Posts Tagged ‘dreaming’

The Moon In The Avocado Tree

December 2, 2017

Reminds me of you.

I sit.

Reflect.

Stare.

Dream.

The sky.

I watch the stars and think of little cable cars.

A movie scene.

Holding your hand.

Climbing the hills of the city.

Trying to get closer to the sky.

Trying to be closer to you.

So.

I wait for you.

Here.

While you are there.

So far away.

My eyes prickle with tears that do not fall.

My heart aches with yearning, longing, wistful wanting.

To hear your voice in my ear on the phone.

My ear aches for your breath to be there against it.

Instead of pressed to the machine carrying your voice.

Through the airways I hear you and long to wrap myself around you.

I miss you.

Oh.

I do.

So much.

Very.

Very.

Very.

Listen, can you hear it, the music, we dance slowly to.

And the afterglow of your

Last kiss on my mouth.

Which flutters awake and brushes me tender.

I need your kisses.

I need them so.

Counting down the minutes and moments until I am in your embrace again.

My face flushed with unbearable heat when I was cold today.

Thinking of you.

Then hearing your voice, husky and warm filled with its own kind of longing.

I still shudder thinking of how we came together.

That we are still together.

That I get to be with you, just not as soon as I want to be, right now.

Soon  you say.

Though.

It.

Is.

Not.

Soon enough.

Never soon enough.

Until you are here and I am smashed with your love.

And when I think of us.

I am in awe.

That this all came about.

You and I.

Some divine design.

Sacred and profound.

Lustful and chemical.

Chimerical.

I could never have imagined this.

Us.

Together.

Though apart.

For the moment.

Thus.

I swear, with all the softness of a dreamy mouth, to keep you close.

Though you are afar.

You are right here.

Ensconced.

In my heart.

At least this is what I tell myself.

While I watch the moon.

Drifting through the avocado tree.

 

 

 

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Speak To Me

November 12, 2017

Of the desire in my psyche.

As I try to move.

Closer to you.

Binding my heart.

Against the heart place in your body.

Interconnected.

Landed in heat.

Transcending my day to day human life.

You have given me access to energy.

Star energy.

Dream energy.

Love energy.

The chemistry of love ignites within me–

Binding me with bright prisms of light.

Blinding me to all else.

But.

Your souls depth calling me home.

Descending me into vulnerability.

And.

Embuing my life with purpose.

Through the feeling of love for you.

Sublime you.

My kissling.

My burnished butterfly wing.

My sacred crow calls and whisperings.

Leveling me with your divinity.

Archetype of my heart.

Reflected in your heart.

Transcending my needs.

And.

Glorifying me.

Connecting me to this blue

Incantation of you.

You.

My tether point.

 

 

Bless you my darling.

May the angels of dawn.

Kiss you.

While.

You lay dreaming.

Little Glass Heart

July 30, 2017

Sitting in the window seat.

Sun slanting across my body.

I lift my face to catch.

The warming.

Holding your heart in my hand.

This gift you have given me.

Little glass heart.

Ground down sand.

Heated and changed.

Charged.

A tiny crucible.

Prescient you.

Seeing it there.

Little glass heart.

Laying amongst the trinkets and baubles.

Not knowing.

Yet knowing.

You wanted.

That.

Little glass heart.

To give.

Away.

To whom?

You knew not.

Yet you knew.

Revery this.

Denoting your own sweetness, your own–

Tender heart.

Carrying it with you.

Nestled in a box.

Inside a box.

Waiting.

To be opened.

Said present.

A gift.

A gracing.

Displayed now on my chest.

Just there.

Below my dream.

Grounding me.

Settling me.

I touch it.

My.

Little glass heart.

My touchstone.

My dreaming.

So.

Smooth.

Polished.

Satin soft.

A sweeting kiss swaying with the rise and fall.

Of.

My breath.

A reflection.

A shimmering.

A memento.

Of.

Love.

All these things.

And.

More.

My amazement.

At.

This.

Coup de foudre.

Hiding in plain sight.

Holding.

On so.

So.

Tight.

To.

My.

Little.

Glass.

Heart.

Maybe I’ll Sleep In

July 27, 2017

Probably not.

My brain will wake me up.

Thoughts will come a cruising through my head and I’ll get up.

I was just thinking about sleeping in as the yoga class tomorrow that I was going to go to was cancelled.

Ugh.

I have plenty to do.

Don’t I always.

So.

I’m not super frustrated, and it’s not typical for me to be able to go to yoga class on a Thursday morning anyhow.

I am usually going to work.

But my family is still away and I’ve only got my internship to be accountable to tomorrow.

Ok.

Not true.

I was asked by the family to go to the house and open it up and collect the mail and water the plants and stuff of that nature.

So I’ll be making a little venture over to Glen Park in the late afternoon.

Prior to that I will be reconnecting with an old friend in Hayes Valley.

Do some catch up and see what’s going on in his life.

It’s been years.

Sometimes it amazes me.

That these years they pass.

They go so quick and I want to make sure that I impress upon myself as many experiences as I can.

The sun on my face.

For instance.

I made it out of the fog for a little while today and the sun on my face was exquisite.

The wind in my hair, my eyes closed, the smell of creosote and the sounds of hummingbirds flitting about.

Hummingbirds do make sound.

The whir of their wings close to my ears as they darted about in the flowers.

A high pressure thrum of air and the stirring of molecules by my face and off they go.

I had one of those days that felt like such a dream.

Sweet and sunny and soft.

I even napped.

I know.

I never nap.

I fell asleep listening to the Chopin station on Spotify.

Also something that I do not do.

Fall asleep listening to music.

I generally need it to be dark and quiet.

Music catches at my mind and I can find it distracting, but this today, soft, dreamy, sweet, warm, late afternoon nap, which was not in my plans, and was so good, to feel so held in my sleep.

The best.

Such a gift.

And all the little reveries I had drifting in and out between the piano notes floating through the air in my room.

Exquisite.

I wore a new dress today.

Maybe that was it.

I like getting dressed up and not having to wear my nanny clothes or shoes is a nice change of pace for me.

I have a closet full of dresses that I don’t often wear as they are not suited for nannying.

Shit.

I should wear one tomorrow that I have been itching to wear.

I totally forgot I had gotten it in the mail last week, but I was annoyed that they hadn’t sent both the dresses I had ordered and I didn’t pull it out as I wasn’t sure what or if the company was going to refund my order or deny that they hadn’t sent the dress.

I sent them an e-mail and I think there was a part of me that was all stubborn, like, I wanted the other dress more, damn it.

Turns out that they had sold out and they happily refunded the dress to my bank account.

So.

I took the other dress out of its packaging.

And oh.

It’s pretty.

Sort of old-fashioned retro styling with a sweetheart bodice and a bit of a flared skirt, white with small black polka dots and navy and royal blue roses.

It’s very fetching.

I could wear that tomorrow.

Although, it doesn’t strike me as a therapy dress and I have a client tomorrow night.

Ah.

I don’t need to figure it out right now.

It was just nice to be in my dress today, out in the sun, the wind fluttering the long hem around my ankles.

I felt ethereal at times.

The way the sky looked between the tree leaves.

I was in awe.

I have such a good life.

I am really happy.

Oh.

Sure.

My brain likes to sneak attack me when I’m least expecting it.

But it passes and usually I can take a moment in those places of vulnerability and say, hey, “thanks for sharing, but I got this,” or better, “God’s got this.”

Which is true.

I’m human.

I’m going to fall on my face no matter how hard I try.

The point is to try.

If I’m falling down that means that I am trying and I am living.

I want so to have a full rich experienced life.

I want to see things and experience things and feel.

I definitely have the feelings thing down.

Ha.

I have a friend who sent me a check in the mail today.

We share a MOMA membership and I just renewed it.

He used to say “you wear your heart on you sleeve,” to me all the time.

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, but I believe he was referring to me being emotionally transparent in my blogs.

Which, strange though this may seem, has changed a bit for me.

Not being emotionally transparent, per se.

I think that I am pretty damn transparent here in my writing.

But.

That my writing has changed since he made that comment.

I don’t share as much content as I used to.

Oh.

Sure.

There is stuff that happens and I will report back factually, with much acuity, I will paint a picture of rolling hills, the grass drying and cream yellow, the smell of sage in a garden, the look of tiny green tomatoes just beginning to bud on the vine, the surprise kiss of beauty planted on me in the garden, the roses, the old garden ones that proliferated in all gardens on the edges with the fallen soft pink petals crumpled on the ground, the sound of hawk flying over head screeching for its lunch to show itself in the grass.

I can show you these things.

But my content used to be a lot more focused on who and what and when.

I find that I am leaving out that more and more.

Then it’s just the feelings and the susuration of wind in my heart.

The way love feels in my body.

How I want to be and more and yes when I stumble, getting back up and trying again.

All the things.

All the lovely things.

All the beauty that I took photographs in my mind today.

The bluest blue.

The soaring in my heart.

The glad song on my lips.

The dreams and revery.

All of it.

Wonderous and magic.

Nocturne

May 18, 2017

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

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

I am finally not wet and cold.

It rained.

It poured.

It was a deluge.

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

However.

I was not sad.

I was dreamy.

I was bemused.

I was looking at all the things.

I was seeing the poetry in the wet cobblestones.

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

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

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

I got wet.

Oh.

I got so wet.

Drenched.

Doused.

Soaked.

And yet.

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

I was not sad.

I was not melancholic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Ha.

It’s me.

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

Oh.

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

Or.

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

I am never alone when I am with Paris.

We are lovers.

Yes.

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

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

Perhaps I too am like that.

In moments here and there.

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

There are times I am lonely.

Yet.

I am never alone.

Unfettered and loved.

I am here.

I am there.

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

And so.

I go forward.

Warm now.

Sheltered from the rain.

But not quite a part from it.

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

The rain.

The poetry.

The Chopin.

The art.

The city.

A swan of desire upon my fevered face.

I shall not forget soon.

No.

I shall not.

This blasphemous joy.

Oh The Things People

March 7, 2017

Google

Cocaine and vodka enema.

Still going strong.

What?

It’s an old blog post, one I wrote six, maybe seven years ago.

And yet.

It still gets hits, every day.

EVERY DAY.

I haven’t read it since I wrote it, I almost never re-read the blogs after I have published them.

Oh.

Once and a while I do, or I might go back and do a fast edit on a piece.

Occasionally I will go back and re-read one if someone comments on it in a particular way, but for the most part, I write them, I send them out to the Universe, then I move the fuck on.

I can’t see who reads my blogs.

This is probably a good thing.

Although.

I can figure out once in a while that someone has a thing for one of the pieces I have written.

Perhaps it is about them.

I suspect an ex boyfriend of reading a certain blog I posted after our break up.

I have no recollection what I wrote.

But I do know that it resonated with a lot of people, I had folks coming out of the wood work to share about how they had gotten through a painful break up or that what I had written helped them through a break up.

Or when I was in Anchorage while my father was in a coma.

Tons of response to those blogs.

And often someone reads a blog and suddenly I’m getting something sent in the mail or someone is helping me out when I’ve been in a pinch.

All those kind, sweet, generous, anonymous folks who helped when I had the horrible ankle incident.

Or when I was the starving, literally at times, artist in Paris and I got some support from unexpected places.

I have been given a lot from this blog.

Sometimes it bites me in the ass.

Words that make me cringe, sometimes with gratitude, sometimes with a hand thwack to my forehead, when I am told the following, “I read you blog.”

Well.

Fuck me.

That can be great.

And.

Sometimes.

Well.

Not so great.

Doesn’t seem to matter how many times I write it here, I am more than my blog, you are not getting the full Carmen Show, but.

You do get a great bit of it and despite my protestations, people will read what they want to read and see what they want to see.

I have had people tell me they read my blog then tell me a completely different narrative than the one I wrote.

It makes me laugh.

We all see what we need to see, what we want to see, not necessarily what is reality.

Not my place to teach or direct or give a damn, I suppose, I’m trying here just like I’m trying elsewhere, just to tell my story in this moment.

The moment changes.

I change.

Things change.

But folks keep reading certain things and though I jest about that blog, it’s about recovery and I find it sort of funny that it gets so many hits, but maybe someone gets what they need from it.

No directions though.

No “how to” there.

Just a sad story about a sick woman, and not me, it wasn’t about me, (but I bet you a dime that most folks think it is me writing about me) it was about a woman my friend was dating and the things that they would do when they were fucked up.

Oh the things we do when we are fucked up.

The stories I have heard.

Funny, hilarious.

Fucking tragic.

I’ve been criticized for putting too much out there, cautioned too.

I have had moments when I absolutely agreed and other times where I felt like, fuck off, I’m not interested in editing myself more than I already do.

I do edit myself.

I don’t write about it all.

I think about it sometimes, but I have made amends twice about things that I have written here and both times it was painful enough to make it very clear to me that the only person I can ever write about here is me.

My experiences.

My pain.

My joy.

My life.

No one else’s.

Oh.

Sure.

I do live in relation to other humans, so there are interactions, but I don’t presume to write about people, I can observe, but I can not hurt another person.

Because.

I could.

Oh.

I could be a scathing fucking bitch about some of the things that I have heard or witnessed or had done to me.

But.

Well.

I would end up getting hurt then and this is a place where I come to heal and to learn.

If I wasn’t still learning seven years of blogging later I wouldn’t still be doing this, if it didn’t fulfill some need in me I would have stopped.

There is still so much to write about though.

Which is just fucking lovely.

I’ll keep writing until there’s not, and maybe, I will still keep writing then, because things change, even the past changes, more will be revealed and when it is, well, I want to be there to bear witness and to write about that too.

How many times can I write about the House in Windsor and all the things that happened to me there, and all the things that happened that I don’t know that happen.

How many times?

I could write every year about the seasons and the changes in the weather, how the house was never really hot, even in the depths of summer, because of all the old growth oak trees surrounding it.

Or.

The lilac trees the soft rot of the blooms in high July heat and the intangible biting sweetness in cool water when they first bloom in May.

The reminder, always, of how that grass in summer time grew so high in the back yard and how it felt on my bare feet.

Playing catch with a softball with my aunt Marybeth.

Damn.

She had an arm.

Dreaming about the boys I had crushes on at school.

Sitting in my room listening to music on my boom box.

Joining the Columbia House Record club and the utter joy of opening that first cardboard box full of tape cassettes.

Feeling alive and feeling the magic that could happen, feeling like I was just on the other side of a plate of glass and how to get to the other side were everyone else was and how they seemed to know what to do.

I did a lot of pretending.

I did a lot of walking tall and faking it until I made it.

I remember once running into someone I had gone to school with when I was working as the floor manager at the Angelic Brewing Company; he told me how much he had admired me in school, he was a grade or two below me, about how he’d observed the way I walked and how I carried myself, that he had emulated me.

That I had been cool.

I have had many a compliment, but that one haunts me.

I walk tall now, but I am not always so confident.

I love myself more and have less fear of fear.

Although not perhaps less fear.

Just a better way of getting through it.

I love that young girl in that house, she was brave and strong and so much more courageous than I ever gave her credit for.

And beautiful.

I wish she knew how beautiful she was.

Singing to herself in her room, late at night, dreaming of intangible things while cutting out photographs from fashion magazines to collage onto the wall.

And knowing, although not knowing how, exactly.

That one day.

She was going to get the fuck out.

And you know what?

I did.

 

The Music In My Heart

February 14, 2016

Keeps me company in the ghettos of my soul.

Those dark places and spaces that I dare not always go, but how I long to illuminate them.

So, I tip toe, with a candle, can you see it, brass plate, a curled cup handle, the flicker of the flame, the shadows so much bigger than the fear and in I go.

I am listening to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel.

LOUD.

God damn.

How music can re-make me, burn me, find its way into the crevices of me and fill me with a new kind of lightness and joy.

I am full of joy.

I am in my joy bubble.

I can float, rather than wander lost, through these chambers, grateful and buoyant.

And yes.

There may be puddles of pain I drift across.

Skeins of shadows, slicks of sorrow, I will feel the pull and the longing to let it in and delve in it, or press past without looking too close.

Forgetting.

Tears.

Are just pain leaving the body.

Toxins that need to be released.

I let go of a lot today at school and it was just an amazing experience.

Extraordinary and cathartic.

I was overwhelmed and yet, I found a place, a boat made from the cup of my heart and the billowing sails of the psyche, the gossamer stronger, so much stronger than I am willing to consciously admit.

Yet.

I know.

I know so deep within me that I am capable of steering this small ship out into the grand and grandiose ocean.

I am taken care of while I do this exploration.

I got a spiritual solution for your desperate aim.

How amazing that?

I saw a way through.

A way to keep pushing and keeping on keeping on.

With flowers always in my hair.

With my heart always on my sleeve.

It needs the room to breathe.

There’s no need to go home when you are always at home in your heart.

I am always there, deep within the chasms, the spirals, a nautilus, a whispering echo of a kiss, sentimental and tinged with the dusky dried rose petals from bouquets of imaginary flowers.

I walk under canopies of plum blossoms, drifting like snow through the air, kisses from God scattered before like all the promises I made myself as a child not knowing how far flung those wishes would carry me.

Look.

Love.

How far we have come.

Buttercup.

My pink, baby bunny, my sweet serenade as I kneel, bowed head, naked at the foot of the bed, curls cascading down, vulnerable and tender and known and carried.

I will rise, cross the threshold, and then crawl, exhausted those last few inches, into the warm hand, the cup of love, the bowery of teal heart and pink ribboned adoration.

Change like the shifting night.

And this is change.

A change is coming.

I can wallow there or I can rise, rested, rise a reflection of lost light pooled and gathered in the heat of sleep, arisen, burn in the new sun, the ashes as soft as the flower petals.

Death of self.

Death of expectations.

Surrender.

Forgiveness.

Behold the heart of the beauty.

Behold the flowers crowning her hair.

The star light, the dead light, taken in, and re-ignited in the alchemy of love and yearn, to be turned back out into the world.

Hair up, head high.

Dancing skirts twirling out and the spotlight of God on me no longer a frightening thing.

Rather a place to rest.

To bask in the warmth rather than recoil from the field.

I grow forward.

I need not know what into.

Just that I do.

The desert dreams that haunt me collapse in this light, the urges and whims, the lies that brusk themselves against my lips as though to convince myself more than you that it will all be alright.

It will.

It will.

I press the poetry back agains the roof of my mouth.

Sometimes when you’re dreaming I’ll see a light.

The dark Marilyn.

The light jumping feet, bare foot against a screen of blue.

Joy, leap with me, toes curled underneath, tender and vulnerable to my gaze.

Am I there?

Am I here?

Do I need to orient myself to the pulling stars circling round another light, do I need to be raised up into this brightness, do I need to know why my heart carries me so?

No.

Not when my heart is my home.

Not when I am cavorted with, playful and joyous, shouting out in the song of myself, in the knowing that I go forth no ones woman but my own.

No ones woman.

Rather all Gods.

And therefor.

Mine.

All mine.

Sweetest heart, dearest one, longing and soft, I call to you and we will go in a field of daisies, marguerite, and dashed with the toppled heavy heads of sunflowers, their velvet leaves kissing our elbows, a soft remonstrance, your mouth on my skin, a remembering soaked in the blooded lost love from the press of my mothers chapped lips on my forehead in the light falling from the doorway.

I rise up.

This time.

I go toward the light.

I take the hand.

I let the nightgown fall down my legs and I stop shaving off pieces of me.

I build them back in.

I shine them back on.

I bedeck myself from the shift of vulnerability and innocence to the strength of better days and the promises, wishes catapulted from the billowy heads of dandelions and the soft sun soaked joy of warm grass under my bare feet.

I choose now.

I mix the memory.

I re-write the script and whisper softly.

Go, girl, go.

Fly away on the backs of geese at sunset drifting through the fog burning off from the rising sun.

Scatter the pain below you into the lake and let it all go.

Love.

Lovely.

Love.

Blessed with the crenellated masonry.

I choose to climb down the battlements.

I will live in the fray.

When the night is long.

The moon’s in the blue trees.

I will still choose to sing my song.

Love.

I love.

No matter what.

On fire, fraught and full, fallen on my own sword to die the many deaths and to let go again and again until the flowers fall behind and I stand.

And I will.

I will.

Stand.

I Lose Track

September 13, 2015

Of days.

Of hours.

Time.

It slips past and suddenly.

I am here.

Again.

In front of this keyboard sorting out the effluvia of the day, the flotsam and jetsam, the dust and the gold, the indifferent, the libidinous, and the words that strike me in my heart.

I am in graduate school.

I am taking classes from morning til night.

I am not caught up on the reading, but I am a lot closer than I was a few days ago.

For despite wanting to check out into my own little home and nest and socialize with my things, I come home from class and I do more work.

The work.

It never stops.

I am at a place of contentment with this, not complacency or procrastination, just more a space of being alright with what I have done and where I have gotten to in this day, in this place, in this program.

I am doing alright.

I am neither greater than or less than anyone.

Everyone has their own story, their own place, and as I float through the day, sometimes tired, sometimes angry–really, another fucking lunch I cannot eat? I find space to let my hair down and moments to check messages and to take phone calls that seem miraculously placed.

I got to check in with one of my people during a tender time of self-reflection and see how the stress of financial insecurity tries to follow me.

Up the stairs, past the security guard at the desk, into my class room.

To sit on my shoulder.

Quoth the dark bird.

“Nevermore.”

Croaking out a kind of fear that is twisted, misogynistic, and misplaced.

I am alright.

I am ok.

The stress is self-created misery to stir up the bones of anxiety in my graduate school soup.

I am not the only one who is concerned with their finances and how to make it all go and no one, no mattered how privileged, comes without their own bag of problems to unpack during class, in the hallways, on the phone, quiet and desperate in the bathroom.

We all have insecurity.

It is what I decided to do with it that is important.

I acknowledged it today in my T-Group.

I allowed someone else the space to be authentic as well.

I got relief.

Funny that.

How sharing my troubles actually allows someone else to do the same and we become comrades, “brothers in arms,” a dear hearted friend shared today.

I like that analogy.

We are at a kind of war.

But not an ideological war, no, I could see it shaped like that, an incessant desire to wage a siege on ideology, politics, reform, to stratify and dissent.

No.

Rather.

I see this as a way to surrender to that ever illusive idea of love.

Where am I holding onto things that don’t work for me?

Where do I repress?

How does it come out, in my self, in my enactments with others, how do I self-sabotage, do I self-sabotage?

Of course I do.

Don’t be a silly rabbit.

And I am just as attached to these notions as anything else in my life.

What I am finding though, is that I am smarter than I let myself know or acknowledge.

I found myself on the edge of my seat in my last class of the day, keeping up with the professor, understanding the implications of desire and Psyche in Freud, and what the hell?

I’m keeping up, I am understanding it, I am enjoying it, and I am making rapid connections in my brain, despite not having finished the readings for the class.

I will.

There is no doubt that I will.

I am giving myself the time and the space to do so.

Despite other competing desires.

This forum allows me to see that.

I am grateful for my little blog, for my little insights, for the ability to open up and love and be rambling or discordant at times, but underneath it all there is a loveliness, a suturing song that sings to me, a dark wild place in my heart, the smell of wet cedar, the evergreen bloom in the deep black hollow of the night, the moist passionate smell of the ocean.

All my senses alive and here and attuned.

The bicycle ride, you may have surmised, home was good tonight.

I was not so distracted by the length of the day and just having gotten through a second day in the three-day weekend process brought me relief.

Two down.

One to go.

It won’t be easy.

But it also, the day tomorrow, won’t be as hard as today or yesterday.

There is already a sort of habit-forming for me and a way of managing the time and effort needed to get from here to there.

The getting from here to there is not so bad either.

I do feel the need to take care of some more things here on the home front, but I can get away from it for one more day.

The laundry got done today, the bed stripped, a shower taken, morning pages written, the bicycle ride to and from campus–13 miles, thank you very much legs, give or take a few feet, the blog is being taken care of, the reading, the most reading I can do, has been done, and the music is on, a winding down.

A loss of time.

A travel into the here and now.

The ephemeral light and music on my soul.

The reminder of love requisitioned and sought.

To be so busy that I swim in this constant sea of negotiating and time management that the present moment becomes a precious thing of great beauty.

Even when I find it fleeting.

Even when I lose track of it.

It stops there again.

At the door to my heart.

Knocks.

Pushes open.

Crosses the threshold.

And settles itself down by the fire.

A warm glow of love that I surround myself with.

A place of resting I created for myself.

A sound scape of love, desire, and action on the lunar face of my soul.

The plush kissed lip of Psyche on my psyche.

The wife of Eros.

And.

Of the divine.

And in the midst of this wide quietness

A rosy sanctuary will I dress

With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:

And there shall be for thee all soft delight

That shadowy thought can win,

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

To let the warm Love in!

Excerpt from “The Ode to Psyche”

John Keats

I Dreamt I Was At Burning Man*

January 28, 2015

And I had to leave early and I was sad.

Jesus, I thought when I woke up, what month is it?

Oh yeah.

January.

You know you have it bad when you start dreaming about the event this far out. I blame the early sale of tickets that just happened, the group sales for pre-registered camps that is happening and the fact that I have had just enough time since the last burn to forget anything difficult or challenging that happened.

There was plenty of both this past year.

It’s not an unlikely scenario, the dream.

Go to Burning Man and have to leave early this year.

If I get into graduate school there’s a very good chance that would happen.

Of course, I can’t remember when the fall semester starts and I also don’t and won’t know if I’m in until March.

Until then I have plenty of other things to focus on.

Like I want to go to Atlanta in July as well.

I would really like to see my best friend in Wisconsin too, without a severe ankle injury holding me back from participating in the visit either.

And I want to make a trip down to Chula Vista to visit my grandmother.

What with everything that has happened with my dad it feels like its time to reconnect with my grandmother.

We stay in touch via Face Book, but there’s something better about face to face than over the Internet and I would like to catch up with her and also just give her a hug.

It’s been too long.

So that’s four travel destinations between here and now and the fall.

Plus what ever the dates are for the family I work with to be in Sonoma.

One thing at a time, I suppose.

Burning Man looms the largest in my mind since it is such a time and money commitment. Plus, there is the thought, do I go this year and not work?

I am not currently employed by any Burning Man family, so there may not be any Mary Fucking Poppins on the playa this year, although I do know plenty of the community that have little munchkins that go out.

“What if you, I know, radical idea, don’t work this year,” a dear friend said.

What would that look like if I actually did Burning Man instead of “Working Man.”?

It’s a really good question.

I’m not sure what I would do if I didn’t have some sort of job out there. For me being of service at Burning Man is a huge part of the allure and the community.

I don’t just go to play.

I never have.

Not even my first year on playa.

That was the year the man was burned early and I ended up pulling a bunch of Café volunteer barista shifts so that one of the Man Base crew could go and help rebuild the man before burn night.

It was an exhilarating experience and it turns out that I am a good barista.

Which really should be of no surprise since I like coffee so much.

Then the question arises.

Where would I work/volunteer?

If I didn’t work or volunteer where would I stay?

I adore my peeps at Media Mecca and that’s always the first place I think about camping or working when I think about camping our working at the event.

I did not like being at the 9 o’clock keyhole the last couple of years, it just felt too far away from where I wanted to be and the people I wanted to see.

Yeah, the perks were great, who doesn’t want to spend Burning Man in an Airstream Bambi? But it was like being in a gilded cage. I prefer a trailer to a tent, but if I should only have the opportunity to tent it I will. Even though I have no tent any longer or air mattress or camping shower. All those things I loaned out or gave away to folks when I started staying in a trailer for the event when I was working out there as a nanny.

I get way ahead of myself.

But the dream made me think a lot about it today and what my options are and when and if I should buy a ticket or should I look to the folks I know in the community and find out if I can do some volunteer work for them.

I should just reach out and ask instead of walking around in circles in my head.

There are a lot of dates on the table, in my head, and I haven’t really looked over any of them to see what overlap, if any there is.

Ultimately, the thing to do is take action.

Not sit here in my head and wonder about it.

I need to register for the conference in July if I’m going to go to Atlanta.

That’s the first thing.

The next thing to do is to check in with my grandmother and see if there’s a good weekend to come down for a quick visit.

That is something I could do tonight.

If I can manage to get online, the Internet is currently down and I am in my Word application writing my blog.

Something I dislike, but have gotten used to since the Internet connection out here is so often wonky. I always hope that by the time I finish writing my piece the connection will have resumed.

Some times that actually does happen.

Most times, I am stuck sitting on a blog until later in the night when it, the Internet, magically reappears.

Otherwise I would have a little clarity around those dates.

I could look up when the graduate program starts.

I am sure it’s listed somewhere.

I could look and see if the date overlaps with Burning Man.

That would be some helpful information to have.

I mean if I’m going to be dreaming about going I might as well have the specific dates down on my calendar.

There are loads of actions I can take.

I don’t have to figure it out tonight though.

The best I have for the rest of the evening is a snack and a cup of tea and an episode of Broad Church.

Nothing else pressing.

Just a nice mellow evening of self-care and reflection on all the wonderful places I get to go to this year and all the new adventures I have in store.

It’s going to be one hell of a year.

I am feeling it.

 

*This blog originally written on 1/27/15.  My internet was down, apologies for the late post.*

New York Dreaming

September 7, 2014

My friend is passed out in a food coma in his boxers on the queen size bed in the Air BnB he’s staying at in Brooklyn.

I am super tempted to take photos of him.

SUPER.

But after the amaze balls meal we just had this evening at Peter Luger’s and the fact that he footed the bill and the taxi ride back to the pad, well, it inclines me to be gentle with him.

Besides I love him to bits.

And today would not have been the day it was without his company and guidance.

I did not have to negotiate the subway system.

He did it for me.

I did not have to figure out what to do or where to go.

He knew what I wanted to see and do and we did it.

He asked me before I got here what I wanted to eat.

Steak.

And he made reservations at Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn three and a half weeks ago.

We still had the latest reservation one could have at the restaurant–10:45p.m.–but we got in.

He took me to a place I hadn’t thought to go and was thrilled beyond measure that we went.

Tavern on the Green.

I mean, it really was a dream of a day.

One in which I started out “late” from having needed to catch up on sleep missed from the previous days early up and at ’em after a long travel in from San Francisco.

I slept in until almost 10:30 a.m.

Late for me any way you slice it.

Late for me now, but I cannot go quite to sleep, I had more than one latte at Tavern on the Green, and I am wide awake.

Plus, my body is busy digesting all the tasty that was had at the steak house–iceberg wedge salad with blue cheese (the real stuff) and heirloom tomatoes, thick cut bacon, a half a medium rare lamb chop, a half of a rare porterhouse, a bottle of bubbly water–I am going to be digesting for the next week, I think.

But that’s ok.

The month of eating meat like it’s going out of style (three weeks Burning Man followed by this weekend in New York) and I will be going back to my simpler ways.

No.

I am not a vegetarian.

Although I have played on one tv.

I am just a simpler eater.

I like my food simple and clean and though it was not “dirty” to say the least, it was just a lot more full of meat than I normally eat.

But I am on vacation.

A short, sweet, quick bite of the apple, and then back out.

In fact.

I fly out in less than 8 hours.

My flight leaves JFK at 8:10 a.m.

Current time?

1:38 a.m.

Current location?

Somewhere in Brooklyn, just off the J line at Myrtle and Broadway.

I figure I am going to have to get up in oh, about three hours, get dressed, pack my bag and split for the subway, giving myself about an hour commute time to the airport, maybe an hour and a half (although I don’t think the trains will be busy, I just don’t know how often they are going to be running at 5 a.m.) and then the mandatory hour or so to make sure I check into my flight and go through security.

It’s almost late enough that I don’t want to go to bed, that I could just stay up and watch my friend sleep and listen to the occasional honk of the horn going by, or the whirl of the fan in the window.

It’s warm and sultry and it’s been humid.

Man, oh man, you should see my hair.

I have a lot of it.

It’s curly.

And it’s humid.

It’s like getting twice the hair in one shot.

It was pretty hot today, 91 degrees, but the humidity was so high that it felt like 100 degrees.

I got rained on a little bit, not too bad, just enough to have to dash underneath an awning after a late brunch at Ichabod’s down off of Irving and 3rd Ave.

I don’t know exactly how to explain all that happened today.

It wasn’t much.

But it was all a dream.

It was the fantasy made so real that I teared up a few times, wanted to pinch myself, and thought over and over and over, how is it that I am here?

How did this happen?

And I can trace the arc of it and still be amazed to be this woman, walking around Chelsea and the West Village, drinking an iced cold pressed coffee, dancing about the High Line Park, taking photographs of the skyline, and wearing a hat I bought on a corner from a street vendor who I bargained down to $20.

I felt like I was in a movie.

I laughed like I was in my own life and fulfilled and myself and I cried a little too, with joy, with gratitude to be walking with an old friend through a street fair on 3rd Avenue, eating watermelon out of a plastic cup and joshing with each other about going to that one place, on 19th and Dolores so many years ago, nine, now.

I got to be the woman sitting with an old lover at Tavern on the Green, eating olives with my fingers and watching the French couple at the bar holding hands underneath the ledge while Frank Sinatra crooned  a little song about New York over the speakers.

I watched the horses trot past pulling carriages and tourists and my heart-felt full and when my friend said, “you picked the right hat,” I knew he was right.

He picked it, by the way.

When the subway connections all fell like dominoes and we dashed up and down the stairs and made three transfers to get dropped off two blocks away from the steak house, walking in right at 10:45p.m. when the lighting flashed and the thunder boomed, and the skies opened up again, deluging the streets of Brooklyn with a wash of water from heaven, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

And the dream.

Well.

It’s done.

It was a good dream.

And it was a lovely movie that I got to star in today.

Now.

Onto other dreams and other goals.

Now to settle my restless heart for a moment, catch a three-hour nap, and off to the airport.

I have places to go.

And planes to catch.

But New York.

I won’t forget you soon.

Though I may not dream of you again.

I am so grateful I got to live through this.

Like a bright stack of gold foil wrapped chocolates on Christmas morning.

You were sweet.


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