Posts Tagged ‘love song’

Void In My Heart

August 11, 2017

Only you can fill it.

Love.

Fill it with love.

Fill it with joy.

Fill it with the smell of you entangled in my memories.

Fill it with the flush you bring to my face.

Fill it with flowers.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

So I have been told.

I am not empty without you, per se, but there is emptiness there.

Greater than I knew.

A spot, a space, a holding space if you will.

Patient it waits for you to step back in.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If I grow any fonder I’ll die.

You indulge me.

You sustain me.

You light me up like a firefly on a hot summer night.

I think about that.

You.

And.

Hot summer nights.

I feel sixteen again.

Seventeen.

Wild.

Fraught with emotion.

Overfull with desire.

Wishing to abandon myself completely to you.

All the time.

You redeem me.

You rescue me.

When I did not know I needed rescuing.

When I am with you I am replete.

Full.

Ravished with happiness.

I am almost afraid to see your face.

Your eyes.

To touch you.

I will have to make sure you are real.

Not a dream.

Not wishful thinking.

But here.

In front of me.

Waiting for my touch.

Waiting for my kiss.

Waiting.

You have not left a void in me, but rather a space that is occupied.

Constantly.

Always.

Continuous with thoughts of you.

My heart overflows.

I find my face wet with tears for no reason.

I wake up and feel you in my body.

I close my eyes at night and see you there pressed against the backs of my lids.

Sometimes.

I can almost feel you beside me.

I lift my hand and can sense the contours of your face.

My heart batters inside my chest.

The state of being away from your person.

Makes me want to hoard you when I have you.

Makes me greedy and childish.

Wanton and lustful.

Wistful.

I wish to stockpile you so that I don’t feel that awful loneliness without you.

Irrational.

Love is abundant.

Infinite.

This love has no end.

No beginning.

It shelters me from the nights rain.

It lulls me to sleep.

I am held.

I am seen.

And in that seeing and holding.

I can do the same for you.

I see you.

Let me hold you.

Let me press against you and fill you up.

Full to overflowing.

With.

All.

My.

Love.

For.

You.

 

Write Your Own

February 1, 2017

Happy ending.

He told me yesterday after giving me a stupendous hug.

“You’re a writer, write your own story,” he added, then, “you’re going to help so many people, Carmen, you really are.”

I felt bowled over with his love and confidence in me.

It is so very nice to have friends.

It is amazing to have the fellowship and community I have.

“You’re going to be in Oakland Saturday night?” She asked on the phone today when I had a moment at the park while my charge was playing in the sand box. “Of course I’ll go, I’ll pick you up from the BART station, we can grab some food and catch up.”

Yes.

Oh yes please.

Community.

Love.

Friends.

All the things that I need to get me through the day and through the week.

And it’s been a good week.

I had a great day at work today.

I felt super helpful.

I got to run errands, pick up one of my charges from school while the mom was at the one month old check up for the baby at the doctors, my little ladybug charge went with mom and I got to pick up big brother at the school.

We had a wonderful chat, ended up running into a classmate on the way to the train, detoured and climbed the hill to Dolores Park.

My office with a spectacular view.

The boys ran around the park for an hour, then I got a text from the mom, and headed back to the house, stopping at the little organic market on the way back to the house.

I was greeted with much affection and hugs, I got loads of hugs today from my charges.

Such sweetness.

And.

Oh.

It happened.

It finally happened.

“Oh!  Can you take the burping machine,” the mom asked, handing me off the baby, to go help the little lady bug in the bathroom with a sudden need for mom.

It happened so fast and unexpectedly and it was just divine.

She passed me the sweet, warm, soft bundle of baby.

Oh.

Oh my.

The smell.

Oh, God.

My first thought, “I want one.”

So bad, God, I want a baby.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I breathed his scent in deeply.

All babies have that scent that milky, sweet, skin soft, bread baked with love and dusted with buttered pixie dust.

I can’t quite describe it, powdery, warm, human, I was lustful with the longing to have one of my own immediately, now, now, now and the tears, oh they held, hung up in the bottom lashes of my eyes, trembling just there, but never quite cresting to slide down the round tops of my cheeks.

I turned to the window, the huge, gigantic wall of glass with the entire skyline of the city spread out below, the sun spinning it’s last light a golden crust of fire illuminating the glass buildings and spraying red gold brilliance into the heavens, and shifted the baby up on my shoulder a little bit.

He sighed, gurgled, and settled.

I patted his back softly, I crooned my little song.

I have a lullaby that I always sing to my charges, it’s a version of Hush Little Baby Don’t Say A Word, that I have adapted for me, the nanny, not the mom, not the dad, to sing.

Hush little baby, don’t say a word/I’m going to buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won’t sing/I’m going to buy you a diamond ring.

And if that diamond ring turns brass/I’m going to buy you a looking class.

And if that looking glass should break/I’m going to bake you a chocolate cake.

So hush little baby, don’t say a world/I’m going to buy you a mockingbird.

Then.

I croon a hum.

Not a song, no words, just a soft repetetive hum, up and down, soft and low.

And I sway, foot to foot, a rocking motion that seems innate inside my body, so natural and comfortable I don’t even realize I’m doing it.

I remember once sitting next to someone while I was rocking a charge to sleep in my arms and sitting there, in a folding chair, listening to what I needed to hear and attending to the little boy child in my arms, an eighteen month old who was teething pretty hard, and just swaying in that chair, that warm lump of child draped across my breast, and the man sitting next to me whispered, “I think that little boy might be the luckiest male alive.”

“I wish someone would rock me in their arms until I fell asleep while singing me lullabies.”

It wasn’t until much later that I realized he was hitting on me, I was rather stupid at that point of my recovery.

Sometimes I have blinders on.

Anyway.

I stood there, swaying back and forth and crooning my little wordless tune and he sighed, and melted asleep.

Tears again, but not so heavy, just a misting on my face and the mom and daughter came out of the bathroom and mom said, “oh, he fell asleep!  Would you mind holding him while I finish up dinner?”

Would I mind?

“I obviously hate this,” I said and smiled, my heart so happy to be holding this little mite of a human being, this precious cargo entrusted to me, such simple delight.

Such a gift.

I held him for an hour, he slept high on my breast, held in the crook on my right arm, warm head nestled into the curve of my neck, tucked just there under my chin, soft and warm and perfumed with all things love.

And.

It got better.

I mean.

How it happened I could not have orchestrated.

I could not have directed, it just happened.

The family ate dinner, dad was late coming back from work, and they sat down.

They chatted and laughed and we shared the view.

The mom and the little girl ran off to a bedroom to hunt up a library book and the oldest brother approached me, “can you read me this story?”

We pulled out a big chair, I sat down gentle, with his baby brother still sleeping on my shoulder, then he crawled into my lap, I put my arm around him and he settled into my lap, curled up in a boy ball, his feet in stripe socks nestled on my knees.

I read him the story.

His brother slept on my right shoulder, he cuddled into my left.

Then his sister came by and leaned into the chair.

I reached up, stroked her corn silk hair and smiled.

I was completely surrounded with love and trust and sweetness and vulnerability.

It was amazing.

Then someone poked someone and someone else pulled someone else’s hair and I had to settle them down and point to the baby, but we settled back in and I read the story until it was time to go.

Magic.

It was extraordinary.

And I carried that magic with me, a bubble of gossamer love and light, the cusp of the new moon sailing off toward Venus, the midnight blue threads of clouds scudded  with white bottoms and grey satin shimmers.

I felt a sail, a sloop, a crooning slip of love sending me home on the rails of city lights.

Write your own happy ending.

Write your own fairy tale.

Tie it up with a black grosgrain ribbon and hang it from the star shining above the new moon.

Kiss it into being and tuck it under your pillow to dream upon.

Give it pumpkin colored tulips in a tall Mason jar.

Spin it colored pastel and light like a globe of hope and desire.

Overcome the old sad story you’ve told yourself all your life.

And write your own damn happy ending.

I mean it.

Just do it.

Right.

Fucking.

NOW.

 

 

 

A Different Kind Of White Out

September 9, 2013

I got the keys!

I got the keys!

I got the keys!

Well, not to the new place, that is still to happen.

But I got the keys to the garage and the garage leads to the door that leads to my in-law.

Yay!

I move in tomorrow, I will also get the real keys tomorrow, but I am more than happy to have access at all.

Tomorrow, for the first time in over a year I will be sleeping in my own space.

No room mates.

Just me.

No bed yet, either, or other house hold thingamabobs.  But whatever, that all will come.  They usually do, and always much faster than I expect them to.

Although if you have any spare pieces parts or bits, let me know, ‘kay.

I ain’t got nothing.

Not even a carrot peeler.

Note to self, add that to the list.

I really am starting from complete scratch having gotten rid of all the things I had household wise when I moved to Paris.  I told my friend when I wrote out the check for September rent, pro-rated to not include the first week when I was busy being in the dusty dust, that it meant I was getting better stuff.

I cleared out what does not work for me and will be replacing it with better things.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

The stuffs will happen.

In the mean time, my friend is lending me a great big blow up mattress and some bedding, a small dresser, a chaise lounge, and a small table.

It’s enough to get me started.

I have started with less before.

And I am going to have fun putting together my new space.  I am going to enjoy the hell out of it.  I am getting some plants, I like greenery, and well, I am getting all the things to make it my home.

Plus, although I have yet to touch base with her since my return, I do have some things in storage at a friend’s house out on San Jose Ave.  I don’t recall there being any furniture like things, but I will have all my photographs and postcards and paintings and pictures.  And my grandfather’s spice rack, which is going to look really good in my kitchen.

The kitchen looks great, brand new cabinets, a full size gas stove, a three-quarters size fridge with freezer.  Oh, add ice-cube trays to the list.

Shit, hang on, I really do need to get out the list and write this stuff down or I will forget it.  Not that I think I need to make ice any time soon, but you know, it’s nice to have when the city is experiencing an Indian Summer.

Not that I could tell as I rode my bicycle out to the 46th Avenue.

Where I am now to be found–46th between Irving and Judah–in the fog bank.

My glasses were misted over by the time I got to the house and I will be pocketing them for future foggy rides, better to be slightly blurry from not wearing the glasses than blind for riding in white out conditions.

At least this white out doesn’t taste bad and leave a coating of alkaline on your skin.

It did frizz the hell out of my hair though.

Ah, curly hair, how I love to hate to love you.

But as I stood waiting for the N-Judah to swoop me up and take me back to Cole Valley, I left the bike in the garage at the house, I don’t need to worry about moving that as well, I thought, I could really get used to this.

I like the smell.

It feels cozy.

I like wearing cozy clothes.

I sleep better in cooler weather and I like to sleep under blankets.

Ack.

Add to list.

Anyway.

I liked the shroud of fog.

I like the fuzzy lights of the train pulling through the dense cushion of mist.

It was pretty.

I like the pretty.

Oh snap.

I can go for a walk on the beach tomorrow at sunset.

How freaking cool is that?

And I got my first mail there.

I sent myself a post card from Burning Man.  I did not read it yet, but I propped it up in my bathroom.

Sigh.

My bathroom.

Nobody I have to share it with.

I can get up in the middle of the night and use it and not put on my pajamas.

Nothing says good times like a naked potty run.

Seriously.

There will be runs to the coffee shop, Trouble Coffee is a block away and Java Beach is two blocks away.  There will be meanders to Mollusk Surf Shop, I will eventually learn how to surf, damn it.  There will be dining at Thai Cottage.  Holy shit, that was the bomb tonight.

Surprise take out dinner around my friends kitchen table with her boyfriend and daughter.  Best Thai food I have had in ages.  Super awesome brown rice with yellow curry and tofu for me and they had the red pumpkin curry with tofu, plus an amazing mango salad.

Yum.

And cheap.

New favorite and I have only had it once.

But I foresee many a visit in my future.

Oh, yeah, a Thai Cottage picnic on the beach at sunset with iced coffee from Java Beach.

I remember about 8 and a half years ago I got this urge to go out to the beach a lot.

I was discovering a connection to a power greater than myself.

Stand in the ocean and try to make the waves stop.

See how immense the world is.

How small I am, insignificant, really.

I went every day for a week, over and over and over.

I walked in the surf barefoot and the cuffs of my jeans were soaked and salty and I was loath to wash away the smell.  I organized a beach bonfire one weekend and all my new friends came out to show their support, we stood next to each other smelling the clean sweet scent of the sea and the warm crackle of burning wood singed with marshmallows and dropped cinnamon graham crackers.

It seems that all along the siren song of the ocean has been calling me back.

Your wayward daughter returns, my love.

I shall see you soon.

And like mermaids we shall call each to each, I shall wear my trousers rolled, and eat a peach (well, probably a nectarine, I like them better) as I walk upon the shore.

I do believe, however, that they, the mermaids will sing to me.

I can hear them even now.

And that I will not drown.

Rather I shall rise from the surf a kind of Venus.

With punk rock hair and the laughing mouth of a glad hearted girl.

 

 


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