Posts Tagged ‘left my heart in San Francisco’

Home, Sweet, Sweet

May 24, 2016

Home.

It’s so nice to be back.

Sometimes I go away just to have that feeling again, of how much I love being home.

Home is San Francisco.

Oh.

It could be elsewhere, I did find myself experiencing a very deep fondness for the little neighborhood in Brooklyn that was adjacent to where I was staying in Clinton Hill–The Fort Greene historic area, so, pretty, so many gorgeous brownstones and kids on scooters and the park and the feel of it being a community.

I really liked that.

I could see living in one of those brownstones and sitting on the stoop on a warm night or day, reading a book with a cup of coffee, watching the world go by.

I do like that.

I miss having a place like that to hang out, my place doesn’t have a front porch or a stoop.

However.

There are spots in the neighborhood where I can sit and watch the world go by and I did do that for a little while today after getting back from the airport.

Despite big delays on BART, I still made it home pretty much around the time I thought I would as my flight came in a half hour before it was scheduled, so the time I “lost” on the train wasn’t really lost time.

Plus.

I had my book from the Strand and I pulled that out and started reading and got a good 60 pages into it, popped on my headphones, listened to some Radio Soulwax and just sat.

Sometimes I just need to slow down.

I just got off the phone with one of the women I work with and that was the gist of the conversation, the suggestion to just slow down.

I can get going really fast, I won’t feel, and I will be doing and it tricks my brain into thinking I’m being productive, but sometimes I am just running away from myself.

I take myself wherever I go.

Oh.

There I am again, I thought during a moment of being slightly turned around in Brooklyn and hesitating as to what to do next, literally I was walking around in little circles.

I realized that I was there with me and the “me” was itchy and antsy and getting a little irritated and discontent, which is like my natural state, so I said a prayer asked for guidance and got take out from the Thai place I had dinner at on Saturday night.

Now.

Just stopping and slowing down and letting the world happen, I got to meet Doug and go do the tour of his studio, so even when I seem lost and confused, see, there, I am being looked after and loved.

I sent him a thank you note via e-mail and got just the sweetest response from him today.

He told me the price for the piece I want, several thousand dollars (but he also offered to work out a deal with me, which I super appreciated and despite not having several thousand to drop on an art piece, boy howdy do I aspire to that), and also an invitation to stay at his place the next time I visit–he rents an Air BnB as well, and he said when he comes to San Francisco we must get together.

Also, and I found this so sweet and endearing, that I will make a great, empathetic therapist and I will make loads of money and buy lots of art including his.

That literally brings tears to my eyes.

A very secret wish of mine, to be able to afford to buy the art I love and also to support the artists that I see around me, I love art, it does something to me and creativity and my friends who are artists just blow me away.

“What kind of art do you do,” he asked me outside the doors of the meeting hall, it’s an assumption I get a lot.

But instead of saying I’m not an artist, I said, “I’m a writer.”

And that is a kind of art.

I am creating as I type and when it is right, when the mood is lovely and I am completely transparent I am a conduit and what comes forward is not me, it super cedes me and reshapes me and I am a different person after doing the writing.

In that is great joy.

Yeah.

I want to be an amazing photographer, I am a passable amateur.

Of course I want to draw and paint and sculpt, but those mediums I have never quite had the passion for, the drive for.  I do get ideas and have ways of being in the world that I believe, deep within me, are supremely artistic.

It could just be the way I arrange my hair or hang a photograph on the wall.

But.

I have always wanted to be a patron.

There’s just something super sexy about that.

A dream.

A home, a big one, with lots of light and a studio to write in and a library to read in and rooms for friends to come and do retreats and a cottage in the back and art everywhere and recovery and always the work, the growing the finding of new beauty and subsuming it into my person.

How much art can I hold?

How much love can I give.

That is an art.

The art of smiling, being of service, reaching out, kindness is an act of art.

Art is love.

It is perspective and joy and great waves of sorrow and overwhelming moments of uplift and I can’t comprehend it and maybe, probably, I just don’t want to.

It is an art being myself.

I realize this as I move through the world, how I let myself express myself is an art too.

I can be a living piece of art.

Although sometimes I just need to be a tired human.

The well needed to get refilled today.

When I got home I unpacked my bag and threw my clothes in the wash, I put all my things away, all the notebooks and the few little things I had brought back from my travels and walked up to a little spot in the neighborhood and grabbed lunch.

I sat inside, then I realized I just wanted to sit for a while.

I pulled up a seat at an outside table and sat and watched the ocean in the distance and the neighborhood doing it’s neighborhood deal and then I read for an hour.

Occasionally closing my eyes to the sun and I realized I needed a nap.

So a quick pit stop at Other Avenues for some household stuff and then home.

And a nap.

Oh such a nap.

I slept three hours.

I woke up twice to a text message and to pee, but really, I slept nearly three hours and I can feel I am a bit jet lagged still.

So easy does it the rest of tonight.

Full and grateful heart and a gentle song of jazz on my radio and a little more tea.

And sleep.

In my own home.

In my own bed.

In my favorite place in the world.

San Francisco.

Where my he(art) is.

Date Night!

March 20, 2016

I jest.

Work night is more like it.

Being tired night can be included in that.

Why am I at work night should be the title to this blog.

Because that’s where I am.

Le sigh.

It does not happen often that I am here on the weekend and it will not happen again this semester.

I feel a little bit broken.

I realized, on Sunday, as I was sitting in my last class of the day that I had unconsciously, oh what would Freud say about that, sabotaged myself into working thirteen days in a row with one day off and then another five days of work before I had my two day weekend.

Ugh.

Carmen.

I met with my person today.

And no!

Fuck.

We did not finish my inventory.

The lady is having me go deep.

DEEP.

It’s been a little painful, plus I’m sick, let’s just not beat around the bush, I haven’t been running at full speed, it’s not debilitating but it certainly feels vulnerable when I am sick and it’s usually when I am better that I realize how sick I have been.

Or when someone points it out right in front of you.

“Oh, you’re sick,” she said, “ok, we’re going to go easy.”

And did we go easy?

Nope.

But.

Ah.

I got some stuff out.

All the stuff that just does not serve and she promised we would finish next week and I believe her.

But when she asked about today and the working, then added: “how do you feel about that?”

I burst into tears.

Um.

I didn’t see that coming.

And that indicates to me that I am sicker than I am letting on.

So this has been a very take it easy sort of day.

I left the scooter at home, took a car to Tart to Tart, then another to the Mission after doing the deal for awhile.

I also got a manicure and a pedicure and chatted with a girl friend I’d lost a little touch with since she’s moved to the East Bay.

“It’s so affordable over here!” She told me.

Yeah.

I hear that.

I’m pretty damn lucky to still be here.

My driver today asked how long I’ve lived in San Francisco and I’m coming up on fourteen years!

It’s a pretty great run.

I found myself a little overwhelmed though, in the Mission.

It’s changed a lot and I know that and I am here all the time and I work here and I commute here and yet, wow, I just got such an eye full and ear full and the bustle and the weird, well, to me, it’s weird, tourists and gawkers and destination people and the conversations and the money.

Whoa.

There is some money on parade here.

Especially on the weekends.

I mean.

I know that I am in it consistently, but I’m here when the work week is happening and I don’t interact with the community the same way.

Hell.

Who am I kidding.

It was not community that I was interacting with today.

Not that I had much interaction, it was mostly observation.

I am pretty happy that I am not living down in this area anymore, despite occasional longings for a shorter commute to and from work and school.

I never thought I would say that.

I always thought I would wind up in a house in the Mission.

Perhaps not.

Of course, there is plenty here that is still good and awesome.

I was just a bit overwhelmed with it and remembered with a lot of nostalgia what it was like the first few times I hung out here and ate here and went to bars and night clubs and danced and shot pool and played poker in the back room at Dalva.

Long soaks in the hot tub at Osento.

I still, once in a while, think, oh, I should go to Osento then realize it’s been closed for years.

Things change.

And that’s ok.

I don’t have to bemoan it or belittle it either.

It was nice to go to dinner with my boys and we went to Tacolicious and were waited on hand and foot and it would have perhaps mortified me to be there in another lifetime, but in this one I was being paid to eat out with the two most handsome little guys ever.

And.

When I was with the boys, I didn’t notice the hoi poi and the hulllabaloo and the commerce and the scene and be seen.

I just enjoyed walking along a street, Valencia, that I have walked down many, many, many times before, remember New College?

Remember when Ritual opened?

I do, I was there day one, third latte of the day.  Same for Four Barrel, before they were open, grabbing coffees from the back of the store where the roasters were.

Remember the KFC!

A street where I have played and worked and sat in cafes.

A street I have written blogs on, poetry on, had sex on, well not on the street itself and now that I think about it, ha!  No.  I have hooked up on Valencia.

Heh.

Anyway.

I digress and yes, this lady is a little tired.

So.

Movie night the rest of the night and some hot tea and just sitting back until the parents get home.

Then a ride out to my home, my sweet, quiet, laid back, sleepy little studio.

Down by the sea.

But still, yes, still.

In San Francisco.

Where my heart lives.

Where I wear my flowers in my hair.

Where else, would I be?

Well.

Burning Man.

But that’s another blog.

 


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