Posts Tagged ‘flowers in her hair’

Holy Shit

October 29, 2016

Tomorrow is my first day off in two weeks.

And I was going to go to yoga in the morning.

But.

Um.

My blog had sex instead.

ER.

Hahahaha.

I mean I did.

Heh.

Just going to put that right out there on the front page.

With a lover who is a friend and well, hey, sometimes a girl needs a friend with benefits, it’s been a hell of a week.

I really will go to yoga again, I will, but I’m up late and don’t feel like not having a full nights sleep.

It seems nuts to actually get up earlier on the weekend to go to yoga then to just let myself sleep.

There was so much that happened this week and though I can’t speak to it all, an emotional toll was had.

Enough said.

Sometimes circumspection is the best thing.

Restraint of tongue and pen.

And blog.

I may actually go out tomorrow night.

What?!

There is a slight possibility that I may have a friend that can get me into Ghost Ship.

The last time I checked it was an $80 ticket.

And that was a few weeks ago, I’m sure that tier has sold out.

My friend was like, it’s late, but maybe.

I don’t really have plans otherwise.

I was invited to a party in Oakland.

But.

Um the bridge.

And BART.

And Halloween crazy in the city.

I’m not so sure about that.

I would rather stay on this side of the bridge.

Although if I had a ride over, I would go.

It’ll be a lot of folks I know and some faces I haven’t seen in a while since so many people I know got pushed out of the city to the East Bay.

That being said, I get a pass to Ghost Ship, I will be hitting that.

The Orb.

Dj Dan.

The Mutaytor.

Plus, I know some of the folks from Mutaytor.

It would be fun to see them at a show again.

The last time I saw them perform was Burning Man, years ago.

I actually danced on top of the stage scaffolding too, now that I recall.

Ha.

That was also the night I fought, and won, but that’s another blog, in Thunder Dome.

That must have been five years ago now.

They are a great group and I had a blast dancing.

And it’s been a hot second since I have gone dancing.

So yeah.

And despite not having a costume I’m sure I could whip one up pretty quick.

Two things fast come to mind, one I could be a pin-up girl, albeit one in Converse, although I love wearing my black suede peep toe Mary Jane’s that are 4 inches, I mean love those shoes, they are not the greatest for dancing.

I can actually wear them out for a long time, since they are a platform, but that’s just walking around or kicking it.

Actual dancing I’d rather do in my Converse.

I could go as a modern-day Frida Kahlo.

I was thinking that would actually be really easy to pull off.

I would wear my Big Mac painter bibs in navy stripe, which literally do have paint all over them, they’re vintage and the color is so close to International Orange, that I like to tell myself that they were bibs worn by one of the guys painting the bridge.

Then all I would have to do is braid up my hair, tie it up top my head and wear a bunch of flowers in my hair.

Pencil in my eyebrows and voila!

If I go, I think that would be what I do, especially since the bibs are super oversized and comfy as fuck and I could dance my ass off and there are big pockets and I could keep all my stuff on me–cash, id, lip gloss, phone, and not have to carry a bag or wallet or purse.

I could just lock every thing up in my scooter.

Pin up my braids, stick the flowers in my hair and done.

Yeah.

I am definitely down for Ghost Ship if my friend can get me a pass in.

Yup.

I just checked, the only tier of tickets left for tomorrow night is $85.

And since this lady just paid rent, I don’t think so.

That’s like groceries for a week.

But, yeah, if it’s free, I’m down.

Especially since the three acts I really would want to see are all playing the same stage–The Mutaytor first at 11:30, then The Orb, then Dj Dan.

Although by the time Dj Dan gets on I may call it quits, that’s a late ass night for me.

Anyway.

This is all complete speculation at this time.

I may just end up seeing my person, doing the deal at the place, and doing a bunch of reading for school.

I managed to get in some before work today and that made me happy.

Even a little is progress, even just a few minutes, nice digestible chunks of information.

No expectations about anything, anyone, or any plans.

I’m just going to let go and really let God plan out my weekend.

Whenever I make plans God laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

“Well you’re not as standoffish, I mean you still are, a little,” my lover said tonight, “I saw you, though, you didn’t bolt, you stayed and stuck around and talked to folks.”

“I’m trying,” I said.

“I know it’s not easy for you, this stuff is not your forte,” he added.

It used to be, but I um, had libations to lube the way.

I don’t have social lubricant like that any longer and though I can get down at a party or a group thing, my go to is lone wolf style.

But that makes for a lonely wolf.

“That’s the thing too, stop trying,” he added.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said and laughed, and then added, “how do I do that?”

“Relax, stop looking, and just see what happens,” he ended.

He’s right, most everybody is.

Let go.

Surrender.

Stop trying.

Have fun.

“Oh, and really, do you want to be in a relationship right now?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, “do you have the time?  I mean, maybe just wait until you’re done with your program.”

Wait another year and a half?

Fuck that.

Then I thought.

Whatever.

I really can’t figure it out, since figure it out is me trying to fix me and there’s no need to fix me because I ain’t broken, I give up.

Surrender.

That is where it’s at.

Now and always.

Seriously.

No expections.

Equals.

No resentments.

And I’m always down for that kind of party.

Always.

 

 

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Doing The Work

October 13, 2016

And doing the homework while doing the work.

I did both today.

I did a lot today.

It was a day.

Tomorrow will be a day too.

All the days.

All the work.

Letting out slow, long breath and waiting for the tea pot to boil.

It was a good day at work.

It was a good day to do a lot of work.

I’m done with it for the moment and need a reprieve, which will look an awful lot like watching Project Runway and chilling out with an apple after I finish this blog.

I have done enough.

And.

I remind myself that I am enough.

That I am resilient and strong and I have come through so much to be where I am at and I am grateful that I have been carried to a place where I can see that.

It stops with me.

I thought today, a couple of times.

Then.

I thought.

What if that’s just another way of me trying to protect me?

How about I change instead.

How about I look at the trans-generational traumas in my family on my father’s side and on my mother’s side as the things that have made me the diamond that I am.

“Sometimes God uses a heavy hand to create a beautiful thing,” she told me as I sobbed my way through my first real inventory over a decade ago now.

The pressure it takes to create a diamond from the black morass of sadness I was created.

The crucible that holds me I cannot even begin to list all the ways and hows of it.

The secrets and shame and the wildness and the wrong.

The places I have tried to hide and not be found.

I always was.

I always knew.

I know now and it is a deep sadness, but also a formidable strength.

I sometimes can get tired trying to process it all.

“You had this conversation while you were at work?” He asked me aghast on the phone.

I did.

I had a very deep, but not totally deep, there were layers of things left unsaid and things that I still have questions about, but I got what I needed and I could trace the wellsprings of it farther back than I had first suspected.

High temperatures, high drama, high pressures.

I had some clue, but then I had no clue.

And yet, I knew all along.

In fact.

I had avoided making this particular call as I wasn’t sure I really wanted to open the can of worms.

“Sometimes going to far into a genogram can be hard for a client to deal with,” my advisor said to me as I showed him some of the work I had done.

Um.

Yeah.

And there’s so much more.

It’s like a legacy of pain that just rolls through my family.

It is astounding and deep and yet.

I feel that somehow or other I have gotten out, gotten over to the other side and I am looking at it from a distance.

Yet.

There are these ways that I react to the world and there are these defenses I have that I would like to let go of, to open myself up to more life, to not be fearful that I will be shattered again and need to begin again.

The things that worked for me, the safety defenses, they don’t work so much anymore.

And “it stops with me,” in the way that I have used it is not working.

No partner, no relationship, no children.

Because that way I wouldn’t pass it down.

It would really stop with me.

Ultimately that kind of isolation hurts me too.

It’s a solution and a defense that needs to change.

Grateful for the awareness.

Now to wade through the acceptance part and the forgiveness part and get to the action part.

Not sure exactly what action to take, except that right in front of me and to take the suggestions that others have to give me and to not carry the secret or the shame of it that curdles inward and hurts worse than shining the light on it.

Oh.

There are nooks and crannies I’m not too compelled to go spelunking in, at least not right yet, not right now.

I don’t need to stare at my past, I can just look, take it in, and accept it.

And remind myself that acceptance is not approval.

Fuck no

I fucking hella disapprove of the shit that went down.

I do not, I do not, I do not.

That being said, I can’t change it at all.

Although having a different perspective and hearing about some of the things in my family history definitely cast a different light on things.

So much compassion for the human experience.

And that I’m not dead.

For fucks sake.

Or in some straight jacket or in a gutter with a needle in my arm.

The noise of it all.

The machinery of the monsters that clanks down the hall to stumble upon me hiding in the shadows.

I will not have it.

I will not live underneath that banner of fright.

So.

I heal.

Soft and slow.

Gently I go.

It’s the only way.

Compassion and gentleness for myself and awareness that this does take time, perhaps my whole damn life, and that’s ok too, I shall always be seeking and that, that I do believe, is what will make my life that much fuller and richer and deeper and more experiential.

I am not numb.

Granted I am a little tired.

Granted I would like to make a phone call and say.

Come over, hold me, make it all better.

But there is no one to call that can make it all better.

All better is between me and my God.

And so far.

Well.

Things are going ok.

Really.

They are.

And when they are not, I know where to turn and I know that my feelings are fleeting, they pass, the sadness will be followed by joy or awe or discomfort or all of hundreds of other feeling states.

Feelings are not facts and they won’t kill me.

What I hope is that I can lose a little more of my rigidity and become more flexible while not losing myself or my self care.

Find me in the rooms with art.

Find me with flowers in my hair.

Find me with children stew across my lap, warm, and a sweet and wearing footie pajamas and listening to me read stories.

Find me with love in my heart.

Find me with my heart on my sleeve.

Find me loving, lovable and worthy of love.

Yes.

Love.

Find me there.

In that field of fallen stars, like fireflies in the grass, at the dusk of this purpled twilight of pain and gray sadness a silent reprieve of pearl light and luminous joy, a flower blooming, a remonstrance of family and a flying laugh, a wallop of joy, a holler of thunder in this church of pain.

The doors flung open.

My heart to big to be contained.

Or.

Restrained.

No more.

My.

Love.

Restrain me no more.

You’re Like A Female Version

June 7, 2016

Of Peewee Herman.

Um.

Thanks?

Hey, Carmen, Peewee Herman is hella cool.

I mean.

Hello.

I may get confused with a hipster at times, affinity for coffee with notes of butterscotch and stone fruit, the one speed whip in the garage, the numerous tattoos, the arty glasses with the wood frames.

But.

The fact is.

I like glitter way too much to ever be a hipster.

Unless they suddenly make glitter in aged wood paneling or something ironic like that.

I also have a pink riding jacket for my scooter and um, heh, my helmet has not only glitter but stars and yes, I did, I have appliqued star stickers on my scooter that I put on myself.

Shut up.

So.

Heh.

I could see what he meant.

And I was flattered.

I mean, really, I haven’t been compared to many famous people, although a legend in my own mind, I don’t have that much claim to fame.

I like to think that I am.

But really.

I am just crazy old me.

“Don’t forget me when you’re famous,” he said to me last week when I saw him and told him about the podcast.

I still don’t know what the hell that means.

I suppose that I will be recorded and to that extent I have been practicing a little.

I love the sound of my voice, except when I hear it recorded.

Ugh.

Then.

Seriously.

Ugh.

Although, I heard a friend’s little guitar riff on his facecrack page and found myself making up little lyrics to it.

I’m not a singer, but I can carry a little breathy tune.

I shared that with my friend who I went to the Paul Simon show with, my vocal abilities, or lack thereof and his response?

Fucking golden.

“That never stopped me,” he replied.

Dude.

That’s right.

But.

I don’t play an instrument, even though I did play cello once upon a time in a land far, far away.

Wisconsin.

And there are days when I think, I should pick that up again.

In what time, Martines, in what time?

But, I do.

I love the sonorous voice of the cello and the prickly velvet thrum in my heart when I have been with an instrument that I connect with.

I had a friend who once took me to the luthier that all the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra uses, he’s a cellist with the San Jose Symphony, and the smell.

Oh.

So delicious.

The wood and the rosin.

The sounds.

I remember, still, it’s been many, many years, picking up a cello and the feeling of it nestled between my thighs and the weight of the scroll against my neck.

I remembered the feeling of the strings under my finger pads.

I pulled the bow across the C string and hit an F# and just about cried with the pleasure of it.

Heh.

Yeah.

I know.

It’s been suggested to me a lot to pick it back up.

And I digress.

A lot.

The Peewee Herman thing had me pause though.

I look like an artist.

But often times feel like I’m not quite the potential I am supposed to be.

That I haven’t done enough, I’m not prolific enough.

Suffice to say, how many of these fucking blogs have I written?

Over 1800.

There’s something prolific happening here.

And maybe it’s just me being kooky and dressing funny.

But really.

It’s just me.

It’s just how I like to be.

The glitter, the heart on my sleeve, the poetry that falls out of my eyes.

I may not have the degree of fame or fortune or whatever it is that I think I’m supposed to have to be considered a successful artist.

But.

I create.

That’s the thing.

I was thinking of a shred of lyric from one of my favorite Paul Simon songs, and not one that most people would quote from either.

It’s from “Hurricane Eye,” from his album “You’re the One.”

You want to be a writer/but you don’t know how or when.

Find a quiet corner/use a humble pen.

And I tell myself that everyday.

I am a writer.

I have my quiet corner.

I use my humble pen.

Fuck.

Thank God I got to Walgreens today.

I was almost out of ink in my last couple of favorite pens.

The last couple of times I was in the store they were out of my favorite and man, it makes a difference, just like the quality of paper that I like when I am doing my morning pages.

I hate those decompostion notebooks with a fervor.

Yeah.

I know.

Ecologically friendly and all that.

But the quality of the paper is shit and it feels like crap when I write on them.

Nope.

No thanks.

I prefer Claire Fontaine notebooks from France.

Or.

When I can’t procure those.

The college ruled glitter notebooks in bright turquoise, silver, and hot pink from Safeway.

Heh.

Yeah.

I told you.

I can’t be a hipster.

I love glitter a little too much.

I don’t have to be anything, I don’t have to fit any category.

I can be the girl, or woman, should you so prefer, who wears flowers in her hair and cries a lot.

“Dude, that’s what you do,” my friend texted me back when I told him that I was in tears half the Paul Simon concert.

I do.

I do, do that.

I sort of leak with gratitude and happiness and joy.

Even when I experience shame over things I can’t control, at least I can forgive myself for that, or self-loathing or self-deprecation, I am learning, slowly, oh so fucking slow, that this is ok.

And after all.

These words are not my choice.

I am the conduit.

I am just dead light pushing crystal spun sugar into the veins of the universe.

I am just the channel through which the words move.

And I cannot tell you.

I cannot tell me.

Why this beleaguered life.

Why on my knees.

I still.

Love.

Love.

Love.

This tumult, this strife.

The promise of every day that breaks.

Across my face, the grey morning light.

The sun sequestered in fog.

The call of the day.

The fall of God.

Into my lap.

The kisses freckled on my skin.

The rapture of song.

The life within.

That small quiet voice.

Always there.

Even when I am hoarse with tears.

There are still flowers in my hair.

And my heart upon my sleeve.

It’s tattooed there.

Lined in the liminal.

Luminous.

Lustrous.

Love.

Of all that is.

Which.

Is.

In the end.

Just.

Love.

 

 

 

Do You Go To

March 30, 2016

Burning Man?

I replied yes.

And for the first time ever I got such a super negative response that I was a little surprised.

Hey.

Um.

What happened to you have a great smile and you’re really smart.

Yikes.

Who pissed in your Cheerios dude?

FYI.

That kind of vitriol is pretty much a big red flag and I won’t pursue dating you.

Nope.

Yeah.

I’m out there, I’m trying.

I haven’t another date lined up and it’s not a race, I do have a lot of homework to do this weekend as well as a friends birthday party, so a date this weekend might be out of the question anyway.

Oh.

And when you look at my profile and see me in fishnets, boots, with hot pink hair smiling so big it might be hurting my face, you can probably assume that yes, I do do that thing in the desert and if you’re so vehemently opposed–you have a bad experience with Gate?

Get the fuck over yourself.

And don’t bother pursuing a connection.

Not that I said any of that.

No need to.

I just didn’t continue engaging.

I don’t owe anyone an explanation as to why I do anything, I really love my life and I’m pretty fucking stupid happy, except when I’m not, most of the time.

Burning Man is relevant to my life now and for the foreseeable future.

And even if it weren’t I have too many friends that work for the organization, or who have worked there or who still go or who volunteer or want to go, anyway, you get my drift.

I many not have a Burning Man tattoo, I have plenty of Burning Man burned into my heart.

So, yeah, dude, move on.

Moving on can be nice.

Even.

When I am still connected enough with someone that I think about them and the next thing you know I’m getting a message from an ex boyfriend.

It was cute and it gave me pause for a minute.

How people move on, how they leave an imprint on you.

Some people I will always be connected to.

It’s just how it is.

Some people I have moved so far on from that I can’t imagine engaging with them ever again.

I’m not sure how that works, but I suspect that I stay connected to people that I am vulnerable with, that I show my true self to.

Which is how I have such an affinity with Burning Man.

I connect to people out there.

I am trying to connect with people here as well to.

In fact, I just sent out an e-mail asking for a ride to an event this Saturday.

I said yes to a birthday part in the effort to stay connected, to keep up with the friends when and how I can.

It’s not a school weekend for me and yes, despite three papers to write and a lot of doing the deal–started today met with a lady, got someone Thursday, another Saturday, and two folks on Sunday–I need to also have some semblance of a social life.

And these women are special.

Some of whom I may not have seen in months and if I don’t see them this weekend, God only knows, it might be back out at Burning Man when I do see them again.

So.

Working it out.

And working on letting myself stay in today as well.

I found myself getting a bit anxious about how all the things were going to play themselves out this weekend with school, life, recovery, etc, and how in the world was I going to do….

And I just knew.

Slow it the fuck down.

I finished my typical morning routine and added to it instead of detracting.

I did a coloring book meditation and really let myself let go of being anywhere but right where I was at, right here, at this little robin’s egg blue table, having just read the “Just for Today” card that I keep there as a gentle reminder that today is in fact the only day I really have.

I can choose to enjoy it, show up for it, or I can get all up in the future and fritter away the joy that is right here waiting for me to accept and embrace it.

I got a spiritual solution for your desperate aim.

I opened up the back door and listened to birds and the ocean, the running of the N-Judah on the MUNI tracks, I heard my neighbor building something and thought about all the work that we do, humans, just in general to stay alive, the feeding, the grocery shopping the bill paying, and then I brought my focus gently to what I do for myself and how I can continue, no, that I get to continue, it’s not a can do sort of thing, it’s a “I get to do this” thing, to take good care of myself.

I smiled at the flowers in my glass Ball Mason jar on my table.

I have been buying myself a bouquet of flowers ever since the weekend before Valentines Day.

Buy your own damn flowers, I heard in my head, and laughed.

Yes.

I do.

And it’s really nice.

I have three different kinds of daisies: pale pink Gerber’s hot pink Gerber’s and pretty little Marguerite’s, plus a little filler of tuber rose and a couple of soft pink lilies.

So pretty.

I dress for myself and I am becoming.

I represent.

Not for anyone else, but just for me.

I eat tasty food and cook for myself and splurge on good coffee beans.

Oh.

I have written all the ways over and over again, but there is always still this deepening awareness and acceptance of where I am in my life, dating, work, school, yoga, friends, recovery, Burning Man, my scooter, the city I live in, the shifting heart in my chest growing bigger.

A meteorite of love launched against the black velvet sky over the ocean.

I am changing.

And I don’t have to force the change.

It will just happen on it’s own.

Buy your own damn flowers.

Took me years.

But now I do.

Pretty dresses for my love, pretty flowers for her hair, sweet perfumes to spray over my clavicles, music to soothe, and uplift, I am my best date.

And I go to Burning Man.

Ha.

No surprise there.

I know what makes me happy.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

All the God damn time.

Date Night!

March 20, 2016

I jest.

Work night is more like it.

Being tired night can be included in that.

Why am I at work night should be the title to this blog.

Because that’s where I am.

Le sigh.

It does not happen often that I am here on the weekend and it will not happen again this semester.

I feel a little bit broken.

I realized, on Sunday, as I was sitting in my last class of the day that I had unconsciously, oh what would Freud say about that, sabotaged myself into working thirteen days in a row with one day off and then another five days of work before I had my two day weekend.

Ugh.

Carmen.

I met with my person today.

And no!

Fuck.

We did not finish my inventory.

The lady is having me go deep.

DEEP.

It’s been a little painful, plus I’m sick, let’s just not beat around the bush, I haven’t been running at full speed, it’s not debilitating but it certainly feels vulnerable when I am sick and it’s usually when I am better that I realize how sick I have been.

Or when someone points it out right in front of you.

“Oh, you’re sick,” she said, “ok, we’re going to go easy.”

And did we go easy?

Nope.

But.

Ah.

I got some stuff out.

All the stuff that just does not serve and she promised we would finish next week and I believe her.

But when she asked about today and the working, then added: “how do you feel about that?”

I burst into tears.

Um.

I didn’t see that coming.

And that indicates to me that I am sicker than I am letting on.

So this has been a very take it easy sort of day.

I left the scooter at home, took a car to Tart to Tart, then another to the Mission after doing the deal for awhile.

I also got a manicure and a pedicure and chatted with a girl friend I’d lost a little touch with since she’s moved to the East Bay.

“It’s so affordable over here!” She told me.

Yeah.

I hear that.

I’m pretty damn lucky to still be here.

My driver today asked how long I’ve lived in San Francisco and I’m coming up on fourteen years!

It’s a pretty great run.

I found myself a little overwhelmed though, in the Mission.

It’s changed a lot and I know that and I am here all the time and I work here and I commute here and yet, wow, I just got such an eye full and ear full and the bustle and the weird, well, to me, it’s weird, tourists and gawkers and destination people and the conversations and the money.

Whoa.

There is some money on parade here.

Especially on the weekends.

I mean.

I know that I am in it consistently, but I’m here when the work week is happening and I don’t interact with the community the same way.

Hell.

Who am I kidding.

It was not community that I was interacting with today.

Not that I had much interaction, it was mostly observation.

I am pretty happy that I am not living down in this area anymore, despite occasional longings for a shorter commute to and from work and school.

I never thought I would say that.

I always thought I would wind up in a house in the Mission.

Perhaps not.

Of course, there is plenty here that is still good and awesome.

I was just a bit overwhelmed with it and remembered with a lot of nostalgia what it was like the first few times I hung out here and ate here and went to bars and night clubs and danced and shot pool and played poker in the back room at Dalva.

Long soaks in the hot tub at Osento.

I still, once in a while, think, oh, I should go to Osento then realize it’s been closed for years.

Things change.

And that’s ok.

I don’t have to bemoan it or belittle it either.

It was nice to go to dinner with my boys and we went to Tacolicious and were waited on hand and foot and it would have perhaps mortified me to be there in another lifetime, but in this one I was being paid to eat out with the two most handsome little guys ever.

And.

When I was with the boys, I didn’t notice the hoi poi and the hulllabaloo and the commerce and the scene and be seen.

I just enjoyed walking along a street, Valencia, that I have walked down many, many, many times before, remember New College?

Remember when Ritual opened?

I do, I was there day one, third latte of the day.  Same for Four Barrel, before they were open, grabbing coffees from the back of the store where the roasters were.

Remember the KFC!

A street where I have played and worked and sat in cafes.

A street I have written blogs on, poetry on, had sex on, well not on the street itself and now that I think about it, ha!  No.  I have hooked up on Valencia.

Heh.

Anyway.

I digress and yes, this lady is a little tired.

So.

Movie night the rest of the night and some hot tea and just sitting back until the parents get home.

Then a ride out to my home, my sweet, quiet, laid back, sleepy little studio.

Down by the sea.

But still, yes, still.

In San Francisco.

Where my heart lives.

Where I wear my flowers in my hair.

Where else, would I be?

Well.

Burning Man.

But that’s another blog.

 

You Smell Good

March 17, 2016

He said to me, drawing back from the warm hug.

“I try,” I said and smiled.

And I do.

It was nice to see him and when I was sitting a few minutes later in the darkened room listening to the words I have heard so many times before, it occurred to me that there was no charge there, nothing.

Just a sweetness and a gratitude.

It was nice to see my ex and know that I’ll be able to be friends with him.

Not that I’m planning on hanging out with him anytime soon, just that I won’t be scurrying across the street trying to avoid him.

I remember how blown apart I felt when I saw him unexpectedly about this time last year.

I felt like I had been knifed in the guts.

It felt hella bad.

Tonight, it wasn’t at all, he approached me, gave me a big sweet hug and we just shot the shit and caught up.

Ah.

Growing up.

It’s nice that this happens.

Gives me hope for all my relationships, dating and otherwise, that I can find a way through to a softness and openness with people I have been emotionally vulnerable with.

And really, he had no idea, there was so much that wasn’t said, so much that I did not reveal about myself.

Just because I got naked with the man did not mean I was emotionally naked with him.

I tried.

He tired too.

We both tried.

We just spoke a different language and we both had very different needs.

Perspective.

So nice to have it.

And so nice to be able to write my blog!

Oof.

Yesterday was tough.

I think it was good though, I’ve got my glasses situation taken care of and it was nice to have an excuse to go to bed early.

I really couldn’t do much and I felt rather blown out by the experience and more tired than I would have admitted under different circumstances.

I still have this tiny touch of a cold too.

Nothing to inhibit me from going out and doing things, but I let myself take the two things together, dilated eyes and slight throaty sickness and run with it.

I slept.

I really slept.

It was good.

I think I may have gotten caught up with the sleep I missed between the school weekend and Day Light Savings.

I may even go to yoga tomorrow morning before work.

I may not though.

I may give it one more day of rest and really let my body be fully rested.

I know that I am feeling better, at least much better than last night, as when I put on my music I did a little dance around my room and twirled in my dress.

“You look good,” he said.

“Thank you,” I smiled.

It’s nice to have acknowledgement and I have to say, I did feel well put together today.

“Do you have another date tonight?” She asked as we stood waiting for the key to arrive.

“Nope, not unless you count with myself,” I laughed, “I just felt like being dressed up.”

I wore one of my ModCloth Hell Bunny dresses.

The teal one with Day of Dead skulls on it and tattooed hearts.

It is hella cute.

A pair of black leggings, a black cardigan, and some Converse.

“If I was on a date with a guy I’d be in heels,” I said and did a little soft shoe shuffle in my Chuck Taylors.

“If I’m dressing for me, it’s almost always Converse,” I said.

This is true, but I have to say, having classes on the weekends where I’m doing so much sitting in desks has led me to up my shoe game.

At least weekends I have classes.

Hmm.

Maybe I have been a little sicker than I thought, I feel really full of energy right now.

Of course I had a great doing the deal experience tonight and that always puts a boost in my step.

But.

There’s something else.

I just feel sassy.

Happy.

Free.

I’m not going to try and figure it out.

Just enjoy it.

Go with it.

Flexible.

I am open to being flexible, having fun, living this amazing life of mine.

I have had these little revelations, this sense of change.

Change is coming.

I have had moments when I see daisies sprouting from my heart.

I have sunshine surrounding me.

I feel my feet skipping in happiness, a long white skirt flipping out in my hand, a pair of boots on my feet, a dance, a joyfulness, I see a meadow and mountains, a barn house, a blue grass band.

Sometimes there is an illusive quality, but there, with this one little set of chords being picked out on a guitar, I just feel uplifted and joyous and yeah, ha, I see flowers, big white daisies with golden butter eyes, sprouting from my heart.

Once in a while from the top of my head.

It’s a fantastic image and I have not idea where it is, just that the landscape is there, in my interior and it feels buoyant and delicious.

It feels like love.

It feels like being seen.

It feels like a jackrabbit in the long grass, a sudden startle, a uplifted face to the sun, then, a settling and knowing, that I am safe.

It is an exquisite feeling.

One of many that I get to have.

I am so grateful that I am allowed to hold more than one emotion at a time.

I knew, intellectually, that time would heal the space between my ex and I.

I didn’t expect the experience to be like it was and to not have any pull to go chase after anything.

There’s nothing to chase.

“Be the ball, Martines,” Shadrach said to me.

Oh yeah.

Being the ball.

The belle of the freaking ball.

I’ll be the pretty girl in the circle skirt.

Sunshine and flowers in her hair.

And a daisy sprouting from the crown of my head.

Raised in brightness.

Sitting in the grassy field waiting for you to take my hand.

Come on!

Let’s go play.

It’s sunny outside.

As.

Well.

As.

Inside.


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