Posts Tagged ‘Freudian slip’

Mystified

April 15, 2017

And over it.

I have had so many suggestions about dating.

“You have to ask for what you want,” a friend said.

Yes.

I fucking get that and when I do, I still don’t get what I want.

I’m not bitter, but befuddled.

I had a guy friend break down the whole “we should hang out sometime,” as a really weak way of asking a girl out and that it’s quite prevalent in the dating culture.

Well.

Good to know.

So.

When complaining, yes, I do complain, I am not a fucking saint, if I was I wouldn’t need y’all and I still need you, despite my weak protestations, to another friend, I was told, “you have to get clarification.”

Ask the person when do you want to hang out.

So.

I did.

And.

Well.

NOTHING.

I got the intuition, I know you’re interested, I can see it in your eyes, you’ve got some mojo I’ve got some mojo, let’s get together and have some fun.

He gave me his number.

He said, “call me,” in fact, he repeated it twice.

I said I would.

I, in fact did.

No response.

I started to second guess the whole thing in hindsight today, but then I rethought it again, it’s not my issue.

I got clarity.

That’s all.

I called.

I left a message, I said, “let’s nail down a time to have a coffee date,” and truth be told, I probably bumble fucked my way through it.

Not even a text back.

Dude.

Hahahaha.

I just wrote “dud,” before correcting it to dude, but maybe dud was not quite the Freudian slip I thought it was.

Dud.

Drawing a blank, dum dum bullet, faulty switch.

It’s you not me.

I insist.

I know you find me attractive, I’ve known since I first met you and when I saw you yesterday and we slipped right back into the easy, intellectual banter that I have come to hallmark our few conversations, I could feel it.

I gave you my phone.

You put your phone number in it.

Granted.

I had asked for a speaking engagement, it’s not like you were putting your phone number in my phone because we were going to get it on later that evening.

No.

I asked you to do service.

And you said yes.

And I said super.

And that was about it.

Until.

You caught up with me a little later and we conversed, and conversed, and conversed, until the room was empty and everyone was walking out the door.

That’s when you opened the door to the phone call and said, “we should really get together, hang out, talk, call me, really, call me.”

I replied “I would love to hang out.”

Now.

Maybe this is where I fucked it up.

Maybe, the friend who gave the advice about guys motives when they say “hang out” was not an ask for a date and I should have clarified immediately.

But.

I went from the gut, the feeling, the look in your eyes.

Because I’m gullible sometimes.

But.

I’m not stupid.

I also have a lot of experience now seeing when men are attracted to me and nothing happens and then years later I find out they were attracted to me and that I was right.

I’m right.

You’re attracted to me, you weren’t asking for a friend hang out, I know it.

Grr.

I don’t know which one of my guy friends to slap.

And then.

I think.

Ah, fuck it, I killed the fantasy, which in the end is always so super valuable.

He didn’t call back.

No response is a response and it’s about as good and obvious as a flat-out no.

And frankly.

I’m fucking proud of myself for sacking up and calling him.

I didn’t text.

I called.

I left a message.

It may have been awkward, but I did it.

I took action.

I remind myself, that the results are not mine and I have no regrets.

I wouldn’t change the sequence of events to “I wish I hadn’t bothered to call,” because I am so super glad that I did.

I mean.

Good for you, girlfriend, another one out-of-the-way between you and whomever is next.

I’m really ready for next.

I’m not actively searching, no, I’m just ready.

That’s all.

I’m happy about that, that I’m not looking, I’m not trying to get on some new dating app, although the brain flirts with it once in a while, no, I’m just ready, available.

I’m proud of myself.

I keep trying.

That says something.

Sure.

I experience frustration and sure, this is a thing, this thing I keep writing about, but believe that all is not for naught, that there is learning here, that I have to keep changing and growing and loving myself for who I am.

I really am not looking for a completion.

I complete myself and I won’t be complete until I die.

I am excited to keep growing and changing and loving and trying new stuff.

Life is fucking amazing and awesome and I’ve come so far and have so much further to go.

Yet.

I long for someone to walk along with, carrying a conversation with, have fun with, connect with.

It is natural to want to partner up, it doesn’t mean I know how to do it, or am upset with myself for being single nor am I in self-pity.

My life is good and my growth, astounding.

I just find myself a bit bewildered.

It is my growing edge.

The not knowing.

And also the ok with the not knowing.

I like to say I like surprises.

But that’s a fucking lie.

I do like anticipation.

But not surprises.

Perhaps this is God’s way of getting me ready for a surprise I will really cotton to.

Who knows.

I obviously don’t.

Getting down with the unknown.

Throwing my own dance party to a soundtrack that is in another language.

God’s time.

God’s will.

Not mine.

Sigh.

Ha.

Oh, resignation, look at you.

Or shall I say instead.

Surrender.

Over and over and over again.

Powerless over it all.

Fucking all of it.

Help me God.

Seriously.

Ending With A Whimper

May 13, 2016

So not a bang.

However.

I did, between this morning and tonight, between yoga and a full day at work, get my notes organized, tabbed, and compiled, as well as finding all the things I want to reference for my big final paper for my Clinical Relationship class.

Suffice to say I am a bit zonked.

Up at 8 a.m.

Doing my morning routine, breakfast, coffee, writing, then starting to get my feet into the transference/countertransference pool, then yoga–which was really needed–and back here to the house, a quick shower, and yes!

I found a place to stay in Brooklyn!

Wait.

Fuck.

No I didn’t.

So bummed.

Cool loft in a warehouse in Bushwick, I had hopped on Air BnB to just peek at it before work and there it was!

I booked, made the request, plopped my credit card number down and waited to hear back.

I heard back later in the day and it was a let down.

The loft was only available three of the four nights I needed.

And I figured, well, I don’t want to be wandering around on my last day trying to negotiate one place to another, rather just say no thanks, and find something else.

Problem is that when I got home from work I was so beat down by the work day that I had barely any brain cells to rub together.

I looked a while on Air BnB but it just got to be too much and I decided that my main focus has to be organizing my big paper.

I got off the site and sorted out the rest of my readings and made loads of notes and probably have enough stuff to write a twenty page paper.

I just have to write it.

So tomorrow.

Another early start before work and no yoga, just the writing.

Getting as much done as possible, then work.

And work will not work me as much as it did today since I’m taking a half day to hit a doctors appointment, then back here to the house to finish up what ever I don’t write tomorrow morning.

Work really was full tilt boogie today.

In no particular order I went to the corner store and bought groceries, enough broccoli for three batches of my homemade soup, got milk for the boys for the next couple of days, boiled over a dozen eggs for the family to take to school; made the aforementioned soup, a quadruple batch by the recipe, actually; roasted a chicken, then later pulled all the meat that was remaining off the chicken for making chicken salad tomorrow for the boys lunches over the weekend; roasted radishes (yeah, you can do that, they’re pretty fucking tasty too) made sushi rice, cleaned up the house a bit, organized some of the boys stuff; and then took the two monkeys to the Farmer’s Market on Bartlett and 22nd where I juggled a full flat of strawberries, 5 pints of cherries, 1 container of cheese curds (CARMEN! CARMEN! CARMEN! Give me more cheese curds please, please, PLEASE!), smoked salmon for visiting pooh bahs, um, ha, I mean grandparents, basket of apricots, pint of mulberries, and one container garlic cheese dip.

Served dinner, did baths, did pajama time, did color time, did ALL the dishes, I mean, there was a lot of washing up, two gigantic bags of compost–I did so much food prep–took out recycling and tried to not think about the paper I have to write.

Tried.

It snuck in a few times, but most of the day I was too busy to breathe let alone think about transference, counter transference, Freud, Lessem, McWilliams, Kohut, Kahn, Stolorow, or any of the other characters who have had possession of my brain.

Let me tell you all about it.

Nah.

I’ll bore you to sleep.

I watched the six year old do classic splitting and projecting around the mom as he experienced separation anxiety in regards to the imminent grand parent visit, and tried to feed the anxious dog as many scraps as I could sneak.

I love my job though and it’s a good family I work for, grandparents just mean more work and I seem to forget that.

Then again.

This was my first time having a paper due on a Friday rather than at the end of the weekend and it has thrown me off my stride a little.

I was laughing to myself.

Full time work after this year of school is going to feel like a vacation.

I joked with a friend that I’ll be flying across the country to New York to take a nap.

Although.

I did have a moment in yoga today.

A revery slipped in.

A Queens of Harlem sort of thought.

And Harlem is not somewhere I had thought about staying.

But it has a nice flavor to it when I say it.

And I was thinking too, hmm, I might need a tattoo while I’m in New York.

But.

First.

A place to stay.

I took out some money from my savings today too, made the transfer so I wouldn’t have to worry about the travel costs and told myself that I would let myself stay somewhere nice.

It don’t have to be fancy.

But nice.

I thought about some hipster hotel I had heard of until I saw the hipster price–$300 a night.

Fuck that.

But I can find a good place and I know it will happen.

Now that I have my notes and books organized I feel like tomorrow it will be just to show up to the page and the words will flow.

They always do.

I’m going to take a few more minutes tonight to poke around Air BnB.

But rest.

That’s where it’s really at for me right now.

A cup of tea, a little snack, a tiny bit of video to unwind.

Then sleep.

I have done a full days work.

Good work.

Strong work.

I have earned this rest.

It will be had.

Nighty night y’all.

May your dreams be full of Freudian slips.

Heh.

Ne Me Quitte Pas

December 14, 2015

Mon cherie.

I miss you so.

And I come up for air.

A hot bowl of soup on a cold night.

A warm face to say to, happy I am today, how are you?

Love fills my heart and it stills my face and then I sit and stare at the walls and wish that the light was still there.

But it is the dark.

The night of winter.

The cold laying frost.

The dormant.

Before the growth.

That is what I believe.

And there is so much love, so much grace, so much more than you can ever imagine, than I can ever imagine and I sing poetry under my breath wishing to encapsulate it all.

I cannot though.

There is a fullness, a fire, a heat, a warmth, a softness, a softening, an astounding, a tenderness, and it aches with all that it does.

I just wrote “id.”

Freudian slip.

Excuse me.

Where was I?

I digress.

She’ll break her own heart.

A beautiful death, that.

And a poem for you that I wrote, aching and full and saddened in the seeping twilight sky that bled rain through the ragged grey clouds outside the window of my class Thursday morning.

I am Going to Go Now

The unwinding inevitable, the snowflake dredged with grime

A kissing time, a hand print fingered dove grey

Soot smeared and dusted with transitory crimes–

Passion pushed, outlined darkling cashmere fey.

Smudged with the meaning of God, gold patterned

Euthanasia, impacted without you, focused after life

Fabled and unique.  This too is true.  Maneuvered

Polite, we dance the waltz of unspoken strife

Rife with lusted desire.  Pagan with practice

Patience and archetypal, the sparked pointed Southern

Crossing resurrected, convicted by love, the chalice

Over full, the wetness on my lips, the flight, a turn,

Rebirth, the exodus of uncertainty belies my certainty

Of you and our luminous connecting, a mastered calamity.

I am grateful for passing time, even when it pains in the passing.

I have felt achey and full and wide open and perhaps that has something, everything, to being in school these last three days.  Not a night in three that I got more than five hours sleep, not a day that didn’t go by where there weren’t tears.

I am in school to be a therapist.

The tears, they do happen.

They happen sometimes in class, sometimes after, sometimes, more times this past week than I really wanted to, when I went to bed, the slip of tears on my face.

Potentially lonely/perpetually human/suspended and/open/open.

OPEN.

So wide open.

So painfully, wide open.

It feels like my heart is on a plate, not silver, not a platter, but a plate, bone china, the cusp of the new moon gilding the edge.

It’s a good place to be.

This teetering on the cusp.

It sounds painful.

And.

Yes.

It is.

And yet, so alive.

So exquisite.

So enlivened.

So playful, when I don’t feel shattered in the leavings of my old idea and the imprinting of the new upon that smote landscape of love and loss and longing.

Smote.

That is how it feels.

Searing.

The grief rolls through, over, and plunges me down and there, a stillness, a pearlescent shell, a spiral, the nautilus, the tiny chambers of soul lit phosphorescent and gilt.

I climb in and float away.

This embedded moment brought to you by listening to too much Regina Spektor (but oh, there is no such thing as too much, not really not ever) and the sad sweetness of end times and new beginnings.

I had my last class today of the semester.

I had a long day, a long week, a big weekend and now, it’s back to work.

With a brief moment of respite in the evening with a friend over soup and Thai food over in the hood.

I have had so much happen over this past six months and it astounds and I look about and I realize I have almost made it and there is still so much more to go, so more to be realized.

So much more of me to be realized.

And so.

And so.

So.

I don’t understand/if I kiss you where it’s sharp/if I kiss you were it’s sore/will you feel better?/better/better/will you feel anything at all.

ANYTHING AT ALL.

Oh.

I will.

I assure you, I will feel all the feels.

Little fuckers.

I am feeling all of them.

Grateful that tonight I will get a full night’s sleep, and yes, there could be more tears on the pillow, tears aren’t such a bad thing, my small dulcet downfall, the shallow sip of sea salt on my cheeks, the flush of my face against the sheet pulled up by my head, the crush of the weight of love and the foolish tender softness of dreams that push themselves into the wet lashes resting on the tops of my cheeks.

The stars, that old light, the seeps in between the cracks.

The liminality of love.

The threshold to the moon.

I watched the sky today while I sat in the student kitchen, the bright, high blue, the push of scudded white bounded clouds, the flight of a seagull in between the buildings.

I ate an apple with sea salt sprinkled over it.

I thought about eating apples, walking the streets of Paris, cold and scared and alive and undone and all done back up again.

I go back in a week.

I thought about Paris.

I thought about the paintings.

Kandinsky, Accent en Rose, at the Pompidou.

Kandisky-Accent in Rose

Kandisky-Accent in Rose

I thought about the alone.

I thought about the aliveness in me.

I felt the lonely and the alive and the love and let it wash over me, the soar of the gull in the sky, the press of the blue, the powder of the clouds, the clock over the counter winding down the minutes to my last class of the day.

That much closer.

Still so far away.

A reckoning on the horizon.

Love in the streets, the cobblestones smothered in shine and light from the lamp posts, the impossible sparkle of the Eiffel Tower.

Dazzle

Dazzle

And my heart a glow.

A small spot, a spiral of ember over the ocean, the rushing sea, the Christmas tree burning on the edge of the water, the beach a bonfire of holiness and the beckoning of the North Star.

I know not into what I walk.

But I walk ever forward.

Joy smeared and sacred with the smut of my own carnal life, the living.

It is good.

Don’t let me fool you.

It is all good.

So good.

So overwhelmingly painfully.

Wonderfully.

Good.

It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

It does.

I am still the love smitten fool.

Who would I be?

If I weren’t wearing my heart on my sleeve.

At least it goes well with my clothes for Paris.

Transparent authenticity usually does.

DSCF6688.JPG

And perfect attire for riding to the top of the ferris wheel.

I’ll blow you kisses from the pinnacle.

I promise.

They may be burnished bittersweet.

But.

They will.

Be.

All.

Mine.


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