Posts Tagged ‘drama’

Day Dream Sky

December 30, 2018

Standing in line at the cafe.

I eavesdrop on the matrons in front of me espousing the artisanal toast options.

In between chat of avocados and sea salt

I think about you.

Wondering how it is that I seem to have fallen

Again.

Again.

Again.

In love with you.

There is this continuous deep dive into you.

I question the $5.62 I spent on the latte,

Then reverse the thought of scarcity,

Settling, as I do at table, abandoned and

Left to me at just the right time so that I may contemplate

Delirious sun setting splendor through the

Corporeal windows framing the street scene.

The palimpsest of my desire for you underneath that sky,

Like the twining of Christmas lights around a telephone pole,

Wrapped up in you.

Once my latte arrives, I sigh with pleasure.

It was worth the cost of admission.

Like you, it is the best in the city.

Reminding me too, of our moment there months ago

When I sitting ensconced in the window seat fervent with fresh love for you

Scribbling poetry about you into my notebook

Whilst you texted me from the long line sprawling out the door,

“Are you hungry?”

And when I didn’t respond, too wrapped up in my poem, you

My muse,

Brought me back a salad with my coffee.

I saw the text as you were walking back with the plate,

My response would have been, “hungry for you,” but a salad will suffice.

For the moment.

That reply died on my fingertips as I was too caught in the splendor of light

Falling though the window, making you seem already a nostalgia piece.

You lit up, loved up by the glittering filament of sunshine splayed across your face.

I regarded that space today, from a different table, marveling at how

I catch the feeling of you with all my senses.

You embody me.

I am entwined with you.

A double helix.

An infinity sign, worn in silver on my wrist.

Possessed and pleased and dressed up in pleasure, encircled.

The gift of the Universe in a little blue box.

What I once thought was a hoax.

Soap opera.

Dramatic invention.

Fairy tale.

Fable.

Why!

Turns out ’tis true.

There is love and then, there is you.

Inflamed I sit now

Amongst the hum of humanity, the clatter of cups and spoons.

To find myself

Transported to you.

Not for naught this love for you.

Love notes scrawled on a legal pad

Dressed up in a leather-bound folder

My Balthazar baby, conversations on the sidewalk after brunch.

You are everything and everywhere.

Tattooed, literally into my center.

I hold you tight.

I am content.

Knowing, for you told me so,

That I am your dream baby.

Knowing.

That I am.

Now and always.

Your,

Baby girl.

Big Day

November 7, 2017

I got to work and walked in and sighed.

I already had a super busy day and I was tired before I even walked into the door at work.

Not in a bad way, just in a sort of thrown into unexpected places way and reflecting on what had transpired in the time before I got to work.

Super intense meeting with my supervisor and a lot of deep work around a specific client, who I saw this evening and got to apply all the things that I had worked on with my supervisor.

Which was really fulfilling and also a little exhausting.

And exhilarating too.

I felt like I was really being a good therapist and that my client was making some amazing headway.

I feel better and better the more I get to see my clients and learn about them and those that show up consistently and let me bear witnesses to their growth is really an amazing thing to witness.

At times exhausting, the work is challenging, but as I expressed to my boss today I am so grateful for it.

I didn’t even see my boss until after 4p.m. today, I was at work at the house, picking up my charge from school, and she was off and running her Monday as well.

I think we were both pretty tired from the day, but it was good to connect with her.

She’s great to work for and super flexible with my schedule.

Which is good since I’ll be going in late one more time next Monday.

I’ve been asked to come in again next week to work further on the lecture series, “People Who Usually Don’t Lecture.”

The women that are running the project have a certain vision and they have produced so many of this lecture series they really have a clarity about what needs to come across and what resonates with the audience.

So.

Although all the work I did on the narrative was not for naught, ugh, I still am going to have to re-write it.

I could heavily edit what I wrote, but I think a fresh rewrite with the direction they want from me will make it a far stronger piece.

I have a very clear idea what they want and I know how to write it and I have the opening line in my head so I know where it will go.

Sometimes, most times, all I need is that opening line or thought, the idea opens the door, I walk in and then I start describing what I see, it’s like walking into a warm room with a rag hook rug on the wood floor, a fire burning in a stove, a rocking chair with a soft throw on the arm and a pillow against the back.

I just need to settle into that chair and write what I see on the walls, tell the story in the pictures I see.

There I am running away from home to San Francisco at the ripe age of 29.

What happens.

Here’s a snap shot of DNA Lounge.

Here’s a picture of me in the back patio of The End Up after having been up all weekend.

All the things and crazy dark adventures, a Polaroid on a push pin board.

That time I made out with my best friends boss at The Elbow Room in the photo booth.

And forgot that I had a strip of photos of us kissing.

It fell out of my wallet when I was looking for something, and my friend picked it up.

“Oh my God!  You made out with STEVE!  YOU MADE OUT WITH MY BOSS?!  He’s gay!”

He wasn’t that gay that night.

Here’s another one of a night at Bruno’s on Mission Street, all dressed up for Halloween and getting ready for a night out on the town when my dealer calls and hey, he just got out of 850 Bryant (the jail here in San Francisco) and how much do I want?

Well.

Fuck.

I’ll start with three grams and go from there.

Hung over.

Cracked out.

Dancing at strange parties with strange people and all the misadventures there of.

The producers wanted a little more of the nitty-gritty of my using and then what happened.

I had put too much of an ellipses in the narrative and it made it seem like I did a line of blow and then suddenly got sober.

They wanted to hear more about the despair.

Because.

Well.

Drama.

It gets your attention, and it provides the vehicle to show how far I’ve come, the things I went through, and who I am.

They also wanted me to talk a little bit more about my nannying.

And what it means to work with children.

“Oh, I think I know what you mean,” I said to the woman speaking to me, “that I get to give the kind of love to a child that I never had for myself growing up.”

She teared up.

Yes.

That.

Let me pull your heartstrings.

Let me show you how resilient I am.

It’s not necessarily a drama play, it’s what really happened, but I have ten minutes to cover all the things and they wanted to sharpen certain points for power, so that it lands with the audience and connects them to me and my story.

Whew.

That’s just going to have to sit on the back burner for a little while and percolate.

I have a full client load this week, therapy tomorrow morning before work, group supervision mid-week, when I normally don’t have it until Saturday–but I’ll be in class Saturday so I have to do it this Wednesday, and yeah, that, school, it’s a school weekend.

No wonder I walked into work and already felt exhausted.

Sigh.

It won’t be that bad.

It’s not that bad.

And I am grateful I get to do this project, it is nice to be wanted, it’s nice to know that I have been chosen because I have something powerful to share and that I am someone who knows how deliver a story.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

But the re-write has got to wait until Sunday after I get out of class, I just don’t see getting to it before then.

I still have reading for class I need to attend to, and well, the week full of stuff.

Grateful that I have pockets of respite and some lovely things planned too, that have nothing to do with work and school and clients.

A girl needs a little fun too.

Especially when there’s so much else to attend to.

I need to let myself let loose a little too.

All work and no play makes me a very dull girl.

And I’m so not dull.

Seriously.

Foiled!

July 14, 2017

But not really.

I mean.

Yes, I am a bit disappointed that the Friday 8:30 a.m. yoga class I was going to hit up was cancelled.

Boo hiss.

But.

On the other hand.

I get to sleep in!

Yes!

Especially after a full week and a very, very, very full day today.

It was a good day, but it certainly had some big pockets of anxiety.

Not mine either.

The family I nanny for left today for three weeks.

THREE!

Oh my God am I so excited to have some down time.

I actually.

Wait for it.

I have the whole day off tomorrow!

The whole fucking day.

Can you tell I’m excited?

Like.

Over the god damn moon.

No clients.

No internship.

No paperwork.

Not as though they didn’t try.

Ugh.

I had an e-mail today that I wasn’t paying much attention to as I was busy helping the parents get ready for their trip.

I had to do a lot of monkey wrangling today and the monkeys did not want to be wrangled.

When I showed up the oldest boy was already in his travel clothes with his back pack on his back.

Oh dear.

They didn’t leave for the airport until 4p.m. today.

It was 9a.m. when I showed up for work.

Sigh.

I could tell it was going to be a challenge, but I was game for what was happening, although I thought I might lose it when the two oldest siblings just about killed each other at the playground.

They are really physical kids and sometimes I think they go at it a little too hard, somebody gets too aggressive, somebody pokes too hard, or pulls hair or bites and all hell breaks lose the the sister goes bananas.

I mean.

The lady can howl bloody murder.

I also know when she’s faking for attention, so there’s that, but like, the rest of the playground doesn’t know that, she sounds like she’s dying but it’s just dramatics.

I let it go as long as I can, hoping they will work it out and once in a while I do have to intervene.

And of course, though it was pulling teeth to get them to the playground, when it was actually time to rally and go back up the hill, we were at the Noe Valley Rec Center, they didn’t want to go home.

Haha.

Ah.

Nanny life.

They did get home though, and by the time I got them across the MUNI tracks at the end of Church Street and heading up the hill on Chenery, they started to get excited.

So too, did I.

I could see the end of my shift in sight and though I was going to have some down time in between my client that I saw tonight and the end of my shift, I was happy that my shift was about over.

It did seem like an extra long day.

Just the anticipation and the anxiety and the double and triple checking the passports and visas and id’s and snacks and last minute laundry, and cleaning out the fridge (I was given three pounds of asparagus as a parting gift and two avocados that hadn’t been eaten.  What the hell am I going to do with that much asparagus?  Soup maybe.) and getting the keys to the house and making sure I had an extra set of car keys if there was an emergency and also co-ordinating the cars and the all of it.

It was a lot.

So yeah.

Four o’clock and I was able to zoom out.

I got a check for the overtime I worked this week.

Yeah.

Overtime.

And I’m interning, but whatever I got to make it through and yes, I am a bit disappointed about the lack of yoga but the additional sleep in time will be nice.

The time I had in between work and my client this evening was spent running errands, post office, zip home, drop off package, collect mail, tidy house, clean bathroom, masturbate, ahem, I needed to de-stress after I sat down and checked my e-mails.

They booked me a client for tomorrow!

NO!!!

I said no clients.

I wanted to have this one fucking Friday free.

What the hell?

I was upset.

I have plans.

I thought about contacting the person I am seeing tomorrow and saying, well, shoot, sorry, I got a client, but then I saw it was a consult and I was like, no, this is bullshit, I marked the calendar clearly and I do not want to take a consult tomorrow.

NO.

I started an e-mail and then I was like, why the hell am I fucking around.

Call my assistant director.

I did.

We cleared it up.

I have tomorrow off.

Which is fucking good since I’m getting my hair done.

Cut and color and a blow out.

Please and thank you.

I laughed with the mom today when she asked if I was doing anything fun, besides working at my internship while they were on vacation.  And I told her I was going to a ritzy upscale salon downtown to get my hair did.

I always feel a bit out of place there, so many ashy blondes with razor cut layers, so much money, the atmosphere is very white, upscale, wealthy, which is fine, I just feel a little out of place, although I like to play like I have money and I hazard I tip better than the majority of the clients, much better.

The cut and color will still be a pretty fucking penny, but I don’t care, hello student loan summer disbursement.

Thanks overtime check from this week and last week.

I got the cash and I deserve to be a little spoiled.

Anyway.

I do like Harper Paige (good grief even the name sounds like ash highlights and toner), I get a sassy cup of coffee, fashion magazines, and the prettiest smock I’ve ever worn getting a hair cut.

And.

I know the colorist.

I have known her for over twelve years and she’s amazing and probably has as many tattoos as I do and we have a lot of mutual friends in common, I mean a lot.

So.

She’s the reason why I’m “slumming” at a fancy pants salon down town.

I’m even going to skip taking my scooter and splurge on a car.

Get all dressed up, wear some stockings, put on some heels and a pretty frock and really play the part, you know, tattoos be damned, I can look hella polished and femme when I want to.

I’m so excited.

It feels nice to take the time and let myself be properly pampered.

I may even book a massage over the next couple of weeks.

I have a tentative MOMA date with a girlfriend Monday after I meet with my supervisor and some lunch dates and coffee dates with friends lined up.

Nothing solid yet, but I’m going to enjoy my time “off” so much.

I’ll still be taking clients.

Just not tomorrow.

Heh.

Here’s to a very well deserved day off.

I mean.

Seriously.

Luckiest girl in the world.

It’s Been A Day

August 17, 2016

One in which I spent too much damn time in my head.

However.

I called in the cavalry.

I amend that.

I texted in the cavalry.

I also got myself out to a little hoe down of my fellows in Sonoma and got right with God and then made some phone calls from there.

I can fall off the beam easily and have really black and white thinking.

At one point today I was ready to call it complete quits at my job.

Not because there’s something screamingly bad with my job, rather, there’s something off in me, something where my ability to speak up for myself and my needs gets lost in the shuffle and the next thing you know I’m doing a job that is not compatible with my needs and I’m a wreck.

I have to communicate.

Ugh.

No fun.

Except.

Maybe it can be, maybe I am here having this experience because I need to learn, again, how to do this thing called life, how to reconcile conflict and draw up some boundaries that are good for me and empower me.

I deserve the job I want and I can probably have it here and now as soon as I can draw upon the resources that are available to me.

My friends.

Who bolster me all the time.

I don’t see myself very well and sometimes I forget that I am a valuable asset, that I am smart and capable and worthy of my hire.

I have had this come up before.

How many times have I gotten to suss this out, many.

However, I am feeling a lot more stable in my need to articulate what I need and to ask for the compensation due the nature of the accommodating that I do for my family.

See.

I’m happy to accommodate.

But what I have discovered is that I need to be compensated, to continue being flexible and rolling with the punches and what have you, I need to get properly taken care of and I have lost my ability to speak up for what works best for me.

There is no malicious intent with my employers, god am I aware of that.

The malicious intent is within me, those things that I grew up with, the danger, and it was very real, of asking for what I needed.

I knew better than to ask for what I wanted, those things never got met and as for what I needed, I didn’t know, my needs were overwhelmed with the needs of my family.

There have been plenty of times in the past where I was asked what I wanted and I couldn’t tell you to save my life, it was so much easier for me to just ask what you wanted and roll the fuck over.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing and I did a lot of shoving down of unpalatable things to keep the balance going and to save myself from being annihilated.

That sounds extreme, but you get beaten for asking for what you need or asserting your needs, for a little while and get back to me on your stance then.

That shit stays with you.

I have done work.

I will continue to do work.

This is part of my work.

Recovery is integral and an absolute necessity.

School has been amazing.

Friends.

Oh my darling, dear, sweet, loving friends who advocate for me when I am not always so inwardly supported, have been instrumental in this.

Finding the support to take the actions that to me and my personality feel absolutely mind blowing and devastating to do has been crucial.

All the walking through the fear.

I have taken in so much love and support, especially this past week, to know that I can take the next steps to ask for what I need at the job.

And.

The best part?

I will be taken care of.

I always am.

I get to fuck it up.

I get to make a mess, I’m messy, it might be messy, I might fall on my face.

That will be ok.

Part of the process.

Part of living.

Learning and bearing witness, gently, when I can to my own process.

Really when I think about it after all the trauma, drama, and agonizing shit that happened to me it’s a fucking miracle that I am who I am, that I have what I have, that I have gotten to break out and make something of this life, that I didn’t roll over and die.

I am alive.

I am fucking resilient.

I am a living fucking testimony that you can get out and you can get better and that life is exquisite and amazing, astounding in it’s joys and astonishments.

The fawn that I startled out of the bushes today on the edge of the rental property.

The red tail hawk in the sky shrieking for its dinner.

The quails chasing through the underbrush.

The sun, warm on my face, I again turn toward the nut brown skin that is in me and glow with fire and heat.

The black berry brambles tumbling down the hill full of fruit.

The sun through the trees as it sinks golden and full with possibility as I climb Sonoma Mountain Road.

The boys, both of whom have found ways to further endear themselves to me as though sensing that tremulous moment when I was offered a job today, the mom having gotten my number through a friend at school, desperate to hire me and get the ball rolling.

Except.

I don’t want to work 50-60 hours a week and go to grad school.

No way.

No how.

In reality.

I already work that much.

My job fluctuates during the summer between 35-45 and since I started school between 28-35 hours a week.

Through in my recovery and that’s easily another 15-20 hours of my time.

I can’t even imagine trying to work more than that and go to school.

I knew that and gently thanked the woman to whom I was speaking and said thank you so much, but I can’t do the job you require.

She begged me to keep her in mind and I will, but not for me.  I also suggested an agency that she could go to.

There’s plenty of jobs out there should I fall flat asking for what I need or my needs are unable to get met at my current position.

It doesn’t mean that my needs won’t get met.

They will.

I just have to speak up for them.

And.

Big.

Deep.

Breath.

I will.

 

 

I’m Willing To Do The Work

June 27, 2016

God.

God damn it.

I laughed at myself.

In the bathroom, peeing out the iced coffee from Java Beach and all my out and about in the neighborhood today.

I never left the three block radius of my house.

Wait.

Not true.

I did go grocery shopping at SafeWay down on Balboa and Great Highway.

But really.

I stayed put.

I had some ladies to meet today.

One who flaked.

One who didn’t.

I had a coffee date with an old friend.

I cooked for myself.

I got some groceries for a friend who is housebound with a foot surgery and can’t walk out the house yet.

I did the things that make me feel good.

Even when my friend brushed sand off my face and I thought for a minute, fuck, he’s going to kiss me.

But he didn’t.

I can’t date him and we talked it out in the dunes out at the beach and had a nice time just getting all the story out there and watching the waves roll in and out.

It was brisk but sunny.

And the Pride was still happening and the Parliament happening at Stern Grove, it was sort of perfect, no one was down at the beach.

Not that many folks in the neighborhood.

It was a soft, cottony, cold, foggy, swathed in morning and it took me a minute to get the yawns out of my head before I headed off to yoga.

It was warm in the studio and I drifted through the work out and it was great.

I got to the final resting pose and I think I actually experienced that illusive condition that the teacher is always alluding to.

My mind free and quiet.

My body at complete rest, totally supported by the mat and the earth beneath me.

I felt grounded and rooted and also, completely free and free floating.

It was utter bliss.

It didn’t hut that I was able to do some poses and sequences that I have not been successful with and I tried with one pose that is super challenging for me, Crow pose, and though I didn’t come anywhere near nailing it, I got to get closer to it and committed to trying to do it, and yeah, I fell.

But.

I also laughed.

Grateful that I can laugh at myself.

“That’s the great thing about you!” My friend exclaimed as I was talking about some dating disasters I have been through over the last six months or so.  “You can totally laugh at yourself, that is so refreshing, you have no idea.”

Perhaps I don’t.

Perhaps I don’t have an inkling at all.

I mean.

I am fucking grateful that I can take my shit with a grain of salt and also that I have experience and perspective and information to move forward with.

I was yelling, or talking loudly with God, praying from the toilet seat as I peed, “really, I’m willing to do the work, I am.”

My friend who I had dropped groceries off to had suggested, in regards to a disaster of a relationship that I was super quiet about going through, he was stunned that I hadn’t said anything before today, that he hadn’t known anything.

“Dude, you mean _____________?! You were hanging out with him?”

Yup.

“I had no fucking clue.”

Yeah.

Well.

Nobody did.

Then I ran down the story, sans the drama that I felt going through the experience, but I got the bones of the narrative out.

“Ok, so here’s the deal,” my friend broke it down, “you either think that you’re not enough, so you settled, or which is worse, that you knew you were better than this but you weren’t willing to do the work.”

Ouch.

Ouch.

Ouchity, ouch, ouch.

And yet.

There is truth here.

I wanted to deny it.

I wanted to say it was neither.

But the truth is that it was both, I felt both not enough and also that I was enough and more than enough, and I knew I wasn’t being treated well, but I sort of blinded myself to the information that I was being given and went tripping merrily down the rabbit hole.

I realize that I need sustenance more than flash.

Although.

Flash can be exciting.

It doesn’t last more than a week or two.

I like sexy, who doesn’t?

But.

Yes.

I want sustenance, I want substance, and yes, ha, I am wiling to do the work.

Which means what?

Fuck if I know.

And.

I am ok with that too.

I am ok with having fun.

But, yeah, I do want the more permanent thing, not just the glittery and the sparkle.

I suspect that there can be both substance and glitter.

It doesn’t have to be a lot, but there should be sparkle, truly what doesn’t do well with a little bit of lacquer?

Painted heart.

Painted hussy.

Painted face.

Masked behind the sexy and the glitter and the ribbons and gewgaws, the flowers sequined and spattered with light shine, the musicality of stars, the glitter box full of hearts sprayed metallic shimmer, is the plain of my soul.

Lighted and a fire.

“You are so beautiful,” he said looking into my eyes, “the more I look, the further into your heart I can see and you are so beautiful.”

I don’t believe it was a line.

But it was our last goodbye.

Beneath the sheets our limbs entangled, his hands in my hair, on my face, holding it just there, it was a goodbye, in hindsight, although in the basement of my heart I knew, I still let the moment spin out, basking in the moment and the reverence.

The sacred.

And.

The profane.

Floating gossamer like, a small spider web of hopeful desire sticky on my hands that brushed it away to go forward into the routine of my days and weeks.

Those days and weeks tumble into months now and though I can share the story with one friend on the beach and take the tale to another over coffee and catch up, I know now that they are just that, stories, narratives, tall tales from the neck of my life.

Floating out and above the skyline.

Like.

Heart shaped balloons.

Loosed at sunset.

Beautiful to look at.

But.

Illusory and fragile.

Shot through.

And.

Glowing in the sorbet sunset to melt into the sky, buttery indigo flamingo pink and puce punk back lit.

The change is this.

Instead of running across the dunes, stumbling, in fear, trying to catch something I can never touch or capturing something that cannot be caught, I stopped chasing.

I just sat back and watched them float away.

Still and silent.

Glowing inside and outside with the sunset.

And the few small grains of sand I just brushed from my face.

A soft smile.

The warm embrace of an arm around my waist.

The pause.

The goodbye.

And the hello again to knowledge.

It’s all just information.

How I use it.

That’s my choice.

I’m powerless over the rest.

Alone.

But.

Not.

Lonely.

And.

Most.

Certainly.

Not unloved.

Oh no.

So.

Loved.

Seriously.

All the time.

This vast.

Vast.

Ocean.

Of.

Love.

 

Take The Fucking Drama

June 17, 2016

Out of it.

Oh my god.

What a fucking concept.

I laughed and almost slapped my own forehead.

Instead of getting worked up about work, I just thought, fuck, all I have to do is show up and be of service, I don’t have to ask anything, I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to be stupid and pushy, I can ask for what I need the next time it comes around.

No need to do it today.

Just having done the work around it, the internal re-arranging of my perspective was the relief.

My boss doesn’t have to change.

My boss is never going to change.

She doesn’t have to.

I do.

I change.

And today I decided that creating unnecessary drama before a three day weekend was stupid.

Idiotic really.

When I was going to get off work early today and be eating out with my boys and drinking pricey iced coffees.

Oh Stumptown how do I love thee.

Yeah, I know, it’s not San Francisco based, but fuck, they have good ass coffee.

I am all out of the coffee I bought in New York.

Frankly, I have to say I was disappointed with the Gorilla Coffee I got, the roast was far darker than I like and just a tiny bit charred to my taste.

The coffee I had at the cafe when I popped into it was great, but they were out of the beans that I wanted.

Now.

Variety, in Williamsburg, that stood up to the test.

In fact.

It was like being transported back to the cafe and the talk I had with the barista and then the getting together with my friend and doing that thing I like to do in church basements that evening.

It was a sweet reminder every time I ground up a batch of the Variety beans I brought back.

Maybe I’ll find some hipster coffee in New Orleans.

Fuck me.

Total digression.

I’m all over the place.

Like always.

But.

I’m a tiny bit at loose ends.

Having a clear three day weekend ahead of me.

I got free of jury duty for tomorrow and the family is out of town visiting aunts and uncles and grandparents in the Midwest.

I spent the day keeping the boys on the move and out of the house, hence the Stumptown, I popped into Atlas Cafe on Alabama and 20th.

I have so many fond, and not so fond, memories of the cafe.

It was my first heavily visited cafe, being a block and a half away from the first place I lived in the city, 20th and York.

The first time I go there I ran into someone from Madison who had moved to San Francisco years before me and I had had a class with at University, a TS Eliot class that was amazing and also challenging beyond comprehension, most of the class dropped, including the guy I ran into at the cafe, but I stuck it out and though it may seem odd, that was were I began to believe in God.

That coupled with the course on fairy tales I took the next summer and there, a chink in my armor.

A place where the light got in.

Not for a while though.

Just ask my dealer.

He made a few deliveries to me at Atlas Cafe as well.

I have a nodding acquaintance with the bathroom there.

And a fondness tinged with nicotine nostalgia for the back patio where once upon a time a lady could smoke a cigarette with her espresso romano–a shot of espresso with a lemon twist.

God damn.

I don’t smoke anymore.

I forget that sometimes.

I can forget many things easily.

Use to weigh over 80lbs heavier.

Forgot that.

Used to do drink every day.

Forgot that.

Used to not be able to not spend the money on the bag or pick up the phone to call my dealer to do a little delivery.

“Fuck, you’re guys faster than pizza delivery,” a friend “complained” as he had to scramble to get to the cash machine when my dealer showed up less than fifteen minutes after I had placed my “order.”

He was pretty quick.

Grateful for other things today.

Explained how grateful to be less of what I was and somehow so much more, humbled by the grace that I have been given, bowed head, loved, shined on so that I can turn it out and shine it forward.

That this body is no less and no more than a conveyance for love.

And hopefully sex once in a while.

Oh my God.

43.

STAWP with the hormones.

Oh.

I suppose I’ll rue the day when they go away, but seriously, the sexy sex chemicals in my blood stream.

I don’t have the screaming baby keening ache that I had for a few years, no, it’s been replaced by a last ditch ovarian siege where I am smoking out any guy with the testosterone to hang with me.

FUCK ME!

That’s what it feels like all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

Ok.

Maybe I exaggerate a little, but seriously, the body and the brain in collusion are trying real hard to get this lady some action.

Let’s go out and find some trouble….nothing’s sexier than regret.

Heh.

Were I to stumble upon that I might be smote.

So.

Until then.

The yoga.

The masturbation.

Thank you rechargeable Hitachi Magic Wand.

The hair geographic, which will happen Saturday.

I have a tentative date, blind date, Tinder date, not to hook up, which he made that clear, thanks, I think, but hey, you know, just trying, and I wonder if I should warn him about the impending pink hair or just spring it on him.

Fuck.

Who cares?

The drama.

There is none.

If my worst fucking problem is that I want to get laid and no one has thrown their hat in the ring, then my life is a fucking cake walk.

Rent is paid.

The phone is paid.

I got a yoga membership at the studio.

I got that thing in the church basements doing it’s deal for me.

I got happy, joyous, free.

I got friends.

I got good coffee in the cupboard.

Light in the soul.

Shine on my heart.

I ain’t got worries.

All I got.

Is three day weekend and endless fun.

Let’s see what kind of silly I can get up to.

Want to come along?

I promise.

Good times.

Seriously.

You Use Your Mouth Prettier

November 5, 2014

Than a twenty-dollar whore.

I’ll take that.

I have been on the receiving end of some really nice compliments the last couple of days.

I’ll take them all.

It’s quite handy to know that I am doing this thing alright, that it’s getting out there, that folks read what I write, that there’s an impact.

That it is not all for naught.

Not that I ever have thought that it was all for naught.

Not even when I had ten readers.

I, in fact, remember quite distinctly the day I came home from work and booted up my laptop, said laptop, self-same laptop, just about obsolete, vintage laptop, and typed in my blog and there it was–my tenth subscriber.

Ten people following me!

Wow.

I have a few more readers now, I believe, I’ll have to double-check, I have about 250 subscribers, that is folks who have signed up to receive my blog straight to their inbox.

Which, sometimes I feel like I might have to apologize for.

There are always a few typos or goofy footed wording that I might not catch until later on, usually, of course, after I have pushed the publish button and its sent out into the world, into the dark night of the internet to land in some one’s email account.

Then there’s anywhere from 40 to 50 people who pick it up off of Facebook or occasionally Reddit.

I get a read or two off of LinkedIn as well, but I stopped posting to my LinkedIn account when I was interviewing for my current nanny position, I didn’t want my blog to pop up on the family’s radar.

Who knows.

It may have.

I scrubbed it pretty clean though.

I did not want to, but I pulled about two hundred, maybe, three hundred blog posts off.

Anything that I felt was too nefarious, anything meanly said, anything judgemental, and a lot of the nanny blogs I had up from a tremendously challenging family I worked for years and years ago.

I knew my current employers were going to run a back ground check and I just wanted to be extra special careful.

Every time I see how many blog posts I have I always add another two hundred in my mind.

It’s sort of like getting on the scale and saying, well, my jeans probably weigh a pound and I had a big breakfast, so let’s just take two pounds right off the top to account for that.

Anyway, what I am saying is that I have been doing this a while and I do forget that there are readers out there, some I know really well, some I don’t know at all, a few family members here and there, old highschool acquaintances, perhaps a man or two I may have dated or slept with.

Hard to say.

Occasionally there is a reader or two that I am unaware of who they are, but boy howdy are they interested in me, they either search engine my name or my blog name and obsessively read certain posts.

This hasn’t happened in a bit, but when it does I do feel as though someone has walked across my grave.

The blog  means a lot though and I have found it comforting to have a few friends and fellows and folks and family reach out to me over the past week and tell me how much they either love me or they love my blog.

I had one friend who was wondering last night, as I posted quite early, if I had a date.

Nope.

I wish I had a date.

No date on the horizon.

Perhaps for the best as I sort through all the feelings and emotions from last week.

Oh feelings.

Someone break out a tiny squeaky violin for me please.

I am going to give it one more day of process and climb back aboard the dating train.

I am not fond of the whole deal, but I will say I am learning so much about myself that it is worth it and when it hurts or is hard, why it makes for a great blog.

“He’s an artist, he’ll create,” a friend said once over pints at the bar.

Said friend was perhaps a touch tipsy, but he was money on the nose.

Our mutual friend was grieving a rough break up with the woman of his dreams and it was almost, almost, not quite, comical, how devastated he was, the drama was pretty high color.

I remember we all laughed like hyenas at his pain.

But I recalled that this past week when I have been blogging, experiences that are painful do pull something extra out of my being, the writing, I suppose, makes the pain more bearable, then, almost as though I have put a balm on it, it is soothed and then goes away.

“It’s your process, you’re living in real-time, you’re revealing it all and you have to choose whether you’re going to put it out there and not care, really let it all go, or whether you need to be more circumspect.”

It’s a choice I am not comfortable making, the power of the word, the work, the way it flings itself out of my fingers doesn’t always feel like it’s mine.

Shadows of the trees on the grass swath of park lawn rolling along the road as I whip down the road, turning onto the last leg of my bicycle journey through the park.

The moon tonight, so bright, so high, that a few times I turned to see if it was the high beams of a car coming up behind me.

But no.

It was just the moon.

“There’s the moon,” I said.

I leaned into him and breathed in his smell.

How is that sentence to repudiate me at a later time?

I don’t know.

I do just know that as much as I wish I could curtail it, that it just comes out, so perhaps, it is a kind of self-sabotage, a sacrifice, a surrender of my life to the art.

Sure.

Maybe.

One day.

Down the road, around the corner, my shadow flying ahead of me, I won’t mistake the moon’s bright frosting of light for my own truth, but rather that of another and I can fictionalize this life I lead and I can write something out of experience that has the cake icing of fiction.

But for now.

This is what I’ve got.

I know it’s good.

And for the moment.

That’s all I need to keep going.

At least for tonight.

Flashback City

October 25, 2014

I was sitting in the audience tonight at the Hypnodrome for the Grand Guignal spectacular of The Bloody Debutante and I kept having these moments of deja vu.

What the hell is going on?

I mean.

I know I am ass out tired.

Sorry date.

Not you, I swear.

Just running amok after two little boys today, end of the week, running errands, twice to the market, once to the dry cleaners, over to the park, make the lunch, prep breakfast for the weekend, make the dinner, gather the snacks, and all other various sundry nanny and household duties.

You know.

Typical day at work.

At least I am getting used to it.

And the days, they do go by quick.

I was not even able to worry about the date, although on the occasion when I had a spare moment to think, I was concerned with what the traffic was going to be like, you know, first home game, third game into the World Series, San Francisco Giants.

But.

As it turned out.

I got done with work right after the Royals scored their first run of the evening.

The streets of the Mission were eerily quiet.

The normal Friday night melee was all inside cozied up in front of televisions and big screen monitors in various bars, restaurants, coffee shops, and laundry mats (I kid you not, if it was a place of business, it probably had a huddle of folks around some screen watching the game).

I had a pretty easy commute over to Wicked Grounds for the first leg of the date.

Which made me laugh.

First.

I haven’t been to Wicked Grounds in years and years.

And it’s a damn funny place to take a girl for a cup of coffee on a first date.

It’s a sex positive coffee shop that was opened, I think, but am not certain, by the same folks that run the Citadel, an underground dungeon up the road off of Market Street.

Butt plug with your Americano?

Ball gag on the Halloween pumpkin at the register.

Pictures of naked women in Japanese rope bondage scenarios.

I had a giggle or thirteen as I waited for my Americano to be made.

And.

As luck would have it, two dear and darling friends happened to walk in while I was paying for my coffee.

They were at the art gallery show next door and had popped in for coffees.

“You are everywhere!” My friend exclaimed.

“Carmen sandwich!” Her husband declared.

Yes.

Ah, friends, love my friends, so good to get squeezes and squishes and hugs when in slightly uncomfortable dating scenario.

First dates are awkward, that’s the nature of a first date, I think, but it didn’t help that every time I looked up from my coffee I was looking at the vaginal canal of a woman prostrate in rope bonds.

I didn’t know where the fuck to look.

It certainly encouraged me to make direct eye contact with my date.

I will give my date some credit, I don’t believe he was trying to drop hints (or was he?) about future possible dates, I think it may have been the only coffee shop in the neighborhood of the theater.

Besides, I don’t think Mister Leather had a coffee bar service.

Ahem.

The show was at 8 p.m. and despite my Americano, I was lagging.

But intrigued by the theater and the host who greeted us at the door to the theater and allowed us to sit front row in the handicapped reserved seating (as there were no handicap patrons at the show) which was really quite sweet.

I sat stifling yawns through the first half of the show and trying to appreciate the theatrics.

The first half of the show was good, but a little slow and I kept having odd thoughts and memories needle at me.

I could not figure it out and when the intermission happened I hoped that I would be able to make it through the rest of the show and not fall asleep on my date.

As it turned out, the second half was much more energetic and engaging and I got quite caught up in the theater and it was good, really good.

In fact, go see it.

If you want to take your Halloween honey somewhere fun and unusual next week, or even this weekend, this would be a great date.  The theater really is a great space and if you can afford it, buy a “Shock Box” which is basically a grand theater box that are rather tricked out and cozy and sexy.

Definitely a place to have a little canoodle or knee grabbing during the show.

The show is called the Bloody Debutante and it really is quite a bloody show.

At times it’s quite campy and I kept being reminded of something and then it hit me.

The Cockettes!

I first moved to San Francisco in 2002.

The same year the Cockettes documentary film came out.

I worked at Hawthorne Lane and one of the waiters took a shine to me, he was older, but I couldn’t tell you how old, fabulous, gay, and as it turned out a master seamstress and costume designer.

In fact, he designed a lot of the costumes for the original Cockettes shows.

To celebrate the documentary and because it was Halloween and no other city on earth quite does Halloween like San Francisco, there was a party for the movie and a fashion show and my friend from Hawthorne Lane needed an extra model for the show.

“He bailed at the last moment!” He hustled me in the dressing room at work as we were finishing our lunch shift, “you have to help, I need someone fabulous to rock it out.”

Well, nothing says stroking a girls ego, especially a fresh transplant to San Francisco from Wisconsin, like telling her you want her to model some fashion on a runway at the opening of a film.

I wore a hot pink rabbit fur coat with the most fabulous pockets and buttons and swag and geegaws sewn all over it.

I had on fishnet stockings and one of my garters snapped when I was walking.

I stopped mid catwalk, bent over, wiggle my bottom in the air, pulled it up and sashay’ed to the end to many a hoot and holler.

I had completely forgotten about my first Halloween in San Francisco until the second act of the show started and I realized that there were members from the Cockettes in the show and then it all suddenly flashed upon me.

Holy shit.

My life.

I may be just another nanny on the block.

But once in a while, when no one is looking, I’m on the run way in hot pink furs.

Because that’s just how I roll.

Fabulous as fuck.

 

 

Is That Barnaby?

May 26, 2012

Yes.

Yes, it is Barnaby.

He is not a made up imaginary friend.  Although my brain is super prone to fantasy, he is the real deal.

I think that tattoos gave him away.

He looks good, he looks French.  Well, he acts French, I got the double cheek buss tonight.  I love being greeted in the French fashion, kiss kiss.

It was good to see him in the flesh and realize that this is not actually that big a deal.

I mean, yes, I am planning on moving to Paris, but if Barnaby can do it, then so can I. Some one did it before him and some one will do it after me.  The awesome thing is that I can ask for help from Barnaby and then I get to turn around and share my experience with some one else.

I am not the only person in the whole world who has dreamed of moving to Paris.  I bet there’s just loads of information out there.

Actually there is too much information out there.  I get overwhelmed with the websites and the blogs and the internet searches and the craiglist postings.  It can be a lot of information to sift through.

Most of the time I just want to throw up my hands and say, enough!  Just enough.  Too much info, too much input, brain is full, stand by for download.

I was just reminded of that part of the Matrix where Keanu Reeves is plugged in and in a mere nano second has downloaded to his brain every single style of martial arts available to man kind.

“I know kung fu,”  he said with awe.

That’s kind of what my dream is.

“I know French.”

Or

“I know how to move across the globe without breaking a sweat, be able to pay off all my student loans, and transfer my phone number to an international one, get a Visa, passport, and a place to live, secure a job, and a bank account, and hey, while I’m at it, let me just download a husband and a town house in the 13 arrondisement as well.”

Is there a website for that?

Today, it was what would it take to get a student Visa?

Honestly, by the time I spent a half hour on it I wanted to say, fuck this whole idea, I’m staying in San Francisco and working at the bike shop for the rest of my life.  I will only live in the Mission, I’ll just get a tattoo every once in a while and I will live a life of quiet and desperate futility.

Thanks internet.

I am grateful, oh, so grateful that I don’t do this alone.  I do this life with guidance and love and compassion and humor.

I had some wonderful laughs with Carolyn before I went to work today.  We normally meet at Ritual, but she had some appointments that kept her house bound, so I rode my bike up into Noe Valley this morning before heading off to the salt mines.

We had coffee in her kitchen and her cat Jim leapt in and out of my lap.

We laughed about our crazy and I got to honestly share how I can see my whirly gig thoughts around this travel and this trip and what I am doing.

I get spun up into a frenzy, then I create some drama, then I feel like an ass when I have let the cat out of the bag and it doesn’t turn out the way I think it should, or I want.

Could going to Paris be that exact thing?

Sure.

In fact, it probably is.

So, with some help, and lots of perspective, this is the goal.  For today, live in today.  Keep taking actions, but not the ones I “think” will make me happy or will help me to figure it out.

Keep showing up and being honest with Carolyn.  Keep talking about what the crazy pants party in my head is sharing with me.  I realize that when it’s a story, it’s dishonest or its fantasy.

When its simple and supposed to happen, it will and it will fall into place with out me telling some show boat drama pants story.

I am writing about it, yes.  I am talking to my friends about it yes, I am investigating yes.  Am I moving to Paris?

I don’t know.

And today, for right now, that is ok.

Am I planning to take another action toward that goal of moving to Paris?

Yes.

So, what happens next?  I take some action, does not have to be what I think it should be, but just an action, direct my attention and my thoughts, perhaps, to helping others, and then let go of the results.

If it’s supposed to happen it will happen with out me mucking around in it or manipulating it.

I have more time to meet with Barnaby tomorrow.  He was beat and hungry and I had to get home tonight after my commitments to write and to get ready for a busy Saturday in the Mission.

We will meet up tomorrow evening in Noe Valley and we will discuss more.

It was just great to see him, get hugs, be next to a friend who has seen me grow up a lot over the last seven years, talk tattoos–he really likes my dragons–he has good taste!  And just begin the discussion.

If anything, I get to look at this as an adventure in getting to know myself and my friend better.  What better way than to confab about Paris and the day-to-day life of moving there?

It is exciting, but excitement, though, well, titillating and dramatic, is not really what I want.  I rather want the serenity of that cerulean blue, faded, porcelain sky over the Musee Romantique that I captured in my mind’s eye over a Pellegrino and a cafe creme at a cafe one late afternoon toward the end of my ten days in Paris.

It is the same sense of peace and tranquility that I get when I sit in my favorite cafe outside in San Francisco and stare at the sky and feel the warm sun on my face.

I am with God

And its all good.


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