Posts Tagged ‘football’

Ta Douleur

August 6, 2016

Wake up – I’ve just decided
Let me replace you
I will take away your pain
Softly; no noise at all
Like rain wakes you up
I will take away your pain
Take away your pain
I will take away your pain
She is struggling and fighting
But don’t bother escaping
I will block the elevator
I will take away your pain
Sabotage the switch
I will take away your pain
But who is this hanger-on
Thunderstorm before the summer
Dirty little brat sister
I will take her everything
Her darts and her whistle
I will spank her little ass
I will take away your pain
Remove her from the playground
I will take away your pain.
But who is this little heiress
Who bathes and hides herself
In the warm water of your loins?
I will deprive her of dessert
Make her eat dirt
of those who aren’t hungry anymore
I will take away your pain
from those who don’t have any more
I will take away your pain
Tell me what science will do
when we have this bridge between our bellies?
If you are hurt where you are scared
You’re not hurt there I think
What does this bitch want?
Cake and eating it too?
Whether you live or whether you die?
She must crave happiness
or a new pair of shoes
She must collapse under the flowers
Change the colours
I will take away your pain
I will take away your pain
Tell me what science will do
when we have this bridge between our bellies?
If you are hurt where you are scared
You’re not hurt there ooh I sing
Okay get up
Lève toi c’est décidé
Laisse-moi te remplacer
Je vais prendre ta douleur
Doucement sans faire de bruit
Comme on réveille la pluie
Je vais prendre ta douleur
Elle lutte elle se débat
Mais ne résistera pas
Je vais bloquer l’ascenseur
Saboter l’interrupteur
Mais c’est qui cette incrustée
Cet orage avant l’été
Sale chipie de petite sœur?
Je vais tout lui confisquer
Ses fléchettes et son sifflet
Je vais lui donner la fessée
La virer de la récrée
Mais c’est qui cette héritière
Qui se baigne qui se terre
Dans l’eau tiède de tes reins?
Je vais la priver de dessert
Lui faire mordre la poussière
De tous ceux qui n’ont plus rien
De tous ceux qui n’ont plus faim
Dites moi que fout la science
A quand ce pont entre nos panses?
Si tu as mal là où t’as peur….
My new favorite song.
Oh my gosh.
So good.
My dear Parisian friend made me a playlist on Spotify.
I have been listening to it pretty nonstop.
The above is one of my favorite songs on the the playlist.
Ta Doleur.
By Camille.
I immediately put the album Le Fil on my favorites.
I love finding new music and new French music?
So lovely.
Then.
I am at work and I am listening to music blasting quite loud and it comes on the sound system.
Except.
It’s not Camille.
It’s Mike Doughty.
Holy shit.
I had no idea that he had done a cover of the song and he did it in French on his album The Flip is Another Honey.
I don’t think he actually speaks French, I could be wrong, I would guess that he’s doing it phonetically.  However, it was nice to hear coming out from the speakers in the kitchen while I was cooking up a storm for my absent family.
I got it all done too.
And was able to get out a little early, get some personal shit taken care of and even meet a friend for tea.
While we were sitting there catching up I had a deja vu to the first time we had sat at that same cafe, other table, in the front, one night after doing the deal and had coffees and talked and I think it was a sort of let’s investigate whether or not we want to date.
We did off and on.
The best I can say is that I had a friend/lover/friend.
I was moving to Paris and it was fun to share some of that juju with him.
He sent me a few mixed cds to me in Paris.
They came at the worst possible time, I was so homesick that week I had burst into tears in my French class over a “futbol” exercise.
Football.
Thanksgiving.
And I’m in Paris where there is not Thanksgiving and they just go about their days ambivalent to your football, it’s soccer anyhow, you heathen.
I didn’t watch football when I was in the states, it was just something that said Thanksgiving to me, family, playing eucher at the table after dinner was done and the girls, my aunts, and me and maybe one other cousin, were washing dishes in the kitchen.
I hadn’t even been to a family Thanksgiving in years, five, six, seven, more, maybe a decade since the last time I had been to a Thanksgiving meal at my grandparents, but there I was losing it in Paris in my French class in a border line neighborhood at the end of the line 7 Metro train.
It was rainy.
The rain fell in heavy splatters against the windows.
The room was overheated.
The French, mostly bad, except for the teacher.
And me, I was the best speaker in class.
Not because I am the best French speaker, oh no, it was more like I had taken a class below my skill set because I am stupid on computers and when I took the skills test on the school’s system I fucked up, so I was assigned a beginning class.
Which was actually really helpful, it was a great way for me to refresh my French.
The teacher was going to move me into a different slot after she heard me speak, but I told her I was just fine and I was.
It was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
The rain.
The homesick.
The culture shock that I didn’t realize I was going through, but was absolutely going through, was taking a toll on me.
The paltry Thanksgiving dinner that I could barely eat anything from at the English speaking pub a friend worked at, the cold Metro ride home, the rain, the rain, the rain.
An instant message from my friend/lover/friend.
Did you get my package?
I hadn’t.
And then.
I knew where it was.
I had known, you know, sometimes you just know, and it was like a homing device.
I ran back out into the rain, crossed the courtyard, and there, I found it.
Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer.
50 Euro note.
Two mixed cds.
One which was “Something To Write To.”
The other “Something to Dance To.”
He knew me well.
I burst into tears listening.
He knew me.
But not well enough.
And.
That is another story.
We’re both fans of Mike Doughty and there was a song on the “Something To Write To” mix from the album “Yes and Also Yes.”
I immediately downloaded that album.
It became my Paris soundtrack.
I don’t know why, it just did.
And there is this curious serendipity as I talked to my now strictly friend/friend, as we’ll be going with mutual friends and his girlfriend to see Doughty play and I think of my French friend from Paris and it’s odd, or God, or both.
And there is just this deep beauty in it.
The song, when it came on, the cover by Doughty, made my arms break out in goose bumps.
I don’t have to find meaning.
There is just sometimes magic in the world and when I open my heart to it.
It burns.
Rare.
Pure.
Bright.
Smitten to my core.
With.
Love.
Yes.
Love.
And more than a little forgiveness.
But most.
Simple.
And.
Most.
Just.
Love.
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Hell Hath No Fury

May 27, 2015

Like a woman scorned.

And don’t I know it.

I had lots of things to  say tonight, lots of words, lots of engaging things that would lead me to make an amends to a certain person at some point.

What’s the point?

Self-righteous anger does not serve me.

Nor does taking anyone else’s inventory.

It’s always myself I have to look at, what’s might part?

I was a big old Charlie Brown.

I went for the Lucy, the ball got swiped, and I’m assed out looking at the sky.

Wait.

Didn’t I just go through this?

What the fuck?

Oh.

I responded.

I started back down that road again, I did.

No one else compelled me to revisit it.

I was riding my bicycle home through the gloaming, the park darkening quickly, the few joggers out with their headlamps on, a handful of hardcore frisbee golf kids hanging out around the first tee on the disc golf course, but mostly, just me, the wind, the chill, the thoughts in my head, and the sky above.

I was thinking about how I am the better person and how and what and when and this and that.

And whoa.

Slow down.

There is not a better person, there is his experience, and there is my experience and I have come out of the experience a better woman.

Not better than another.

I am not the better person, I am just.

A better person.

For having had the experience.

I realized as I was riding my bicycle a number of things that did not happen around the break up and how grateful I am for that, and how hard I worked to not let any of the following happen.

First and foremost, I didn’t drink.  I didn’t pick up a drug.  I did not start smoking again.  I did not do any kind of crazy risky behaviors that would land me in the hospital, I did not have a bunch of crazy wild one night stands.

Oh.

And I didn’t eat eighteen boxes of donuts and twenty-two pints of Hagen Daaz icecream.

I had all the feels.

ALL of them.

I wrote about them.

I inventoried those little fuckers.

I did work.

I discovered that I don’t like it when I lose my voice in a relationship, I don’t like being on a pedestal, I learned about how I want to date in the future, I learned about what I want from a partner I learned more about how I need to communicate with people in my life and with myself.

I deepened my spiritual life.

I renewed my vigor and commitment to doing my blog.

I tried some online dating.

I tried asking some guys out.

I tried not doing anything.

I paused when it was applicable.

I took action when it was applicable.

I resolutely turned my attention to others and their needs.

I didn’t check out.

And I am not about to act like the scorned woman now.

No.

I have some honor.

And the still quiet voice of a friend in my head.

I was riding past Lindley Meadows thinking about what it will look like when I get married.

Yes.

I went there.

Decorating out the park.

Where the lights would go.

Who I would invite.

Pure fantasy landia.

However.

It had been supplanted with an honest share from an uncomfortable chair that after the last time I did work around a sexual ideal what I really wanted was this: a sober, non-smoking, heterosexual, monogamous, spiritual, fully self-supporting, creative, sexy, passionate, kind, healthful, man.

Who I want to be married to.

The dirty secret is out.

I don’t need children.

But I want a marriage.

Old fashioned.

Strange to think about in this day in age.

But there it was, right at the heart of it.

And then when I reviewed my ideal, knowing, without having to be told, I have achieved al those things in my life.

I am sober.

I am monogamous.

I am heterosexual.

I am creative.

I am financially self-supporting.

I am sexy.

I am passionate.

I am spiritual.

I am enough.

Fuck.

I am more than enough.

Worthy of love and lovable.

So when I got the text, oh I almost wrote something else there, ah, restraint of pen and tongue, restraint of pen and tongue and blog, saying, in a nutshell, meeting up is not a good idea.

I just responded.

Yes.

I agree.

Deleted message from said ex.

I had already deleted his number and the Facebook and social media channels are clear.

I didn’t say anything else.

There was nothing left to say.

I did feel like, for a moment, it passed, that I had the break up twice, but with none of the fun stuff like having sex one more time or dramatic frothy emotional appeals in public.

Not that I need to have those things to know when to let go.

Baby won’t you let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Baby, won’t you let me go.

There was a bit more to the text, but it’s not my place to pick apart here.

That voice I heard.

My friend’s voice.

Drifts back into my head, just like it did on my bike ride home.

And then I breathe and recall the sun on my face, we were at the beach, sitting and watching the waves, it was just a few weeks before I started seeing the ex and my friend said with complete candor, “oh, I could never date a woman who blogs, what if something happens?  All my foibles out on the web for anyone to see, I just couldn’t do that.”

And I knew.

I can’t write about the ex.

I can only write about myself.

My process.

My feelings.

My inventory.

The feeling now is.

It is definitely over and I won’t be seeing him any time soon.  No texting, no flirty messages on Facebook, nothing.

Moving on.

Letting go.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And then.

Just a little more for good measure.

Because I want an open heart and open arms for the wonderful person who wants to be with me, the me I am, with openness and candor and authenticity.

I won’t be distracted again.

Thankful

November 28, 2014

Full of thanks.

Thanksgiving.

On the back of a sporty Harley Davidson, motor rumbling under me, blue sky above me, scuttle of clouds, flash of sun, ocean off to my right, heading down Sunset Avenue, San Francisco.

Thankful.

This is my life?

This is my life.

Quite a bit different from last Thanksgiving when a friend wrangled me an invitation out to Marin to hang out with his buddies from school.

Not that I had a bad time last Thanksgiving, it was just a new time and an uneasy time for me, getting back into being in San Francisco, getting a new rooting in the soil, sandy soil that is.

“What has happened to you,” she said to me tonight as we hugged in the kitchen at a dear friends Thanksgiving celebration.

“I moved out to the Sunset, that’s what happened to me,” I smiled.

Lot’s has happened to me since I have moved to the Outer Sunset and so much of it is so different than what I expected.

I feel constantly and continually surprised by this little community at the edge of the world, the edge of the sea, the edge of San Francisco.

It may just be the best place for me to celebrate this Thanksgiving.

I have a boyfriend.

I have a job.

I have a writing practice.

I have a graduate school application I have to get my ass into gear about and finish up this weekend.

I have a four-day weekend.

Day one.

Well, so far so fucking good.

Go re-read that part about riding around on the back of a Harley Davidson with the sun warm on my back and the Pacific Ocean shimmering in the sun and ask me what don’t I have to be grateful for.

New experiences?

Check.

Friends?

Check and double-check.

So many fine, amazing, and beautiful friends in my life.

Some of whom I got to see today.

And a community that I belong to that has seen me change and grow and evolve and for what may be the first time in a while, certainly in a year or so, Thanksgiving to Thanksgiving, I feel that I belong.

That I am in the right place, that I am in the spot, that I have a spot to come home to and people who want me for who I am and what I do.

I don’t do much, but I do it well and for that I am grateful.

I show up.

On time.

With helpful intentions.

I still think of myself an awful lot of the time, but I am able to be present for others, and for my life, which is one and the same, I think, sometimes, that showing up for my life is a reward and a risk, a dare.

A dare to live outside the box, and sometimes, yes, in the box too.

I felt a moment of gleeful exhilaration on the Harley today.

I was thinking random Thanksgiving thoughts for the past few years, comparing last year to this year and the year prior when I was in Paris and those darn French folks with their ways that don’t celebrate the pen-ultimate American holiday.

With the pen-ultimate American sport–football.

In France it is not football, but futball–soccer.

In French class, Thursday, November of 2012, crying, tears slipping down my maudlin face because what was everyone doing and why were the all in class, it’s a holiday for fucks sake, why are you not having some turkey?

I was crying over a soccer ball exercise in my French class.

I was homesick.

Wow.

Was I homesick if I was homesick for football, which, in case you were wondering, I don’t watch.

I am a fair weather Packer fan, suppose I always will be since I did grow up in Wisconsin.

Twelve years of being, mostly in San Francisco, I am almost a Giants fan (sorry, Gigantes, though, the damn Milwaukee Brewers still have my heart–Cecil Cooper why did you have to give my third grade self that signed baseball?  Robin Yount, why did you have to be so cute? Gangly, yes, but hella cute, you know?), but nowhere near a 49ers fan.

Sorry folks.

But yet, football, a soccer exercise, French class, Paris, what was I doing, so far away from home?

How could I be homesick for something I never really liked?

Especially when I was in the city that I had been pining to be in for so long?

Fantasy.

That’s the haps.

I was fantasizing.

It gets me every time.

I shot the Paris fantasy in the foot and I am good with that and don’t doubt that I will go back, I have friends there, fellowship, and I love Paris, it’s a beautiful town (a little too much dog poo, but you know, every city’s got to have their thing), but I don’t want to live there again.

Nope.

I want to live here, in San Francisco, out by the beach, fog or sun, rain or shine, this is my place and it feels like my time.

The second thing that happened that Thanksgiving back in Paris that made me homesick?

Sons of Anarchy.

Yup.

I had downloaded the episodes on my laptop, this self-same archaic, almost obsolete little machine, and cued one up to watch that rainy night in Paris after having an awkward ex-pat dinner at the Lizard Lounge in the Marais, I had gotten lost trying to find the pub and was still feeling a little sorry for myself if the truth were told.

My room-mate came in blustery from the rain and work and sat for a while then we took a cab back to the 9th arrondissement, to rue Bellefond, he dropped me and went to go hang out with friends in the 18th for another ex-pat dinner.

I stayed in, made a cup of tea, sliced up an apple and had it with some creme fromage and watched Sons of Anarchy.

You know you’re homesick when scenes of the motorcycle gang rolling through the dock yards in Oakland make you tear up.

Yeah.

I am not ashamed to admit it and today, remembering it, I chuckled.

Two years later, one year of living it out, making it work, not knowing what was going to happen or how, just living it to the best of my ability one day at a time, I’m here.

In the city I belong to on the back of a Harley driving down Sunset Avenue heading home to back an overnight bag to go over to my man’s place and enjoy the gifts of being a local.

I’m not a native San Franciscan.

But I am a local.

And I belong.

For that, and so much more I am utterly and completely grateful.

Now excuse me.

I have someone to go canoodle with.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 


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