused.

Soaked.

And yet.

My heart felt light and I strode along the avenues, occasionally lost and adrift in the details of the weather and in the welter of my soul as it beat against my rib cage, sometimes it lives there, underneath my heart, just behind my rib cage, a plummeting bird singing a song, sad and melancholic, beautiful and lyric and like the timpani softly chiming it sings a song just to me.

I was not sad.

I was not melancholic.

I was steered toward that direction once or twice when the rain seemed to overtake me and my feet got wet, but the lightness in me kept me warm.

I was surprised to find, when I finally took shelter in a cafe bistro, that my hands were so cold from clasping the umbrella handle that I could not bend my fingers properly.

I had a quiet dinner in a small bistro on Rue de Bac.

Roast chicken and roasted vegetables, sweet and savory in their juices, a Comte cheese plate with a simple mixed green salad and a few drops of balsamic vinaigrette, a small bottle of Perrier, and a cafe creme.

I sat and almost became melancholic and I can feel a sad story trying to escape my heart and perhaps it is just the poesies of the art I saw earlier still nestled there, but I did not let myself drift there.

You are not alone in Paris having dinner you are with yourself and your company is lovely.

I sat and looked at the rain falling outside, the umbrella stand tilted over, heavy with parpluies, the round wooden bistro chairs tucked underneath tables, more peonies and pink roses on the bar, the old man who tumbled by underneath a large yellow and red and blue golf umbrella, chased by the rain towards home, I presume.

I tasted the cafe creme and once caught my own eye in the long mirror to my side and thought, who is that beauty?

Oh.

Ha.

It’s me.

And that made me, for a moment soften and sadden for all those times when my company was not enough for me, not knowing how rich and good it is, and I longed for another and there was no other and I was alone in Paris eating my steak tartar in a bistro years ago somewhere in the 9th arrondissement in the rain.

Oh.

Paris in the rain, you can be so sad and lonely.

Or.

You can shine with lustre like a rare pearl, polished in the fiery embers of the red lights reflected in the wet street pavement.

I am never alone when I am with Paris.

We are lovers.

Yes.

My own secret language of dreams, and do you really wonder why I have it tattooed on my chest, dream, in French, that is.

I saw you as I walked back to the house boat after my lovely well curated little meal, a single swan in the Seine, in the rain, long graceful neck slightly curved beneath the weight of the glory of being its own perfect self.

Perhaps I too am like that.

In moments here and there.

In the light that reflects from the raindrops, in the light that is cast from the bateaux mouche as they traverse the river up and down, constantly ferrying souls to and fro.

There are times I am lonely.

Yet.

I am never alone.

Unfettered and loved.

I am here.

I am there.

I am in the notes of revery between the keys on the piano, the soft hand strikes the ivory and music resonates, pearling into the air about me like staccato raindrops on the roof of the houseboat.

And so.

I go forward.

Warm now.

Sheltered from the rain.

But not quite a part from it.

As it, like the music, like the painting that blew my heart out in the Musee L’Orangerie today, blew it out, devoured it, rendered it changed and altered and smashed my face with soft tears that drifted shamelessly down my face, awestruck in the face of such grace, is now ground into me.

The rain.

The poetry.

The Chopin.

The art.

The city.

A swan of desire upon my fevered face.

I shall not forget soon.

No.

I shall not.

This blasphemous joy.

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Take The Day Off

October 1, 2015

How the fuck does one do that?

I have things to do.

I have places to go.

I have blogs to write.

Don’t you know that?

Haven’t you encouraged me to do just this, write, live my life, do my thing?

I thought so.

So.

Here I am showing up one more time at this keyboard.

But typing rather fast, if I do say so myself.

I do have places to go other than this small laptop.

I have a beautiful new bed to crawl into.

That’s right.

The mattress has arrived and I wish I had actually video taped the unboxing.

It was hella fun.

And fast.

It took perhaps two minutes, three, tops, to let out of the box, unseal the plastic and arrange it on the wooden slats of my Ikea frame.

Then I laid down and made the “sushi face.”

“Uh, haha, I guess I know what you look like when you have sex,” my friend said to me years ago when we were in We Be Sushi and I was having a Dragon Roll.

I can’t help myself.

I make a face.

And apparently it is a tad sexual in nature.

Or I could just say that I am expressive.

I was a touch expressive when I lay down on the mattress.

“Oh my God.”

Then I giggled madly.

I am looking forward much to getting into that bed and making all sorts of “sushi faces.”

Heh.

Especially since I have finished and sent in the paper for my Therapeutic Communications class and I also realized that I was caught up on the reading.  I mean that makes two classes that I am caught up with all the reading and all the assignments.

I have two other classes of course where I am not.

However.

I am much further than I was the last time I had class.

And I feel that this will become a trend with me.

Getting it done.

I can’t help it.

I don’t have the time to let things slide.

Although.

Occasionally.

I do have time to.

Let my love light shine.

And breathe.

And ride my bicycle in the rain.

It rained today!

I was not happy about it, I don’t like commuting on my bicycle in the rain, but I was also grateful for it and the rich smell of it heralded me all the way up Lincoln Avenue and through the Pan Handle and on into work.

Today in work stories.

I managed to not let myself freak out too much.

I stayed focused on my job and being of service to the family and putting into my job rather than taking out of it.

And.

I made a new dish for dinner that I have never made before.

The mom and I renamed it since it was mushroom casserole and ain’t no five-year old boy anywhere going to chow down on mushroom casserole, so we called it quinoa risotto with mushrooms and cheese.

Heavy emphasis, mine, on the cheese.

The three-year old will sometimes ask me to just put shredded cheese in his little outstretched hand so he can just eat as quick as possible.

Once.

When the parents were not around I actually tipped the plastic bag directly into his mouth, he just begged and I couldn’t help it, I didn’t drown him in cheese, thank you very much, but I did pour a good amount into his happy little face.

So.

Mushroom risotto with CHEESE.

Really, it was casserole, made with quinoa.

I remember when I had no idea what the hell quinoa was.

You may not know what quinoa is either.

I don’t think I did until I moved to San Francisco and despite having had it a few times I have never made it until today.

It was easy and the casserole, er, I mean, risotto, was lovely.

I may end up making it for myself one of these days.

You know.

When I have a bunch of free time.

Hahahaha.

Ah.

Fuck.

Sorry friends.

Sorry if I don’t go running out to the clubs to cut a rug or to the cafe to hang out or to that dinner party, house-warming, baby shower, birthday party, fellowship dealio.

Sorry.

I’m busy.

“You’re just going to have to put your head down and say, hey, I’ll see you in three years,” my person said to me over a tea the last time I sat down and did some work with her.  “Some of your friends aren’t going to be happy about that, but they will all understand it, and when you can and where you can, you will find the time to make to hang out with friends.”

It just won’t be what you want it to look like.

And.

It won’t be how they want it to look like.

And I want to date.

Who the fuck am I kidding.

Although there does seem to be space between the space to sneak things in, there is still the schedule and the routine and the doing that I do to take care of the things that I need to.

“Don’t stop writing on my account,” he said and went back to checking something on his phone.

He sat and watched me write my blog from the chaise lounge across the room.

Demands change.

Friends and lovers.

Graduate school and work.

Recovery.

Let me not forget that.

I can’t really take too much time off from that, at all.

I have to do these things and I make no excuses for that.

I am this woman.

And.

Should you want me to come out and play, I will, I just need to take care of a few things first.

Really.

Just a few.

I promise.


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