Posts Tagged ‘John Irving’

Sit The Fuck Down

April 22, 2016

And write.



It ain’t Friday yet.

But it’s so close I can taste it and I am so ready for the weekend, it’s been on my tongue for days.

Confirmed date tomorrow night.

Confirmed will be shaving my legs.

Wink, wink.

Nudge, nudge.


Like that.

I was going to go on a blind date with a gentleman and hit a dance club, but I was pinged yesterday by a lover who I would rather hang out with than someone new and well, I already know how the date will go.


Fucking well.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

That being said, I was looking forward to dancing and this specific paramour does not strike me as the dancing type of guy.

Although he does remind me of the slightly sad, Russian dancing bear in a John Irving novel.

I don’t know that I will ever tell him that, he’s got a lot of swagger and bravado.

And sexy.

And well, most guys don’t want to hear that they remind me of a morose bear.

I don’t know that he knows quite how sad he is.


That is none of my business.

He is also hella fun and we hit it off and yes, hit it, the last time we hung out.


More of that, yes please.

But the dancing had to happen.

My energy is high, the moon is full, and I am all yoga’d up.

“You must be really flexible,” a possible date messaged me after I mentioned I was heading out the door to the yoga studio.

Thank you God for the yoga studio on my block.


On my block.

So freaking convenient.


I had such a great experience with it today too.

I had reverie at that end of the class when I was in the last and final resting pose, after doing a terrific heart opener and I had this epiphany and massive amount of gratitude overwhelm  me.

I realized that this man, a friend of mine to this day, my first love, my first crush, unconsummated love, unrequited love, disaster of a best friend, but the best and longest friend and someone who no matter what or where, I am still connected to, I realized this man saved my life.

I mean literally.

When I was not able to check out via drugs and alcohol, when I didn’t have a solution that was stuffing substances down my throat or up my nose, I was in need of some sort of relief or I might have died, I am not kidding, and this man was my relief.

I loved him and in that love I found a kind of solace and comfort that I couldn’t find in myself.

Never mind that it was fantasy or unrequited.

One, it was safe, it was unrequited, he wasn’t interested, able, or other, to engage in a romantic love with me.

Two, it was a way to check out and not be present in the horror of what was happening in my life when I was in highschool.

The house wasn’t burnt to the ground.

But there was definitely a scorched earth policy happening in my home.

And as it got worse I found myself escaping into what ever I could and often that was books and or fantasy.

It was a few more years before I was able to find relief in alcohol and drugs from the disease of discontent that I was absolutely full blown in, although it would not be without much time, work, and perspective before I reached that conclusion.

Today on the yoga mat I had a sudden vision of myself as a ballet dancer and I remembered my friend and how he impersonated me my second semester freshman year at UW Madison.

I think the statute of limitations is up, so yeah, um, ha, I defrauded UW Madison for the grant and scholarship monies due me and my friend, a guy friend, my best friend, went to all my classes and got away with it until someone from our high school busted him.

He was a great actor and pulled it off until that point.

And when he had to leave, well, I didn’t drop out officially, so I just took some more failed grades, except.


In ballet.

My friend pulled a C in the class.

He told me later the teacher had a crush on him.


Like the whole world at the time probably did.

He was improbably attractive then.

Not that he isn’t now, just, well, different.


Here I am in yoga having this reverie about floating through the air like a ballerina and also some cross dreams of floating in blue green water-I was a swimmer in highschool–and I am blasted with love and gratitude for my friend.

He loves me.

We love each other.

Haven’t seen him in years, five maybe, but we still are connected.

And in that moment, in the yoga studio, on my back, breath flowing in and out of my lungs, my heart just blew open with joy and the realization of how much I owe this person for letting me just have those great big love feelings.

They, the feelings and the fantasy, really did save my life.

They buoyed me up through very trouble waters and times.

They got me through.

And for that I have unlimited love for him.

Not unrequited.

Not needing to be fulfilled, just this deep special, enduring awareness of love for this man and how affecting it has been and how lucky I am to have had it.

To still have it.

We talked earlier today as he was leaving the house on a beautiful spring day in Minnesota with his twin girls heading to their first music recital as first graders.

I could hear how joyful and happy he was and it made me happy to hear it.

I had him on my mind after the yoga class and then something else reminded me as I was at the park with the boys and I called him out of the blue.

“You will let me know if you get to Wisconsin, I mean it, I will drive to see you,” he emphatically stated on the phone.

He’ll be in Madison for family late June early July.

I’ve been thinking July 4th weekend to go back and visit my best friend who lives up in Northern Wisconsin in Hudson, across the river from the Twin Cities.

“I’ll drive to Hudson, it’s actually closer than Madison,” my dear friend said.

“I haven’t made a decision and I need to see what my summer is going to look like, but yeah, since I’m not going to Burning Man, well,” I paused.

And said it.

“I’m feeling a big pull to come to the Midwest, I’m not sure why, but it’s been there for a few months and I feel like it’s time,” I smiled up at the trees, the playground swings full of children, I felt full of joy.

“You come and I will drive to you, I got to run, one minute warning,” he chuckled.

“I’ll keep you posted,” I said and hung up the phone.

I didn’t say I love you.

It’s implied.

He loves me.

I love him.

It’s all just love, love.

And once and awhile it’s making love to a man who reminds me of a sad Russian circus bear, who really, when it comes right down to it, reminds me in a way of my friend.

If that means having my cake and eating it too, who am I to analyze it?

I’m just here to have fun.

And my God.

I’m this much fucking closer to Friday.

And the music is good.

So excuse me.

I have a little more dancing to do under this full moon before my night is through.

And my weekends begun.

See you Friday y’all.



Depending on how my date goes.




You Look Great!

April 11, 2016

Did you lose weight?

Just the weight of having made it through the school weekend.

It is a heavy weight to carry sometimes, and as my TA in The Clinical Relationship said to my group this afternoon as we were parting, “you did really hard work this weekend, I just want to acknowledge that.”

Thanks man.

It was big, big, big work.




I am almost done with the work.

I still have a paper to write, a paper that the professor actually gave us some more time to address.


If I don’t want to write it tomorrow at work, I don’t have to.

Although, it’s probably for the best to bring my laptop and my reader, my notes, and just kick it out and deal with it.

Sometimes more time does not actually help me in the process of writing.



I can procrastinate this a little longer.




Get it done.

Then relax.

“God, I open my big mouth sometimes,” she said to me afterward, “I just blurted out what I was seeing,” she said with apology.

“It’s ok, it’s nice to hear, I don’t own a scale, so I actually couldn’t tell you if I had lost weight,” I replied.

“Your face, it just looks amazing, maybe it’s because your hair’s down, I don’t know that I have ever seen it down.”  She gazed at my face, puzzled, “it’s just, it’s beautiful, your face, you look so, so light.”

I smiled.

And I do feel light.

I was happy today at school.

I got up with a decent amount of sleep.

I had a great first class of the day.

I connected with my two favorite ladies in the cohort and made plans with both of them for future time to spend together.

Slumber party next school weekend!

That will be such a blast.

I also participated and felt really good with what I contributed to class.



I got a text message from my Tuesday evening date asking how I was.

Lovely, sir.

I am just lovely.

He’s out of town, but shall be returning this week.


I’ll be well rested.


I may also have another date this week, I’m just playing it by ear and letting whatever happens happen and enjoy the fact that I don’t have to focus on any one man.

I am having fun, remember?



I am happy.

I am tired.

It was a long weekend.

But I feel good.

Really good.

I feel loved and blessed and held.

I have friends.

I have a home.

I have school.

I get to do these amazing things and have these deep, effective, moving, my God, how emotionally moving some of this is, experiences.

I got my last assignments for the final weekend of classes.

I got papers to write people.


I also have time.

And there is reading.

And there is time.

There is abundance.

There is lightness.

And purpose and magic.


I’m listening to The Listener’s album again, “Wooden Heart.”

It is so good.

So good.

Oh, my clamoring heart.

I am such a fucking lucky girl.

I almost took a nap today after I got back from class, I was pretty darn wiped out, but I stayed awake, went over to Thai Cottage and got myself some pumpkin curry and brown rice, came back here and read for a while.


I did not read for school!

So proud of allowing myself a nice forty-five minute chunk of leisure reading, , John Irving.

A book I started last summer.

Last fucking summer.

I started it in Sonoma, at the house in Glen Ellen where the family I work for rent a place for a few weeks and have their summer vacation in some weather that actually acts like summer.

I can’t remember the last time I started a book and didn’t finish it.


I started that piece of literature on a study break from school work and then, well, I just went straight to Burning Man and then straight back to school and then straight back to work and repeat, well, take out the going to Burning Man part, but I have just been reading and writing and doing school.

I pulled it off the shelf nestled into my chaise lounge, sipped on a cup of tea and read.

It was delicious.

But I was getting too sleepy and almost nodded off.


I put on some music and danced around and got my blood up.



I pumped up the tires on my dear, beloved, and not much ridden bicycle.


I took the whip out for a ride.

It felt so good to be in the saddle, to be in my body, and not in my head, not thinking, not processing emotions, not in a therapy dyad with a new therapist learning how to do her deal practicing on my emotional playing field.

From the moment I wheeled her out of the garage, it was like I hadn’t been off her at all, but the truth is, I have.

It’s been a month?

After I go the parking permit for work, I’ve been taking my scooter and my bike, well, she’s gotten a little dusty.

My body did not forget the motions, my legs pistons, my hands light on the handle bars, the wind soft, caressing on my face, lifting the curls up off my neck, and I am one with the bicycle and flying down 46th Avenue.




The sunset at Moraga and 46th, the smell of beach bonfire drifting upwards, the salt, the ocean, the light of the bouncing off the pearlescent clouds.

The joy in my heart.

That’s what the woman saw.

The joy in my heart writ large on my face.

I cannot tell what part or the work informs the whole the most, I just keep moving believing that it is all love, brightness, light.

Rapturous with love.


Perhaps hallucinatory with needing to sleep.

But let me just stick to the love part.

That’s the best anyway.

Love me, my love.

As I love you.

The raven with the moon in its mouth.

The song on my sleeve.

The music of the spheres.







Making it One Gig at a Time

February 4, 2013

I had my first of the long baby sitting shifts today.

I actually got done 45 minutes early, which was a relief, even though I ended up hitting the Metro commute traffic twice in one day.

There was commuter traffic on the trains this morning, but mostly coming in from the Periphery, not so much heading out.

I got up at 6 am

I did the deal.

I wrote my three pages long hand.

I ate a good breakfast and had two cups of coffee before scooting out the door.

It was still dark when I left this morning and it was dark upon my return.

I soon must to be in bed as well.

I am not fond of the hours, but I am fond of the fact that I just put 100 Euro towards February rent, which was due four days ago.  My roommate knows that the money is coming, I expect my tax return any moment now.  But it is still really nice to just fork it over, in good faith.

I bought some groceries and I will get paid for tomorrow and I have another gig starting on Wednesday.

I actually have a really full week.

Twelve hours tomorrow, nine hours on Wednesday, meet up with a friend from San Francisco in the evening–he’s coming in via Thailand and I have not see in him in years it feels like, he’ll be in Paris for a couple of months doing work, it will be good to get a little San Francisco flavor here.  Then meet with a ladybug Thursday morning, do the deal at noon, then off to the suburbs on the other side of town to see Corinne and the new baby.

Friday brings a distinct repeat of Thursday with a different lady and then a meet up at Shakespeare and Company with a new friend who may be interested in starting a writers group.  We were supposed to meet last Friday but her husband had to have an emergency root canal.

That shit scares me.

I have nice teeth.

I would like to keep them.

Small aside, really what is the deal with dental floss and why isn’t there any in the store?  I found one, ONE, container of dental floss in the toothpaste aisle.  Flossing, Frenchies, it is important, especially with all the coffee and cigarettes and red wine being imbibed.

I have stellar, rock star teeth in comparison to a lot of the folks I see.

Even on the television today I noticed that.

What is it with a certain economic status, the couch is shite, the flooring scary, there is not any wall decorations pantings or posters hanging on the walls, but my God, there is a state of the art, huge, flat screen television with cable and dvd player and speakers and God only knows how many remotes.

Poverty equals huge television apparently.

I remember a movie that Spike Lee did that I don’t think got paid much attention and it probably should have, called “Bamboozled,” and one of the scenes shows a bunch of squatters in a tenement in with a miraculous amount of cables and wires and McGyvering of extension cords bundled to a television.

I always think of that, checking out through the television and how strapped to the television the impoverished are.

I have not owned one in about fifteen years.

I do watch some television, I won’t lie, I like to down load stuff, but I cannot remember the last time I watched a commercial all the way through.

The French television stations were interesting as I flipped through, the enumerations of MTV channels, the sports shows, the cooking shows, the fashion show channel.

Now I was down with that.

The Paris Spring runways are happening and it was just beautiful clothes gliding down runways with designer disco music playing in the background.

It was like watching Project Runway with none of the drama.  In fact, it was rather soothing.  I watched for a while, but mostly I just read.

Baby sitting equals getting paid to read while naps are happening.

I finished the David Sedaris book, and I started in on The White Review I had gotten from the boy with the Irish eyes.

Said eyes, I noticed yesterday are not actually blue, but more like a sea glass green.


He loaned me The White Review, a collection of essays, poems, articles, and interviews–with the interview of Will Self that we had discussed last week, and I swapped him the newest Will Self-Umbrella.

I will most likely finish the Review tomorrow and I will get started on the Chuck Pahalniuk I picked up last week.  I think, if I do end up going to Shakespeare and Company Friday I am also going to pick up Irvine Welsh’s Skag and if I can nail down a copy of it, finally, Stephen King’s book On Writing.

What I appreciate reading, and why I am just now getting it I don’t know, but….thank God I am allowing myself the ‘pleasure’ of the work, is Will Self reiterating what I have been hearing more and more of, to be a good writer you have to read.

I just used to think I was copping out, checking out, losing myself in words.

And while there is some, possibly a great deal, of validity in this, there is also just the pure joy I get from reading and I know that when I read a good book, Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury was a huge inspiration when I was writing the last full length manuscript I wrote.

John Updike’s complete works carried me through the rough draft of Baby Girl.

John Irving’s oeuvre brought me through the rough draft of The Iowa Waltz.

Self used a word I had not seen in print in some time “pernicious”.

I fucking love it.

I love words.

I get off on words.

I have two solid hours tomorrow to get my read on.

Ready for it.

And now I basically have to get ready for bed.

So I can get up and write again.

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