Posts Tagged ‘creativity’

Sorted, Satiated, Seduced

July 5, 2016

By my sweet foggy city.


It is such a nice place to be.

I am so grateful I put it all back in place to when I got home last night.

I unpacked and put away all my little treasures from the trip.

Some flower hair clips.

Two vintage cardigans.

A couple pairs of cheap earrings.

Some stickers.

Two pounds of locally roasted coffee, one from Mojo and other from Hey Cafe and Coffee.

Two pairs of new sandals.

And the little bit of swag from the conference.

I was a little wound up from getting home.

I got the butterflies and the happy sparklers of joy in my belly as the plane flew in over SFO International Airport.

It is this way every time I fly into the airport.

This feeling of happiness and glee.

This recurring knowing of being home, even before I called San Francisco home, it was home.

I still remember, sixteen years later, how it felt the first time I flew in over the city and how giddy I was with it.

Anticipatory joy and love and awe.

Awe that I was coming and getting to see the friend, a man I was in love with, romantically crushed out on, a man that though I did eventually get to have for one one night, was not the man for me.


I will always be grateful for that unrequited love song that yearned in my heart for it led me to this city, this amazing space and land and confluence of fog and love and flowers in my hair and self-discovery.


Of course.

No matter what.

No matter where.

It will always be home because it is where I got sober.

No other place can lay claim to that piece of my history.

So on top of the general body and soul and heart knowing, there is this deep pocket of grace that I am here.

I leave and return.

I tried to move to Paris.

That didn’t work.

I could see living in New York, it has it’s energy and allure and spark.



I am here.

And I continue to return and be soaked with gratitude every time.

I could live in New Orleans.

Oh, the hot humid sexy of it.

The big lushness of it, the flowers and trees, the moss in the trees, the drawl of the voices, the funky, bluesy, jazzy’ness of it, the art and the creative.

And also the underground dark scary spooky.

I suppose everywhere has pockets of wildness and dark.

But I could sense it closer to the surface there than a lot of places, maybe any other place I have been.

Death and sex and hot damp over abundant wildness.

It is there just skimming along below the pulse of warm air on your skin.

I can’t quite describe it, it is intense and dark and surreal and powerful and made my skin feel electric at times, the small hairs on the back of my neck rising in silent acknowledgement of the old the, wild, the barbaric yawp.

I feel it at times, in a different kind of way, but a dark wild way, in pockets of Golden Gate park when I would ride my bike through it at night.

Not always, but often, and though a different kind of energy then what I felt in New Orleans which was at once languid and violent, it too has a dark windy animal howl.

I am compelled by both those energies, softly drawn and also quite aware and wary that it is not my space to wander through.

I get to give it a wide berth.

The other thing about New Orleans was the architecture that was so heavily French influenced.

I do have a thing for all thing Francophile.

It is a definite and well defined influence that I really felt drawn too.

Plus, the colors.

Oh, so bright and many.

And that too, is something I find wonderful and compelling about San Francisco–the Victorians and the architecture here, gorgeous and bright and colorful as well.

I also recognized a kind of art and brightness that I normally associate with San Francisco and the Burning Man culture here.

In fact, at one point when I was in a little store on Magazine Street, I recall thinking to myself that I didn’t know New Orleans was such a Burner’s city.

Then I realized that it was Burning Man influenced, though, there may be some of that too–I know Burner’s Without Borders did a lot of work in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina–it was Mardi Gras.

The store was full of costumes and feather boas and masks and at first I thought it was a store like you might find in the Haight that specializes in festival gear and clothing.


Mardi Gras.

Either way, it’s dress up.

For me, though, although I flew my personal little self-expression flag high, I was not as comfortable with it in New Orleans as I am in San Francisco.

I felt at times, if I were to live there, I would tone it down a bit.


I realized.


I am not toning it down for anyone.

I am wild and free and wonderful and live a happy, joyous, compelling life.

And so far.

That life has been focused and centered around living in San Francisco.

Even when the fog, Karl, sweetheart I did miss you, is so thick you can’t see the fireworks display in the sky on the fourth of July.

Even when I needed to unearth the heavy sweatshirt today.

Even with the tech kids and the Millennials and the people getting pushed out and the high cost of living.

Even with the extra traffic and the gentrification.

I still love it so.

I still get feathering tickles in my body of joy co-mingled with electric blue sparkles of anticipation and awe, the wonder of it all.

I get to live in San Francisco.




The luckiest girl in the world.


You’re Such A Nanny

June 10, 2016

My friend chuckled after I admitted that I almost offered him a graham cracker.

“Hey, do you want a gra….oh my god.”

I laughed.

I was so my job at the moment.

I was also just excited to be talking to adults that weren’t the parent of my charges.

Like just my peeps on the street.

I got a text asking what I was doing and where I was and I replied at the playground, my friend knows the one, and there until swimming lessons and the farmers market and laundry had to be got done.

I had already made the roasted cauliflower and vat of broccoli soup during the earlier part of the day.

It was a super sweet surprise to get to hang out with my friend and his lady, also my friend, these are your friends/here are your friends/these are your friends, and it was just a special quick moment of getting to be relaxed and playful with my charges and catch up a little with my friends.

I am so lucky to have the friends I do.

It has taken awhile.

Some relationships get let go.

Some become stronger.

Sometimes I have a friend for a few years then they disappear for a while.

That always makes me sad.


There’s not much I can do except focus on getting what I need for myself and letting that friend do what he or she has got to do to get back to where I am at.

Some do.

A lot don’t.

So the ones that stick.


They are important.

They are cherished.


Despite my apparent transparency here.

I don’t have a ton of close friends.

I have enough.

I have just what I need.

I am not complaining.

I am grateful for the amazing friends in my life.

I just am not quite so popular as my facecrack page would like you to believe.

Sometimes I just can’t keep up with it all, the events, the parties, the things, the doings the goings, but I try to keep up with a select few.

And that makes me very happy.

To know that I have friends in my life.

I am a social animal even though I try to act like I’m some sort of lone wolf.


I am quite happy to have a coffee date this weekend, some doing the deal with three different ladies, and a dinner date with a friend who is just had a really big anniversary.


I feel good because tomorrow is Friday and I’m almost through my first full time work week after school has let out.

I am getting used to getting up early again and being at the house in the mornings.

I am also happy because I had a little epiphany in the shower when I got home tonight after doing the deal.

I was laughing to myself about the graham cracker offer at the park and then I recalled a brief conversation I had once with an acquaintance years ago.

I was nannying.


It was an afternoon in the Mission and the parents I worked for were hella cool about letting me take there kids everywhere.

Even church basements.

And as I sat in the spot, the metal folding chair more comfortable than the crap running through my brain which was why I was there during the work day instead of after the work day had finished, one of my monkeys was getting fussy.

So I took him out of the stroller and nestled him on my shoulder and crooned to him and rocked him until he fell asleep, heavy in my arms, completely warm, soft, a puddle of love, all collapsed on my shoulders.

I hummed a lullaby under my breath.

I have two go to’s–the classic “Hush Little Baby” and one I made up that consists of a couple of bars that I hum.

I couldn’t tell you what key it’s in.

Perhaps the key of gratitude.


It’s affective.

I cannot tell you how many babies, toddlers, children I have hummed that little ditty to, rocked to sleep, held through teething bouts, calming them down at the park after a scraped knee or a startled dropped plate shatters on the floor.

I would later, much later, realize, fuck I am dense, hit on me after the deal was wrapped up.

“I don’t know that I have ever envied a two year old more,” he said to me, eyes a twinkle, “what I wouldn’t give to be held in your lap having you sing me a lullaby.”

God damn it.

Even writing that I can tell he was hitting on me.

I however, was busy bundling the monkey back into the stroller and keeping the other one, I specialize in nanny shares and almost always do double duty, busy with the snacks and the milk.

I tucked the blankets around them and smiled.

I walked away.

And I wonder why I am single.



Total digression.

All this in a flash in the shower, the lullaby, the song, the oh!



I got it.

I got it!

Lullabies and Love Songs.

My book!


Well, my chap book.

I’m not sure how much I’m going to get, but it has been needling at me to put together a group of poems.


Or should it be.

Love Songs and Lullabies?

Not sure.


I want to gather my materials.

I have tons of poems scattered through out my notebooks.

I want to go through them and find the pearls.

There’s a lot of dross.

But there is gold too.

I will also mine this blog.

I have some poems tucked in here too.

I got super excited.

I have something to report on for the podcast and I have a real sense of it.

I can see it very well.

And I want it.

I want to do this.

Lullabies and Love Songs.

That’s the one.

That sounds good coming out of my mouth.



I like having a creative goal and I don’t know that I’m ready to go back in and try and re-work my book yet.

I also do want to find one of my old short stories.

I have an idea to polish it up and submit it to Glimmer Train for their emerging authors contest.

I have had a short story published, but the circulation, I’m pretty freaking sure, was under 5,000, which was the cut off to be considered for the contest.


I am going to do this.

I usually do.

When I put it here.

This blog.

My blueprint.

My happy.

My graham cracker.


My crumble bum muse, tumbled out like grains of sand from the park expedition, harmonies of love and joy and the sweet hands of a little boy riding my shoulders calling my name out gleefully as we stride down Valencia street.

Can’t ask for more

My life.




I Look Like A Graduate

February 21, 2015

School student.

That is what just went through my mind.

I got my new glasses in the mail.

Thanks Optical Underground!

I went into get the frames on Monday, and it’s Friday and they are here in my house, on my face, looking fierce.

Looking smart.

Looking, like, well, a sassy, graduate school, hipster (I hate to admit it, but they are hipster frames).


I look the part, I am the part, I am going to be a fucking graduate school student.

Blows me away.

The glasses are sort of funky, dark forest green, hand-made by RVS, expensive looking, with brown stems and a slightly oversize feel to them.

They are statement pieces.

I am wearing statement glasses.

It’s nice to have splurged on a new pair of glasses.

I’m seeing things different all over.


I went on another first date tonight, one which I had almost talked myself out of–we’re not going to have anything in common–but fortunately did not.

We have plenty in common.

Friends, tattoos, we both bicycle commute, about the same amount of time hanging out in church basements, he’s an artist, I’m a writer.

It was good times.

I had fun and we didn’t run out of things to talk about.

We closed the cafe.

Not that we were out super late, 11p.m. but it’s fun to do that, get into a conversational groove and close down the place you are hanging out in.

I would say the only drawback that I can see is that we are both really busy people

That’s what happens to people like us, we get fucking busy.

Life gets bigger and there’s just more and more stuff to do.

We both agreed that there was something more to talk about and I said I would like to hang out if he would, and he said, I’ve got your number.


He’s also tall.

A plus.

And grounded, like solid in his shit, and has a job and is self-supporting, and smart.

Good times.

This dating thing is not so bad.

Although I can talk myself out of it real quick.

It is work and I do get tired of thinking about it and praying about it and writing about it and doing the asking.

“What are you doing asking guys out?” My friend said tonight as he sat next to me checking in about his relationship with his girlfriend.

“I don’t get asked out,” I said.

“Your beauty intimidates guys,” he replied, “if I wasn’t seeing someone I would ask you out, I absolutely would, you radiate love and kindness, and you really are stunning.”

I was flattered, it was nice to hear.

I hope to radiate love and kindness, that’s what it’s about anyway, I believe.

And what girl doesn’t like to hear that she’s beautiful?



I felt cute today, in my mohair suit.

Or my leopard print leggings as the case may be.

That was the outfit for today at work and it transitioned well from day to-night.


I did want to look cute for my date, but I like looking cute in general and I love my leopard print leggings, especially since I have been doing a lot of bicycling and my legs, well, they look tidy in some leopard print.

All fashion bases covered.

I am ready for my interview on Thursday.

However, I don’t want to not enjoy my weekend thinking about Thursday, it will come when it comes and I will be fine.

“You are so in, you are so charming and affable and you probably interview like a dream,” she said to me last night as I called to check in with her.

I feel like compliments have just been falling out of the sky.

Thanks folks.

I do feel quite confident about it and now that I have my new statement, eclectic, sassy glasses, I am ready for the next step in the process.

In its own way, though I am not subscribing to a costume or a persona, it’s nice to look the part.

I feel like I fit in all of a sudden, even though I am not in yet, I feel like a graduate school girl.

It’s rather exciting.

I like how my life is unfolding.

It’s been a hard at times, the break up was more challenging than I thought it would be and there are times I still miss the guy, and there are times when I think of him, but that’s to be expected.


I don’t though.


I’m moving on.

I have moved on.

And though I wasn’t wont to say it at the time, I do remember having a pause in my thoughts, in my heart, when I thought, will this relationship be able to sustain itself with me in graduate school?

I didn’t believe it would.

In fact, he even said the same thing at one point, early on, about already losing me to school when I had mentioned that my intentions were to pursue a Master’s degree.

I suggested we live in the present moment and not worry about it, but it was on the table and I did think about it and I think he did too.

I had one long-term relationship that fell apart when I went after my undergraduate degree.

Granted there was plenty of wrong in the relationship, but he was upset as all get out when I went back to school.

He did too, needless to say, after we broke up, but I think, no, I know, that whomever I date, and I will be in  a relationship again, now that I know that I can do it, I will keep at it, I will have to be with someone who supports me intellectually as well as emotionally and spiritually.

He’s got to be a match for me mentally.

I don’t care so much what he looks like, the two guys I went on dates with this week are widely different in their looks.

Although there has to be some attraction on the physical level, it really has to be a good mental match and yeah, he’s got to have some smarts and creative juice.

Because I do.


This sassy soon to be graduate student is going to call it a night and get off her blog.

There’s sleep to be had and I suspect.

More dates in my near future.

I’ll be sitting pretty in my new eyewear.

Just wait and see.

It’s My Anniversary!

January 24, 2015

One week single.

I’m ready to date again.

Let’s get it on.



Really, that’s it, it’s been a week, let me be done and done.

I feel like it’s really been three weeks, the pre-break up break up was more intense than the actual break up.

I was wondering to myself today at the park when is the appropriate time to get back into dating?

Is there one?

Like I care.

I wasn’t really thinking about it, it was just that I realized I was being flirted with and it took me a minute to process that I was being hit on.

What does this guy want?  I thought to myself as I was hanging with the boys, my boys, my charges, at the park.

I think what he wanted was my phone number.


I was so obtuse.

Then I realized, oh yeah, I am single, I could say yes if I was asked out on a date, I could go out with someone not my boyfriend, I mean my ex boyfriend.

“I was pulling for you guys,” a friend said tonight.

I think a lot of folks were.

He’s a good guy.

I’m a good gal.

But sometimes it takes more than good intentions to get a relationship to run and as I checked in later with someone on the phone I got to see that I was not getting some things that are important to me and that I will need to get those things in my future relationships.

Like poetry, words, books, literature.

You know, those things really a big deal in my life since I am a writer.

Oh, yeah, I’m a nanny, a lover, a tattooed dragon girl, a bicyclist, a burner, a friend, a sister, a daughter, yada, yada, yada.

I’m a fucking writer.

Let’s not pay any attention to the fact that I applied to a Master’s Degree program that is not literature focused, shall we.

I can have a career and a job and a persona outside of the writing, but at my heart, in my core, that’s what I do.

I am not great.

I am good at best.

When I am at my best.

But  can’t stop, don’t want to stop, got to do it, so here’s me doing it, person who writes.

Along with that important tidbit is that I am a reader.

Someone who I didn’t even know was following my blog posted a quote from TS Eliot’s Four Quartets, the specific line was from the poem “Little Gidding.”

I read his comment, thought, why is that familiar, what is that?

Googled it and was abashed to realize it was Eliot, one of, if not my favorite poets, and it was from the Quartets, which are my favorite of his pieces.

I have a deep fondness for J. Alfred Prufrock, The Love Song of, as well, but there is something in the Quartets that pulverized me when I first read them in Professor Serena Pondrom’s TS Eliot class.

I went from being an atheist to being an agnostic, to actually, like Eliot having a sort of come to God moment and now relying so much on that faith that I can’t live without it, can’t do anything without it.

I use love as a short hand for God.

In case you were wondering.

I don’t belong to a religious group, though baptized Lutheran and brought up lapsed Catholic, I don’t belong to any denomination, just that I know I have a God and I’m not it.

That worked for me for a long time, then it had to get bigger and love seemed the best way to get at it.  To experience love more fully was and is to experience God more fully.

The quotation was about moving through desire to a fuller understanding of love.

Not less of love but an expansion of love beyond desire…

The line prickled at my heart, piercing my skin, I looked up the quote, and sat and read, out loud, every line, and cried.

It was so perfect.


You betcha.

But all me.

It made me realize on a very deep level that one thing I need in any future romantic relationship is this love of words and the written word, for books, and essays, and poems, and art.

I can’t live without it.

And I realized that I think, let’s put that into quotations, “think” I am not good enough to attract a like-minded individual.


I’m still not enough.

Fuck you brain.

I am too smart.

Jesus in a gravy boat.

Where does my brain come up with this crap?

I have a vocabulary that even I am impressed with, I read, I write, I use the things that make the words that tell the story.

I am intuitively intelligent and observant and have a really good memory and I like to learn and I like to talk to people about books and movies and songs and art, oh but, I’m not quite good enough to inspire a creative or an academic or what?

Nice try negative self-esteem.

Get off my ass.

Oh and by the way, didn’t you read that blog a few days ago where I finished and turned in my application for graduate school.

Yeah, because I’m dumb and nobody smart wants to date me.

Not to say my ex wasn’t smart, I’m not saying that, but he was smart about things that didn’t interest me like I am smart about things that don’t interest him and when you have two people who can’t communicate, one is smart about getting the fuck out.

Rejection is God’s protection.

Part of me being quiet around the man was that we didn’t have a common language, outside of one very obvious one, wherein we could build the relationship.

I tried some of the things he was interested in and he bugged me to make sure I was blogging, but we couldn’t find common ground and that led to the dissolution of the relationship.

Or at least was a part of it.

After reading the Eliot poem and crying I asked that I have that removed too, that idea that I am smart, but not smart enough.

That I am enough.

I always have been.

I always will be.

With or without a Master’s degree.




Sometimes It Takes All Day

August 3, 2014

But I got there.

To my happy place.

Or at least my place of serenity.

Peace with myself, with the world, with the fog and the whistle of it pushing in through the open window of my friend’s car as we drove deeper into the incoming thick of it down Lincoln, headed to the ocean.

I felt my mood elevate, finally after it had been pretty glum all day.

It was just a mix of glum, grey, moody, cranky, can’t quite get my head on straight.

But it got there.

It did.

I just had to keep taking action and then more action and suggestions and inventory and write that down and let go of that person with kindness and go have some fun.




The f word again?


I made my way to the Inner Sunset and got right with the world for an hour over coffee and made a plan of attack for the rest of the day and the week and my life, not really, I exaggerate a little, but I did get some pretty basic instructions on what to do.

One thing, continue to take a little action every day around finding work and we discussed what that would look like and I have a plan of attack for tomorrow and how to begin that.

And also, to not limit myself, I was arguing against Craigslist and she said, why limited yourself, look at it all, look at Craigslist, look at nanny agencies, look at referrals, check in with your people, hell, look into everything, maybe your next job is not being a nanny.

Although that certainly feels like the next obvious thing.

“Maybe you need to do some inventory about why you chose a career that you have to say good-bye to people, children you love, every couple of years.” She said with some deep wisdom that I immediately combatted.

“I did not choose this career!”

Vehement denial.

“It choose me.”

But there’s got to be something there, I do make decisions every day–pay for MUNI, or sneak on the back door; pay your rent early so you don’t have to think about it, or stress while at Burning Man about how to pay your rent; write your blog every night and be accountable to your art, or putz away your life glut watching videos on Netflix; ask a man on a date, or bemoan being single; take a trip to New York when some one invites you to crash at their place, or regret not ever having been to the city that never sleeps, never gone to the Met or eaten at Peter Luger’s (which is on the menu, bring me the steak, bitches) or walked over the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk with a darling friend–so in some way, I made the decision to be a nanny.

I didn’t choose writing code.

I didn’t choose marketing.

I didn’t choose doctoring or nursing or law school.

I didn’t choose retail or waiting tables or dentistry.

I choose being a nanny.

But as the child studied me in line today at the cafe and I looked at his deep brown eyes, this level of communication and honest curiosity and love passed and I know that I have chosen well.

Life, the Universe, God if you will, may choose different for me at any moment.

I get to keep working on that, seeing where I am best of service and going with it, how can I help best, where are my talents utilized best, how am I being my best person, what am I putting out into the world.

What place of love and creativity can I come from?

How to access that and pass it along and inspire?

Being a writer, even in this small capacity is so important to me.

I was trying and doing a poor job of explaining to my friend who drove me home, that I was not attempting to break a plateau with my blog, to burst to the next level of things, to make money from my blog.

It is here to serve me, or I to serve it.

I don’t have that many followers, but I feel like every single one of them is a brightness in my being, a little flame of love that I have gathered to me by showing up and being my honest, heart on my sleeve person.

I am more myself because I do this.

And that is service.

Doing what I love allows other people to do what they love and I know that being a nanny has helped with doing that.  I get to be surrounded by loads of love and it’s not often that I take my work home with me.

Yes, it does affect me in other ways, there are a lot of times when I think it might do me good to interact with adults, but there is a kind of core communication that is enacted between me and a child that I don’t always get with the grown up world.

The filters that I place before myself before I engage with the world in general are not up so much with the children I take care of and I laugh with them in ways that blow open the doors on my heart in a way that I cannot full explain without sounding like a complete goon.

“You are such a nanny!” My friend said tonight as we were catching up in the cafe.

I had suggested that if he thought naps were fun he could organize a nap party, get together with a bunch of friends and some sleeping pads and boxes of carton milk and a couple of cookies and soft fuzzy blankets and have a snooze party.

I giggled.


I also gleefully opened up my messenger bag, which in my head I had called a book bag, harking back to my days at elementary school and not buying the things I wanted to for school supplies because the family funds were so short, to show off my day of taking action to get my joy on.

I left the Inner Sunset on a mission to have fun and that meant going to Flax before heading up to Noe Valley.

I got stickers and a Claire Fontaine notebook and a new pencil sharpener and pencil bag (I already have a pen bag, but I got one specifically for pencils), a set of twenty-four colored pencils, and yes, friends, I bought a coloring book.

Granted, it’s the Tattoo Coloring Book by Megamunden, so not like I got some Disney Princess bullshit, but yes, it is a coloring book.

Because sometimes that’s how I have fun.

I color.

I also collage.

I also do sticker art.

Shut it.

It makes me happy and so, when I opened up my book bag, er, my messenger bag tonight when I got home, I was happy to pull out my little treasures and know that in between kicking nanny butt and taking action to find new families to work with and new babies to love, I get to have some fun for me.

It took all day.

But I got my fun on.

In twenty four different colors of joy.


Three More Weeks of This?

June 17, 2014

How the hell am I going to get through it?

That thought came unbidden again as I settled myself down for a quick rest before tackling the daily drudgery or daily living.

Which really is not drudgery until you get so slowed down that you, or I should say I, I get tired after walking, WALKING! the laundry to the garage.

Little did I know that by the time it was ready to be folded I would have to take a nap to recover from it.


I had to take a nap to recharge myself.

Then again, I did a lot of “walking” today.

First time in the house using the crutches about half time.

This is pretty much what the doctor had told me would happen, 7-10 days on the crutches, then I would be able to start walking in the boot, and with some time and patience, now, damn it, now, I would be able to walk with one crutch, then none at all.

When I am inside I can do the none at all about half time.

I go real slow, however, there is no going fast.

“Wow, you’re getting fast on those,” my friend said, referring to my bright bling bling gold crutches, when he picked me up today to take me to the Inner Sunset and then to do some grocery shopping after.

I am, but I get tired faster than I want to.

Although, last Monday all I could do was sit and softly cry and be misty eyed watching the frog scroll in through the park as my friend shopped for me, this time I was able to go in and lend a hand.

Well, maybe not even a hand.

For by that time the novelty of walking on the boot had more than wore off and my ankle was letting me know quite clearly that it was not having much more of it.

I used the crutches throughout the store and I don’t know if it was that, the lack of my list, which I realized later was in my purse, the getting out-of-the-way of other shoppers, (wow is everyone so self-involved?  I have never seen so many folks standing in the aisles looking off into nowhere or having blithe conversations with friends, totally blocking the way) I caught a larger path with the crutches, or the need to get in and out as fast as possible, to less inconvenience my friend, but.


Sticker shock at the register.

I did get myself a few treats, nice avocados, a bag of cherries, a bag of Four Barrel coffee, a pre-made roasted chicken, but damn Gina.

Of course, I normally don’t buy that much pre-pared food, but I was getting winded and tired and wanted to be done with it.

I had been a hero.

I did my laundry.

I grocery shopped.

And now, I’m done.

Who the hell needs to worry about the weeks ahead?

I can barely make it through the store.

I have a lot of healing to do yet.

Despite my head saying, hey, look, you’re doing great, let’s go back to work.




I cannot imagine what it would take out of me to climb the stairs to change a diaper, let alone two boys who are active and engaging and bright and, uh, active, I can’t go back yet.

Silly head.

I do miss the boys though and I was thinking I should ask for a visit, that might be nice,  meet them somewhere, maybe close by, I don’t know, yet, that’s a little outside my bailiwick at the moment.

Wrangling boys or wrangling my schedule.

“Now’s a great time to look at that list,” she reminded me this weekend.

That list is my list of creative projects and things I want to be working towards, things I want to do, not things I like to do, but things that I want to do, and so many of them are creative things.

I have my book to edit, a book proposal to write, hats to make, songs to write, poems, I had an idea for a vocal album that  I want to flesh out, there’s really so much that I can be doing.

Once I recuperate from laundry and grocery shopping, I’ll get right on it.

There is time.

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create.

Murder those old ideas about what I can and cannot do, to unlearn the lessons that have caused me untold nightmares of self-flagellation for so damn long.

“He said, ‘shit or get off the pot’ so I did,” he told me last night recounting how he started making music and singing three years ago after “whining” about it for the previous ten.

I don’t want to be ten years in and still bewailing the book not being published, the song not being written, the poem in my heart still lingering, like yellow fog smudged and dirty corralling through the channels and chapels of my arteries, I do not want to corrode myself and my creativity out of fear, because it just won’t be good enough.

I do deserve better than that.

And as I sit, frozen peas at hand, ankle up on three fluffed up pillows I can allow myself to start the walking there too.

Not the walking on my ankle, it needs a damn rest, but those small, tiny steps that lead somewhere, not seen as much, but they add up, they do, those tiny actions that suddenly lead to a work, an oeuvre, a body of my own creating.

I have it in me, it just gets drown out in the clamour of getting ahead and getting my way and getting from point A to point B as fast as my bicycling legs can go.

Which right now, is nowhere.

I have some folks I need to chat with, some avenues to explore, but I will be getting out that list tomorrow and I will start small and take an action, any action will do, towards a creative goal.

And in between ruminations I will rest, ice, compress, and elevate that ankle.

This may be the last rest I get for a while.

Take advantage of it while it’s here.

Things are a shifting.

I want to be prepared for them.

Rested and ready for the next long walk on the path.

It’s only up from here.



Watch Out!

June 4, 2014

I’ve got the glitter glue and I am not afraid to use it.


I just used the last of my glitter glue on a flower that needed a little perking up.

I walked into the Piedmont Store on Haight Street to check out all things tacky and glittered and spangled and sequined after work before my evening commitment and I was astounded at how much they were charging for the ticky tacky.

$12 for a shitty sad little fabric flower.

$18 if it had some glitter and don’t even ask for the one with a sad dyed chicken feather, that bitch goes for $24.


That’s ridiculous.

I got home and I was inspired and I pulled out the last of the glitter glue I had and freshened up a little fabric flower and one thing led to another and the next thing you know I have created a sweet little, HUGE, flower fascinator.

With three separate fabric flowers in various shade of indigo, violet and purple, you know to go with the new hair.

One of the flowers was a gift from a friend years ago that I have worn many a time at the thing in the desert way out there in the weirdo zone, another was one I picked up in a set from a casino in Reno, I think the set was $6, and the last was one I got at the cheap fabric store on Mission street for $0.75.

I glittered all the flowers, pinned one flower to another, to another, then attached a hair clip, Walgreens, pack of 10 $0.87, and voila!

Something I can sell at Lightening in a Bottle for $65.


Just kidding.

Sort of.

I don’t have any plans on selling anything soon, this was a bit sloppily put together, but that being said, I do want to sit down with my wares and really construct a few things.

I have always had a thing for hats and hair pieces and why not have some fun with it.

A little artistic fun with millenary is good for the soul.

I am apparently channelling my inner Carmen Miranda.

I had another idea for a hat piece that I really do actually want to make and I think I will try to get the stuff together to do it.

It will be a little more work than safety pinning a bunch of flowers together, but I think I can do it and it will be fun and a tad Steampunk and there’s nothing else like it out there that I can think of and I like to be original.



That idea I had about a small top hat, set askew, of course, with a Jack-a-lope on its brim, it’s in the works, at least in my brain.

I found a source for brown fuzzy Jackalopes on-line and I want to order one, paint the antlers a sort of silver glitter, duh, and then take fabric markers and change the fur from brown to pink (like my jackalope tattoo), hot glue the little guy on a miniature top hat, add a few feather hackles and maybe a big pink rose drenched in glitter glue, tie a pink satin ribbon around the brim of the hat, and voila!

New hat for me.

I am seriously considering inviting some girls over to do hat making, although, I may be the only one in the bunch so intrigued by head wear.

I have had hat collections in the past and either moved or sold them, or lost them, seems time to start over and get some more on my head.

And why not be the one making them.

How much freaking fun for me.

I need a creative outlet that is not just my writing.

My writing is like my life force, got to have it, got to do it, can’t question it, just write.

“Carmen, you gotta write, or you’re gonna die,” Alan Kauffman told me when I was studying with him.

Pretty much.

So much so that I recently, last week Monday, so today marks my second day doing so, I have been getting up an additional fifteen minutes early to make sure that I get all three pages written in my notebook.

I have not always been able to manage it.

I have been getting up at 7a.m., making the bed, making the oatmeal, doing a little quiet reading, getting dressed, asking for guidance, putting on the make up, getting lunch and dinner packed (can I just say, once more how exciting it is to be making my own homemade humus–this week with lemons fresh off the tree in the back yard at work), doing the hair, brushing the teeth, and flying out the door.

Sometimes with a few pages written.

Sometimes with nothing written.

Then I carry the notebook with me to work and keep my fingers crossed that the boys will nap tandem or that there will be a few moments in between this obligation and that commitment, to sit in a cafe and crank out the three pages.

But I find it so much better when I can do it at home.

So, yup, earlier to bed and earlier to rise.

Makes a (wo)man, healthy, wealthy, and wise.

That being said, it’s an artistic outlet, so is my blog, but it’s such a part of my routine, that I don’t always feel creatively inspired.

These little hat things do really rather light me up.

So, more of that.

I could also make some for my lady friends that are going–I usually gift hand massage on playa, but it might be nice to gift something else.

I can feel the little perfectionist in me piping up, but I think I am just going to hush that peanut gallery, have some fun, and scavenge up some more material for myself.

This weekend I see a Sunday with glitter in it.

My favorite color.


Creativity and Rebirth

July 12, 2011

I saw a flock of crows wheeling about the fog as I rode up Pacific Street coming home tonight.  I had a room-mate that was deep into Indian symbolism and apparently the crow stands for creativity and rebirth.

I can see that.

I once thought that crows just symbolized death.  I forgot about the rebirth part.

Writing this blog has become a way of rebirth for me.  I was talking with Angela yesterday who is having some struggles around a screen play she has written.  She has been trying to “figure it out.”

I have given up on trying to figure out anything.  That is when I remember to do so.  I expressed to her how I could not have foreseen all the things that would have come about from the five years of work I have put into my book Baby Girl.

And technically, she is still not published.  Although technically, if you want to quibble, she is, as I posted the entire book here on my blog.

This was not the original plan.  In fact this was nowhere near what was supposed to happen.  Magically the first big publishing company I sent it to was going to pick it up, give me a huge advance, some gentle criticisms to polish the work, then publish me to millions and great acclaim.  Oprah was going to put me in her book club, even though I eschew Oprah, I would deign to do this.  I would travel, sign my book, do readings.  Be well-loved, well-known, sought after and well, wealthy as fuck, thank you very much.

This, as you may imagine has not happened.

What has happened has been far cooler and much more unexpected.  About 25 people have read it.  I have gotten all sorts of responses.  Some good, some bad, many indifferent.  And although I am grateful to these kind people who indulged me and my ego, I am also indebted to the process.

First, as I was introduced to doing The Artists Way.  I got to work with a group of people for a year and a half during which time we read the book three times and actually did the other two books that are a part of the trilogy.  I learned all sorts of things about who I am and what I want and where I want to go–Paris!

I started to do and continue to do daily writings.  Three pages of long hand, stream of conscious writing every day.  Well, maybe not everyday, but I will honestly tell you that I write those pages more often than not.  If not every day, five to six times a week.  It’s actually the weekends that catch me up.  I can get out of my groove on the weekends as I try to pack a lot into those days.  I did do them this weekend after neglecting them over the holiday weekend.  I always feel better, centered, grounded when I do them.

Which allows me to do the writing here (as well as keep me together at work, calm and centered is a necessity in my line of business!).  I also started this blog.  It was ostentatiously to practise getting my writing out there as a way to connect with editors and publishers about Baby Girl.  And that has not happened either.  But it has given me a forum and a voice that I am almost surprised that I have.

I have also gotten to learn a lot about technology and writing (I have also learned about “tagging” my work, which brings me a lot of laughter whenever I see another hit on my “cocaine and vodka enema” blog, really, one might be surprised how many people are googling that one, then again, maybe not it you’re from my circle of friends–I also imagine the poor fuckers that read it are in for a little more than they bargained for; nothing says good times while you’re high like a head full of recovery slogans).  I am still wont to write long hand, but I like the feeling of the key board under my fingers and how quick the words just seem to flow from my brain and onto the screen.  There is a lovely kind of eloquence about it.

And now I am going to be e-publishing Baby Girl rather than continue to go through the process of trying to find an agent and a publishing company.  My friend Robert is helping me graphically design a cover for the book and I am really excited to be putting it out there.  It will be published through Smash Books. I will keep you apprised.

All these thoughts swirled in my head like the crows and I realized as I turned my head to the right and caught Enrico’s in North Beach from the corner of my eye.  That I have choices–turn to the left, the outdoor table, the drink, the cocaine dealer, and the life of hospitality industry and all the hell that entails, turn to the right, toward the unknown, the inevitable and the true.

I choose the right.  Even without knowing where it goes.  I feel that I am undergoing some sort of creative renewal and rebirth and something is looming large on the horizon.  I do not know what it is, but I can feel the edges of it coming to engulf me.  And instead of fleeing the unknown in fear I choose to accept it and what it has to offer.   It may feel scary, but all unknown things do, and so many of them are wonderful, exhilarating things.

I choose to wheel with the birds in the fog, uncertain of where the wind will drop me, yet secure that I will be held.

Slightly Off Kilter

May 30, 2011

My watch battery appears to be winding down.  I thought I had another twenty-five minutes of today left to post up to my blog.  Nope, it’s already 11:53 p.m.  Oops.  I wonder if there are any watch repair places open on Memorial Day.

That’s the thing about holidays, I want to get shit done.  I want to take care of business, if I don’t have to work and I have an extra day off, please be open–grocery store, bank, hardware store, etc.  I have precious time needs and an extra day can really set me up for a while.  But that ‘s the unfortunate thing with holidays, lots of places close.  I know that is supposed to mean take the day off, but that’s not where my brain goes, it goes get shit done!  Now! Go! Go! Go!

And I did get lots done today as well, but I also made sure I got to spend some quality time with Joan at the MOMA.  We went and saw the Stein Collection.  Which if you like Picasso, you’ll love.  And Henri Matisse, you’ll drool.  But truthfully, neither are really my cup of tea.  I have never liked Picasso and I have kept my mouth shut about that for a long time.  I don’t like Cubism.  I don’t take away from the power of the work Picasso did, he’s just not my favorite.  There were, however, some things that I liked.

There was a self-portrait that was quite early on in his career that I had never seen before.  I kept going back to it.  Damn it, I’m not suppose to like your work, but there it was staring frankly back out at me.  There was a tender kind of vulnerability in the face that I don’t think I had seen in his other self-portraits before.  I also really liked the color palette of it–mustards and browns.  I went back more than once to look at it again and discern what it was that drew me.  It was simple, evocative and beautiful.  If I was to buy a Picasso–that would be the one.

Then, double damn it, I saw another I like, from his Cubist period.  Well, fuck me.  There goes my whole identity out the art window.  This was called Guitar on a Table.  And I could see the guitar but it was so abstract that I don’t know that I could have seen it without having first read the title.  Again there was some sort of titular beauty about it that drew me.  I know that part of it was again the color palette.  This was done in mint green and softer canary yellows and a sort of rose color that was very fetching.

Maybe that’s what I don’t like about his work, the color palette.  And Matisse, also, never really has done it for me.  I can see the talent, oh, I cannot deny that Matisse and Picasso aren’t extraordinarily talented, they just don’t really call to me.

The Renoir’s in the collection, though, oh, sigh.  So nice.  So nice to just let my eyes rest in the dappled sunlight of the paintings.  What I find amazing about Renoir’s work is that the subjects themselves upon closer inspection aren’t all that attractive.  However, because the paintings are so lush and rapturous, so resplendent in texture and light and color, the viewer is taken away past the outside visage of the subjects, into their heart.  And there, there they are beautiful; that is something to see.

Gratefully, Joan is a similar kind of museum goer as I, we both like to cruise around quite fast.  This is the beauty of having a membership, I don’t feel guilty about doing just that.  We also had a lovely time sitting in the cafe Museo and catching up on our lives.  I count Joan as one of my best friends in San Francisco.  I absolutely adore her to pieces.  I often times feel that we are on a similar trajectory.  And like with all good friends, watching them have the experience of going through painful things to gain insight and knowledge of themselves helps me.  I know I can do it if she can do it.

Joan is a lovely touchstone of strength and experience.  Some one I can go to and share all my news with and she gets it.  I think I really needed just to sit and sip my latte and get Joan time more than I needed to see the Stein exhibit.  But I’m glad I did go.

For the collection also spoke to a quiet dream of mine, that in which I too am a collector.  A person that discovers artists and supports them.  I like to occasionally dabble with a little crafty thing or two, but I’m not a painter, nor a drawer, or a photographer.  But I am a person that appreciates art and I know I have an eye.  I have an eye for balance and color and what makes sense.  And I definetly have my own aesthetic.

My living space often becomes the template for my artistic expression.  I love decorating and arranging things.  Especially so that they please my eye from every angle.  I need art in my life.  I need beauty.  I need to write and be able to express myself just a reverently as a great painter needs to paint or a courtier needs to do couture.  And because of that, I need art to fill up my creative heart, I need to fill the inspirational well often.  I am so grateful to live in a city with great museums and a thriving arts culture.  I know that LA and New York, Paris and Venice, are supposedly the places to be, and I’m sure a score of others that I am not thinking of off-hand, but since I can’t get to those places on a weekly basis, I am supremely grateful for the MOMA and The Legion of Honor, The DeYoung, and Yerba Buena.  My has to be fed.

And today I got to start expressing myself in my new place.  Not very quickly, but just a few things that I was able to incorporate into the space that would not interfere with the work that will be done over the next few days before I am officially allowed to move in.  I hung some shower curtains in the bathroom and placed a few items in the kitchen.  I also walked around the rooms a number of times just getting a feel for how things are placed and what I will want to put where.

It is really exciting.  And it really helps that I don’t have to pack any boxes up.  Or have a truck ready or people to help me move things up and down stairs.  Although I may need some assistance with a vehicle for next weekend when I can get the couch from Cass.  One truck and one or two extra sets of hands.  Cass said one truck, two big strong men.  I say one truck and just somebody who is as strong as I, for I am more than capable of lifting the back of a couch.

Soon, soon, soon, I will be in my new domicile.  Hanging up the few pieces of art work that I have and arranging this and that.  Supplying my eyes and senses with those things of beauty that inspire me to move forward with my own writing.  I am feeling another book project brewing.  I will be happy to get into my place, get settled and get back to a schedule.

I am so grateful for this little blog, even when it’s way past my bed time, I am happy I get to write.  I may be off my daily schedule, but my heart rests gently in my chest tonight regardless.

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