Posts Tagged ‘flush’

Void In My Heart

August 11, 2017

Only you can fill it.

Love.

Fill it with love.

Fill it with joy.

Fill it with the smell of you entangled in my memories.

Fill it with the flush you bring to my face.

Fill it with flowers.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

So I have been told.

I am not empty without you, per se, but there is emptiness there.

Greater than I knew.

A spot, a space, a holding space if you will.

Patient it waits for you to step back in.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If I grow any fonder I’ll die.

You indulge me.

You sustain me.

You light me up like a firefly on a hot summer night.

I think about that.

You.

And.

Hot summer nights.

I feel sixteen again.

Seventeen.

Wild.

Fraught with emotion.

Overfull with desire.

Wishing to abandon myself completely to you.

All the time.

You redeem me.

You rescue me.

When I did not know I needed rescuing.

When I am with you I am replete.

Full.

Ravished with happiness.

I am almost afraid to see your face.

Your eyes.

To touch you.

I will have to make sure you are real.

Not a dream.

Not wishful thinking.

But here.

In front of me.

Waiting for my touch.

Waiting for my kiss.

Waiting.

You have not left a void in me, but rather a space that is occupied.

Constantly.

Always.

Continuous with thoughts of you.

My heart overflows.

I find my face wet with tears for no reason.

I wake up and feel you in my body.

I close my eyes at night and see you there pressed against the backs of my lids.

Sometimes.

I can almost feel you beside me.

I lift my hand and can sense the contours of your face.

My heart batters inside my chest.

The state of being away from your person.

Makes me want to hoard you when I have you.

Makes me greedy and childish.

Wanton and lustful.

Wistful.

I wish to stockpile you so that I don’t feel that awful loneliness without you.

Irrational.

Love is abundant.

Infinite.

This love has no end.

No beginning.

It shelters me from the nights rain.

It lulls me to sleep.

I am held.

I am seen.

And in that seeing and holding.

I can do the same for you.

I see you.

Let me hold you.

Let me press against you and fill you up.

Full to overflowing.

With.

All.

My.

Love.

For.

You.

 

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.

 

Things Change

February 12, 2016

On a dime.

Or on a nickel.

Or on $5,000.

Um yeah.

Like that.

Fuck me.

I was not expecting to see that in my account this morning.

I was getting ready to write my morning pages, gearing up to do my last edit and go over on my Clinical Relationship paper, first paper of the second semester, make sure that I get the APA formatting correct–still not sure about it, but I used the Purdue OWL and it’s pretty freaking handy–and I thought.

Hmm.

I wonder if that check to the SFMTA has finally cleared.

I mean, they called my employers to go over a last few minute things to make sure that they, my employers, were aware that they were not allowed to transfer the permit to anyone other than me or put it on any other vehicle they may own.

Ayup.

My boss told me this yesterday and I took that as a good sign that my permit was in process.

So.

I checked.

And then I nearly shit my pants.

I am not kidding.

I’m a little embarrassed to say that, but my bowels knotted up.

What the fuck?

Why is my account got that much money in it?

Then it clicked.

My scholarship.

Oh my God!

My scholarship.

When the school sent out a notification that financial aid disbursement would happen on the 10th of this month I was expecting it all to be disbursed.

It was not.

I was confused when I checked out my account after getting a deposit of $477.

I was expecting $1500.

I was hoping to at least pay for one months rent with it, especially since the rent is going up next month.

But.

I was grateful that there was anything left over after paying for my tuition.

And so I just assumed that was it.

I did check out my financial aid page last night, but it was confusing and I just sort of let it go, assuming that was that.  Tuition was paid, be happy.

Then.

This morning.

I checked my online account.

And there it was.

My scholarship was deposited to my account today.

The 11th.

Holy shit.

I haven’t had that much money in my account ever.

Still some left from my tax return and then this new deposit.

My first thought was, it’s a mistake.

My next thought was, is it my scholarship?

It is!

My third thought, ugh.

Wow!

That could buy A LOT of cocaine.

(But never enough, oh no, it would not, in the end be enough at all)

And then.

I laughed out loud.

Once an addict.

Always a fucking addict.

I remember when I first got sober.

I was extremely uncomfortable with anything more than $20 in my wallet.

I didn’t want to have enough to score and for probably the first year I didn’t ever have $50 in cash–what my dealer was selling a gram of coke for.

I don’t even want to know what the cost of it is now.

Don’t bother telling me, I don’t want to know.

I scrolled through my online account and saw, yes, it was my scholarship money.

Hurray!

And the reason it was so much more, the disbursement, I realized, was that there is not a spring retreat.

The cost of the fall retreat came out of the scholarship money, and what was left over was about $1500.

It all suddenly made sense.

And I was blown wide open.

What am I going to do with all this money?

Well.

I am not going to be stupid.

First.

I wrote out the rent and utility check for March.

Just get that the fuck out of the way and don’t think about it.

Then I put the majority of it into my savings account.

I left myself a little bit.

I do plan on taking some yoga classes and the best bang for the buck is to get a year membership at Laughing Lotus.

It costs about $900.

I am going to go in Monday after work and my tea date with a girl friend in the Mission and get the $30 month long deal and see how I feel about the studio and if the classes are a good fit for me and my schedule.

I also still have the option to go to the studio in my hood, the Laughing Lotus studio just has a much greater range of classes and times that seem to fit my schedule better.

I have all next week to explore.

And I have the money to do so.

Wow.

I am so grateful.

So, so, so grateful.

I mean.

Things are being taken care of.

I am ok.

I am better than ok.

Hell.

I got a new pair of Converse delivered to the house as I was cleaning (procrastinating finishing my paper) and getting my stuff ready for work and the impending school weekend.

Black glitter Converse.

I have no needs at all.

I mean.

You know.

The basics, love, food, sunlight of the spirit, recovery, joy, friends, life, etc.

But.

I mean.

After you get a pair of sparkle pony Converse in the mail, what needs does one really have after that.

Oh yeah.

I still need to get laid.

There is some movement on that end.

But really, this weekend is devoted pretty much to school and showing up for the commitments I was asked to do, the sharing my experience, strength and hope on Sunday, the showing up for my cohort and for my life.

I am not going to get worked up about it.

I’ll save that for when I have a little more time.

I almost swung by Good Vibrations tonight on my way home.

But.

I decided.

Really?

Do I need a new vibrator right now?

Let me just hold out through the weekend.

I don’t need to get out of my head that bad.

I did have some conversations rattle around.

Some old talk that was looking to grasp hold and make me miserable and I was like, hey, thanks for sharing, but I’m good with all of that.

Let it go.

Surrender.

And be hella happy that I have money, that I am not homeless, that I have clothes on my back and polka dots sneakers on my toes, be happy that I didn’t catch the flu that the entire family came down with at work, be grateful that I have a week off from that.

Granted, yes, I’ll be heading to work on Monday, but, on my scooter and without the family there is a totally different experience.

I’m ready for it to all begin.

I have my school lunch packed.

I have dinner plans with a classmate for after school.

I have my outfit picked out.

I have my paper printed.

Yeah.

I did finish it, I did print it off, and I have it ready to turn in.

My books are packed, my notebooks sorted, my readers prepped.

And now.

My blog finished.

And.

I am rich.

Well.

Ok, not really, but in other ways I have such abundance and prosperity.

That yes.

I am wealthy indeed.

Flush, you could say.

With.

Experience.

Strength.

Hope.

And a couple extra shekels in the bank account.

Ha!

 


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