Posts Tagged ‘geographic’

Going Dark

June 9, 2017

I have been scrubbing my Facebook page of all my blog posts.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

It was actually an interesting little trip down memory lane.

It was good to see the pictures and posts and the blogs and to see how steady I have been in my pursuit of this endeavor.

I suspect that as of this blog the readership will go down.

Down  a lot.

But so be it.

It’s the price I pay to get to continue doing this, my little love, my bunny, my pet project for the last seven years.

I will happily sacrifice readers to keep doing the writing.

I was talking with a friend and my words ran away with themselves.

I got so excited about writing and poetry and I just started gushing.

My heart raced.

Words get me all crazy.

I’m not a crazy cat lady.

I’m a crazy poetry lady.

You should have heard me reciting Shakespeare earlier.

I got all kinds of excited.

Ah, Old English you do me so well.

Heh.

Today I actually had time for poetic pursuits, not so much writing it, but perusing it, looking up some old favorites and wondering to myself if it weren’t time to go replace some books of poetry that I used to have in my small library.

When I moved to Paris back in 2012 I sold off all my books.

All of them.

It still hurts to think about a little, some tenderness there, but I wanted to throw myself at the Paris experience and I knew I wasn’t going to pack a bunch of books up with me and carry them across the pond.

No.

I sold them.

I stored a few personal belongings of my own, small framed art works and pictures, my notebooks, my own writing, in a friend’s garage, but aside from that I got rid of everything else.

Books.

Clothes.

Shoes.

Everything but my bicycle and some clothes in a roll on suitcase.

I came back with that same roll on luggage and my bicycle.

And.

Ten dollars.

I don’t regret it, but yeah, I did have a moment today when I realized I had sold my copy of Pablo Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets.

That I didn’t have my complete works for Shakespeare, leather-bound from my undergraduate days.

Or.

Sigh.

My collection of TS Eliot.

Also from undergrad.

And.

Oh.

My OED.

My Oxford English Dictionary.

I sold that too.

I think this may be the first time I have ever admitted that in writing in a public forum.

It was a graduation gift from a set of girlfriends in Madison who were my best friends for years before I moved to San Francisco and became a raging drug addict whose friends wanted nothing to fucking do with her whatsoever.

I managed to keep that damn dictionary through years of moves and geographics and even pretty damn far into sobriety.

But.

I decided to let it go.

It was for God to have.

It was always Gods.

I went into Alley Cat Books on 24th Street a few months ago to see if the OED was still there, I was on my way to an appointment and really did not have time to stop in and look, but the last time I had been in there, the dictionary was still there.

Granted that had been over a year and a half ago.

I didn’t see it, but they had re-arranged the store and I was too shy and pinched on time to ask the clerk if they still had it.

One day I’ll replace those words.

And one day these words will be replaced.

All words are infinite.

All moments meaningful, lustful, alive, here and present and a live and loved in my heart.

I don’t have much contact with any of those old girlfriends, but they live in my heart.

And I won’t ever forget what it felt like to get that gift at my graduation party.

I can still feel the weight of it in my hands and I knew the moment it was set in my arms what it was.

I was blown away.

To be seen for what I love is important.

Although not important enough for me to have to do it, the writing or the reading, all good writers have to read too, I love an audience, but I don’t need one to write.

God is my witness.

My heart is my muse.

I am a channel and I don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going to go.

Only that it will.

These words.

Into the ether.

Into the void.

From out my fingers, from out of my heart, with passion and providence, into the universe.

Perhaps the words will fill the voids between stars, the emptiness that needs be filled by poetry until all the worlds are seemless and held in beauty, together under the great bounty and soulshine, the light will cover the dark.

Or not.

I don’t know.

I can’t ever really know.

I will just keep writing and trying and falling and stumbling and getting up again.

I believe I will fly one day, if not this day, then the next.

And every word I put down an attempt at faith in something so much bigger than I, a tiny glimpse, a sliver of honey and lavender crystals, a shining cello note, a sting pulled, a plucking, a bewitching, an enamourement, a leap,  and love tossed I jump.

I don’t need to know where I land.

The leaping.

Well.

It is enough.

It always is.

 

Three Day Weekend!

June 14, 2016

Hello there sexy.

I had no idea.

I mean.

I sort of forgot what with all the excitement of getting my ticket to New Orleans and my special spot via Air BnB, I still feel like pinching myself a good one when I look at the pictures of it, that I have this Friday off!

In fact.

I will probably get out of work early on Thursday too.

I doubt very much that I will have a full day at work.

The family is flying out at 4:10 p.m. from SFO.

Granted.

I will have work to do.

I always do when they travel.

I’ll straighten out the house and clean out the fridge and make sure that everything is closed down and organized and set up for their return.

I will also go in early on Monday to open the house up for the housecleaner, but I will get out by 2p.m., so even though I’m working that day, the family doesn’t get back until Tuesday, I will have an easier work week then normal.

Of course.

I may still get called in for jury duty.

So far so good.

I don’t have to go in tomorrow and I did not get called in for today.

I’ll be checking again tomorrow after 4:30 p.m. for Wednesday.

Fingers crossed I don’t have to go in on Wednesday.

Yeah.

I know.

Civic duty and all that.

But.

Yes, I am hoping that my number doesn’t get called.

And if that happens.

I have a totally wide open Friday.

I will do the deal with my lady at 6:30p.m. and head over to the place to do that thing I do on Friday nights, but open during the day.

Maybe I get my butt over to the MOMA and see the new space.

A Friday afternoon when everybody is working would certainly be a good way to see the space versus trying to battle it out with the weekend crowds.

I should see if anyone is around to do a museum afternoon with me.

Especially since I plan on just getting the membership.

Hoping that I’ll get a student discount, but even if I don’t, the membership is worth it.

The cost is $100, but it’s $25 for a solo ticket into the museum and with the membership I get to take a friend with me.

Right there that’s $50.

Do that twice and I’ve paid for the membership and I can foreseeably see going to the MOMA more than twice in a year.

I’ve always had a membership, except through the last three years or so when I was in Paris and they had closed down the museum for the renovation.

It’s been re-opened long enough now that although it’s still special, I don’t think it will be packed.

Anyway.

That’s a thought.

I could do some yoga in the morning and then spend the afternoon there.

Or.

I don’t know.

But I do know.

I am grateful for the time off.

Sleeping in always sounds yummy and then I never do it.

Doubtful I will do that.

I could go on a date.

I had one on Saturday, not bad, someone I know from doing the deal and it was nice to catch up, but I think it felt like just hanging out with a friend.  It was good to catch up though and have coffee at Java Beach and sit out in the sun.

I haven’t had much success over the last few weeks with the Tinder.

I don’t really care either.

Life is good and rich and full and I don’t feel like I’m lacking anything.

I have been doing fun stuff for me and that feels really good.

Like.

I have a hair appointment for Saturday.

Yeah.

Like that.

It’s time for pink again.

“Why?!” My friend exclaimed at Philz yesterday as we were sitting up in the Castro waiting for loved ones to arrive and go to dinner with.

“You have such great hair right now,” she said.

“I have to, it’s either dye it pink or cut it the fuck off,” I said.

“NO!” She exclaimed.

It’s hard to explain but sometimes I just need a change and my hair is the easiest thing to change, like it gives me some modicum of control over the uncontrollable nature of living and being a live.

I know that I have no control.

And I’m pretty at chill with that.

But.

Once in a while.

Yeah.

I have to do a hair geographic.

It’s better than doing the other geographic, which is indicative of moving for me.

Not necessarily out of San Francisco, although I have, hello Paris, but to another neighborhood.

You know.

Rattle my box a little, get myself up-rooted.

Create some unnecessary drama.

“But you love living by the ocean,” he said to me, with a raised eyebrow.

Yup.

And I have lived here coming up on three years.

The longest I have lived anywhere in San Francisco.

Seriously.

I have moved a lot.

I landed a sublet in the Mission at 20th and York for a few months when I first moved here.

2002.

I was there about eight months?

If that.

Then the house sold and I found a room in a place at 22nd and Alabama.

I lived there for about a year and a half.

Then 25th and Potrero.

There about a year?

Not sure.

The end of that time was in 2005 and it was a bad, bad, bad, bad, REALLY bad, time.

Like.

BAD.

I remember being on the back steps smoking a cigarette, really chain smoking a box of Marlboro Light 100s and talking to my best friend back in Wisconsin about how it was so beautiful where I was living and I was so miserable.

So unhappy.

It hurts to even contemplate it.

Horrendous.

And then three months into 2005.

I moved.

Again.

30th and Kingston.

Then 26th and Kansas.

Then Palou and 3rd.

After that I was at 23rd and Capp Street.

Then Taylor and Washington.

Then I couched surfed for three months in 2008.

After that a tiny in-law in the Mission at 22nd and Folsom.

So tiny.

After that.

Paris by way of a housesitting gig in East Oakland.

Paris six months.

Back to East Oakland.

Fucking talk about culture shock.

Then.

Finally.

Here.

46th and Judah.

The Outer Sunset.

The ends of the earth.

Just about as far West as one can go, give or take three blocks.

Three years ago September.

Of course I want to move.

A moving target is harder to hit.

No wonder I’ve been single so long.

Actually.

I have never dated more then since I moved here.

Ha!

Fuck moving!

What was I thinking?

Yes.

Fuck moving.

I’ll dye my hair instead.

Bwahahaha.

Anyway.

I have some time this weekend.

Want to hang out?

Hit me the fuck up.

Seriously.

Coffee?

Museum?

Making out.

Heh.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

 

It Is A Spiritual Axiom

May 25, 2015

So “they” say.

That whenever I am disturbed by any person, place, or thing, I am at fault.

Well fuck me.

There it is.

Who here has heard of the “no response response?”

Raise your hands.

Um yeah.

I got it.

I called.

I left you a message.

You don’t call back.

That means no.

But I mean.

Uh.

Wait.

FUCK.

I want something out of this, I want a result, I want a response, I want, I want.

I want to shut the fuck up about it.

I want to move on.

And with that.

Yes.

I pulled a hair geographic today.

Hot Hot Pink

Hot Hot Pink

I mean.

If I can’t beat them, join them.

Or whatever the hell that means.

I am ok with not getting a response.

In fact, last night as I was masturbating.

Oh yeah.

It’s going to be one of those blogs, if you’re related to me, you can just stop reading it right now.

No holds bar.

This is a “I should probably,” but won’t at all “regret,” blog post.

While I was taking care of self, proper self-care like and having a great time with it, I realized.

Oh.

Well, there you go.

I’m not fantasizing at all about the ex.

Despite having given over to him, or perhaps to the fantasy of him, the majority of my brain space yesterday after I called and left a message about getting together to have coffee, I was not in fact, fantasizing about him at all.

Oh.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Suffice to say, it was not my ex.

And it was good.

Mmmm hmmm.

Then I slept like a baby.

Slept so well, I slept until 10:37 a.m.

I can not remember the last time I slept past 10:30 a.m., let alone 9:30 a.m., even on my weekends I tend to be up by 8:30 a.m. at the latest.

Look at me.

Sleeping in.

Yes.

I had a late and leisurely breakfast and even skipped doing the normal load of Sunday morning laundry I typically do (although, I will admit, I couldn’t put it off all day and did in fact, do a load, it’s in the dryer now) and the house cleaning.

Sometimes a girl just has to really take the whole damn day off.

No cooking.

No grocery shopping.

Well, light cooking, oatmeal with apple and blueberries and a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, lots of lovely Ritual pour over coffee, and lunch as well as dinner was homemade “fried” brown rice from the leftover vegetable stir fry I made yesterday with scrambled egg and avocado and tomatillos (note to self, tomatillos are hella good!  I never have cooked with them before, they added a nice flavor to the rice).

I did meet with two ladies and do some reading and writing and sharing of the stuff.

Then nada.

I had my lunch, put on some jazz, Miles Davis, Relaxin’ With The Miles Davis Quartet, drank some tea and read my book on the chaise lounge for two hours.

I had plans.

I was going to go out and do stuff and things.

But the fog was heavy and the air chilly and I just wanted to curl up and stay where I was.

Sometimes, though, I have to go somewhere.

So I went to pink, I mean, really pink.

I picked up some Manic Panic at the salon yesterday when I went to get my nails done, just because I wanted to try one last color in the trio of pinks that I have been recently experimenting with.

Each of which, note to self, must get myself to an event with black light soon, glow in the dark.

Seriously.

My hair will glow in the dark, under black light.

Get thee to a night club lady.

Not that I have any plans to go hit the club circuit this weekend.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (the SOMA) I would have been rejoicing at a three-day weekend, I would have been at least three bags deep into it and looking to score more and be at the door at the End Up ready to make the most of the holiday weekend.

Not so much now.

And I find this much better.

In case you were wondering.

Anyway.

I went radically pink.

It is startling, fun, eye-catching, I won’t be missed.

“You are not easy to miss,” he told me, “even if I didn’t say anything, I knew when you showed up, where you were, I would sit and stare from a far.”

Oh lovey.

I don’t want to be stared at though.

I want to engage and I did have a moment of thinking, am I self-sabotaging, going this crazy hair color?

And then.

NO!

I am fucking having fun and to top it off I threw on a little pink glitter to make me feel better.

I don’t dress for a man, or to get a man, or to have a man, or get asked out on a date.

Nope.

I dress for myself.

I love that.

Being authentically myself is one of the best things I have discovered about living my life with a clear head.

Oh.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind at some point.

But right now.

I’m in the pink.

And I’m not mad at him.

I got, suddenly, how hard this has to be for him too.

I was reminded of the few times during the 90 days, twice, when he reached out via text and I did not respond.

Now I know how it feels.

Sucks.

But it won’t kill me and as I was more than happy to supplant the fantasy in my head with a fantasy of another, I knew in my underneath all that pink hair, my brain was slowly coming to terms with my heart.

And I could walk away and not text and not call back and move on.

Frothy, pink, emotional appeals seldom suffice.

I choose today to act like a woman.

To not just talk the talk, but to walk the walk.

Which meant today, hopping on my bicycle in the gloom and getting out of dodge, my brain, for a little while and riding out to Saint Gabriel’s up on Ulloa and 41st for an hour.

Where I was reminded of the spiritual axiom and laughed out loud when it was mentioned.

Then I blushed as pink as my hair.

But I got the message.

Sometimes it just takes a day to sink in.

From my head to my heart.

By way of a small hair color geographic.

Tickled pink to be back home.

Happy and free.

In my own self once more.


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