Posts Tagged ‘Henry Miller’

Be Anais To My Henry

February 28, 2016

And ding!

Ding!

Ding!

We have a winner.

Best pick up line ever.

Yup.

Back on the dating tip again.

I was told, suggested, ha, when have I not taken her suggestions? To get back on the dating, “that was one date, try again,” she said and gave me a look.

Ok.

I also got some really specific things to write my next inventory on.

Gratefully I have only four, FOUR!

Four people on this inventory, and one concept.

I can’t believe that.

The concept blows me away.

She wants me to write about being unworthy.

“What I’m hearing is that you’re not worthy, I want you to go back and look back and really write about that, how and when that started, because you are worthy, and that false belief needs to get taken out and replaced with worthiness.”

Damn.

I have never heard it put like that.

I am excited, nervous, yes, what will happen when I believe I am worthy, how will my life change?

It will change for the better, that I know, so I will do what she suggests.

So.

I have started yoga, went again today, 6th time.

Really hard time today, had a hard time getting out of my head, felt stiff and the new mat I got was so slippery that I was sliding all over the place and falling on my ass, a lot, too much, found myself swearing “fuck this” and almost in tears more than once.

However.

I have a housemate and I asked her after class today, as she does yoga too, about her mat.

I showed her mine and she said, “oh, it’s because it’s a cheap mat, look, you want something like this,” and she showed me her mat.

Oh my god.

What a difference.

I went online immediately and googled non-slip mat and found a Gaiam mat and yes, it was expensive, but not too bad and I have committed to doing this practice, for my school class, for my person, for my self.

I might as well get a good mat that I won’t slip on, because if I had to continue the way that I did today I would quit, it was untenable.

However.

My housemate gave me the older one to use of hers that I was borrowing until I got my own, so I will retire the slick little mat I bought at the co-op and use the housemates until I get the new mat.

That will help.

I plan on going in again tomorrow.

And Wednesday.

Heh.

I’ll be on a tea and poetry date in the Outer Sunset.

Yes.

I did get back on Tinder and realized that one bad date was not going to throw me and even if I have more bad dates, which is more likely than anything, I’ll have had more experiences.

As I have stated before I get to get out there and do this, I get to learn, and like the yoga, I will fall on my face a bunch and make an ass out of myself and probably meet a few asses, but maybe, I’ll also meet someone impeccable and fun.

And tall.

Yes.

My Wednesday cafe date is 6’4″!

Mama’s bringing out the heels!

Although, I may not as we’re having a cafe date after I get out of work and doing the deal.

I may not be in heels wearing mood.

I’ll probably rock the tried and trued Converse.

Or maybe the new Fluevogs, they’ve got a sassy little heel, not too extreme for a first date.

I got time to let my wardrobe speak to me.

I wore the sweetest new gingham black and white check halter dress from Hell Bunny today.

I got the last of my dresses from my fitting at the Modcloth Brick and Mortar.

So happy that I did that for myself, it’s been so nice having sweet, cute, sexy, sassy clothes, I’ve really been enjoying the hell out of them.

I wore the dress with a little black cardigan today and pink glitter lipgloss and just felt all kinds of fancy.

I am also reflecting on fashion as it looks really good for that thing in the desert.

I got an amazing and awesome proposal from the family that wants me to playa nanny this year.

AMAZING.

I’m a little loath to share the details here, suffice to say I need to collect myself and e-mail my current employers and ask for the time off.

I have nerves about the request as it falls outside of my paid vacation time.

First and foremost I have to go to my school retreat.

It’s the second year retreat and it’s another full time week of classes out at the center in Petaluma we were at this past summer.

The dates are August 7th-14th.

That is what I am saving the rest of my vacation days for, I have to go to that, it’s part of my curriculum, there is no getting out of it and I love Burning Man.

LOVE IT.

But.

I have to prioritize the school stuff.

So that’s my first ask for time off.

The second request, the Burning Man request, is outside of my paid vacation, August 25th-September 6th, and though I’d be well compensated by the family I’d be working for on playa (thus negating any pay losses which I can’t, um afford, considering what the hell my tuition is, hello student loans), I’d really be honor bound to work with my current family.

That’s the job that pays the bills the rest of the year.

I think they will.

They did last year.

I just have to ask.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it tonight, but I will tomorrow.

I want them to have the information and I want to be transparent.

I respect them greatly and they have really taken care of me, the raise, the SFMTA Child Care Parking Permit for my scooter, cash when I work overtime.

I appreciate them and how they have been so business like with me too.

That being said, I deserve these things, I bust my ass and work hard and I do love, so much, my boys, they are just deliciousness all the time.

Well, not all the time, but you now what I mean.

That being said, I know they want me to be happy and Burning Man makes me happy.

I’m pretty sure it’s all going to work out.

And yay.

It’s been a good day.

I also started my period so I’m not so hormonally nuts, but you know, I’m alright with what happened, my emotions needed a vent and I got it.

Ah.

Life.

You are so good to me.

Tall cafe date, Burning Man, recovery, self-care, coffee, spicy sweet tea, flowers in my hair, yoga, sleep, graduate school, life.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Told you so!

I’m talking to myself here, yesterday and the day before, I wasn’t feeling it.

Funny how quickly things turn around when you let go.

Take suggestions.

Surrender.

And let the love find you.

Show up for it.

It is always there.

I promise.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Rain on the roof

December 15, 2012

Kettle on the stove.

It is raining this evening.  I got caught out in the wet without my umbrella.  Despite its graphic splash of “Paris” in many different fonts, signifying gullible tourist, I would have welcomed the coverage of my ‘brolly.

However, I had left it in the closet when I left this afternoon with Barnaby to run a few errands.

The day was quite lovely, early on, patchy bits of sunshine breaking through.  Distinctly warmer than the last week as well.  A day to get out and about for a walk.

Afternoon sky

Afternoon Sky

It is thundering down at the moment.

Heavy, fat, wet drops.  I am extraordinarily grateful that I got in when I got in, I would be a very drenched girl right now.

The weather reminds me of the Henry Miller I am currently batting through.

“When the sun comes out, any spot in Paris can look beautiful.”

So true.

Not all is pretty in Paris.  There is dirt and grime and garbage, just like any other large city.  There are ghettos and crack and pick pockets and petty criminals and hookers.

Not quite like the ladies that lined International Blvd. in East Oakland, but they are there.

Arc

Saint-Denis Arc way

Here for example, this looks lovely, a gorgeous historic arc in the center of what I found out was a fairly heavily trafficked prostitution neighborhood.

Oh.

Well, that explains the woman I saw here a few weeks back coming out of a doorway with the puppies pushed up to overflowing and a very open shirt.

Her breasts were so enhanced the skin on her chest was shiny and tight.

Like they were going to pop.

I literally, crossed my arms in front of my own chest.  My breasts ached in sympathy.  It looked so painful.

Prostitution is legal in Paris.

The act of procurement is not.  Nor is solicitation allowed.

I am not sure how then you can have prostitution, but you can.  As long as you are over 18.  I suppose when you see a woman with breasts like the woman I saw, you get the idea that she may be available for more than just house cleaning.

Miller is always talking prostitutes in Tropic of Cancer.

Food and fucking.

That is my man Miller.

I was on the Metro yesterday with my Miller, dog-eared to bits now as there are times when I can squeeze in a page or two before transferring stops and I lost my book mark, so I have been just turning down the pages, and a classmate of mine happened to get on the same car.

He was reading Stanislavsky  and I Miller.

This is something that endears me every time I get on the Metro, and there is room to sit and read, sometimes, like tonight, the crush of people is so intense (I was not the only person caught without an umbrella and apparently every one on the Right Bank decided to get on the Metro at Alma-Merceau) that I could not take out my book to read; however, most times I can get in a page or two.

On the occasional longer ride, a chapter.

I have to be careful to not get too buried in my book, otherwise I will miss my stop.

That has happened twice now.

There are many readers on the Metro.  I find this comforting.  So many readers.  There were times in San Francisco when I felt like I might have been the only person with a book on the BART.

Now, I am sure this is not true.  I am sure that there were plenty of people reading, but it was a tablet or a Ipad or a Kindle.

Here, in Paris, there is still a large population of book readers.  And I see them most on the Metro.  I do not see people reading crap either.

Of course, when it is in French I cannot always tell, but the books look like BOOKS.

Big, hardy bits of literature.

There are book stores everywhere.

I went to one today with Barnaby after he had made a few purchases by the Rue St. Denis area and I got some stationary, envelopes, and a postcard.  I love browsing through the stacks and seeing all the art books and notebooks, the stacks of books and the strange, sudden corner with a reading chair squashed into it with an old man, a cane, the smell of tobacco rife in the air and a small dog curled up by his feet.

It is an evening for staying in with the book.

I feel the lure of the bathtub calling.

The room-mate is out for the evening with a friend at a new sushi place he discovered.

I have the apartment to myself.

Diabolical things could happen.

Like climbing into a steaming hot bath with my copy of Miller, a hot cup of tea and the sound of the rain falling on the roof.

John Coltrane on the speakers.

I think it’s a date.

I think I have to go.

I have somewhere to be…..

 

 

 

 

Write

December 3, 2012

Although I do not like to admit it, a little bruising of the heart does the writing good.

Anytime that I can crank out as much as I have in the last two days is a good time.

Yesterday I went to two museums, took many photographs, edited my book, and wrote a short story.  Today, although not as prolific, I still wrote twice and edited my book.

Here is the short for you:

 

Pajama Pants

 

“Listen,” the boy whispered low and urgent in the dark night, two beds down from mine in the long narrow room, “all you got to do is wait until he’s asleep, then slide ‘em out from underneath his head, he’ll never wake up.”

“Lonnie,” the other boy whispered back with a low whine in his throat, “I don’t want to, the pants will bite me.”

“Listen up, Bradford, you fucking little pussy, you fucking get those pants from him or I will bite you.”

I held my pajama pants close to me, the soft flannel of cloth folded over cushioning my cheek.  If I squinted I could just see the outline of a black lion mane on the left pocket to my pants in the bit of dim light that the hallway light cast through the frosted windows of the nursery.

The nurses were long gone to bed and we new boys were left to fend for ourselves against the line of bullies that ran the boys house, the nurse at the front turned a blind eye and sat with her broad white back to the nursery windows face buried in a virtual telly mask watching some late night Bollywood soap opera, the noise of it leaking through the shoddy view mask she wore.

My pajama pants were the last of the things that I had left from my dad.  I cradled them close to my face and nestled my nose into faded mane of the black lion printed on my pajamas, he grumbled in a sleepy roar at me, as he felt my nose nestle into his mane.

Lions were not purring cats my daddy told me, “they are roaring cats, Micah, they are not house cats, like Shasha there,” his papa said pointing to the brown tabby house cat warming mama’s lap as she sat rocking in the silent floating shell chair before the flat screen mono fire.  I could not remember my mama’s face anymore, but I could still see the bright gleam of light off the edge of my father’s glasses—he was old-fashioned like that, wearing glasses.

“Don’t forget that, and the lions will always look after you,” his father bent down to button up the top of the flannel around his neck.

“Now, do you want to hear about the black lion of the Southron Lands or do you want to hear about the Green Striped Saber lion of the Mount Lands?”  His father sat down on his bed tucking in the pneumatic quilt around my feet.

“The black lion, daddy, I like that one the best,” I said and opened up my eyes wider to push back against the wave of sleep that was fast unfurling over me.

“Ok, close your eyes,” my father said then he touched the black lion and the roar of the cat grumbled alive and the narrator’s voice started to talk and the walls shimmered and the vast desert dunes flickered onto the walls of his bedroom lit up with the red-gold glow of the setting Southron Land’s sun.

“Once upon a time,” Lonnie sang in a low mean whisper into my ear trying to pull the pants out from underneath my head.  “There was a little baby who cried all the time about how he missed big dumb daddy.”

Lonnie’s cold nails scraped at my fingers trying to get me to let go of the flannel pajama pants.

“No, please, don’t take my pants,” I pushed at his hands.  “Please, you’ll make the lions mad.”

The black lion shifted under me, I could hear his roar lighting up in his throat I tried to shove him down with my ear, but he pushed, he pushed, and he opened his mouth and roared a warning until I had to lift my ear up off the pants for fear of going deaf from the roar being right against my ear drum.

“Please, Lonnie,” I said my eyes starting to water from looking at the black pupils floating in his white face in the dark of the room.

“Shut your pie hole,” Lonnie said and reached under my head to take the pajama pants from me.

Then he screamed and screamed and screamed as the teeth of the black lion shredded his hand and blood flew in thick gouts across my bowed head.

“Lions don’t like to be messed with,” my father said to me, leaning down to kiss my forehead as I slipped into sleep, “you are always safe when you have your pajamas pants, Micah, I promise.”

 

The End

 

I have an idea, one that has been a bounce in my head since I got the inspiration for the little story above, it is to do a collection of shorts.

I want to call it “The Atrocious Alphabet”.

I have two stories so far: The Button Boy and Pajama Pants.

You may have figured out that I like alliteration.  I am prone to it in my poems and it just sort of happened that both stories have alliteration in the titles.  They are Science Fiction of a sort.

I will be the first to admit that I have no clue how to write science fiction, I never have before.  Yet, there is something about being here in Paris that pushes me toward it.

There is something unsettling about being in a completely different city with its different language and customs and movements.  There are all sorts of things that I notice and my eye gets pulled this way and that as I try to take it all in.

Today for more time than I care to admit I was studying a man’s tennis shoes across the room from me.  They are what I have heard be called “trainers” it is partially because I have read UK authors that I know the word for them and they look distinctly different from running shoes in the US.

I get to notice all things.

I am a writer.

I eat experiences.

I suck them up.

I watch unabashed.

Unless I am deep into Henry Miller on the Metro.  Which has been the case for the last day and a half, deep into Miller on the Metro.

Miller is a better companion for my journey through the Paris wilds then was Hemingway, although I am grateful for the juxtaposition of the two authors.  Miller is more my style, more to chew on, more fat and gristle and sinew in the writing.

He is lush and exuberant and rich and almost too much, but not quite enough and how is it that he actually can turn a sentence with the word “turd” in it and it sounds just so, perfect and exact.

He smashes you with words, flouts them at you, buries you underneath the descriptions.  I find myself lost in the thighs of a woman he is describing and unbearably smothered in the erotic and then I look up and I have almost missed my Metro stop and some man with startling grey eyes and white blonde close shorn hair, a septum ring in his nose, and black leathers on is staring at me.

My whole body shocked.

I felt overwhelmed with lust.

Then his eyes dropped and the train ground to a halt and I sprung off, stepping out the door before the movement had stopped and up into the throng moving down the tunnel to the next train and the next sentence and the next page.

Miller’s writing reminds me of standing in front of a vast Delacroix oil painting in the Louvre, my whole body feverish with art, I felt every nerve ending on fire, high, I felt high, really high, blown apart with the oil painting and the emotion.

I shivered with art fever.

It did not help that then after as I finally lurched away from that panoramic painting the next moment I am standing below the spread of Winged Victory.

More fever.

More high.

No wonder I can only do two wings of the Louvre in one go.

It is too much.

Miller is too much in a good way.

Paris is too much in a good way.

I am drowned in images and startled into new ways of seeing things and the words come and she said to me tonight, “just keep writing Carmen, don’t stop writing.”

She’s a sculptor, she has said, without reading a wink of the words that I have written, “you are an artist, go create.”

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes.  I am the happiest man alive.  A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am.”

Thanks, Mister Miller.

I no longer think about it.

I am.

 

 

 


%d bloggers like this: