Posts Tagged ‘lovers’

Thank You!

February 24, 2018

Thank you Carmen!

The mom said, and pulled me into a hug.

I wasn’t expecting that.

It was so sweet and so endearing, I teared up.

She was thanking me for the week, one of the most challenging weeks I have had with the family I nanny for.

Two very sick kids.

Dad and the oldest were out-of-town all weekend visiting Grandma and relatives and friends out of the country, so it was just the mom and I.

And two of the sickest little monkeys one could imagine.

Today I carried the baby on me for nearly 8 hours.

I might have had a few moments, a run to the bathroom, a quick gulp of tea, where I wasn’t holding him, but he was pretty much glued to me the entire day.

The mom’s been handling the nights and I have been handling the days and she is sorely short on sleep.

I did my best to help out as much as possible.

Which really meant tending to the baby while the mom helped the little lady.

She is not a good sick kid.

Who is, really when it comes right down to it.

And she needed a lot of attention.

Mom would nurse the baby, then hand him to me, that was about my only reprieve, when he was nursing.

And let me say, it wasn’t the worst way in the world to spend my last day of the week, a hot little baby cradled against me all day, sleeping mostly.

He’s been running a fever and just has no desire to do much but sit and snuggle and doze.

Once in a while a big coughing fit would lead to some screaming.

There is nothing more disarming to my psyche than a child screaming in pain.

It was piercing the few times it happened to me today, but fortunately, he was fast to be soothed and I was able to get him comforted and back to sleep fast.

I spent many hours just holding him and rocking and humming.

I spent some time too with the both of them when the mom had to make a run out to do some errands.

At one point I had the baby on my chest sleeping and the little lady snuggled up under my left arm, a pile of stuffies, two blankets, and some children’s video playing on the tv and, yes, I nodded out.

All three of us sleeping in a pile on the couch.

It didn’t last long.

The mom came back and I woke quickly, I wasn’t really deeply asleep, just in that drowsy half state that happens right before true sleep.

I was really grateful that I could help the mom so much and I was happy to receive her thanks, if a tiny bit overwhelmed and surprised by it, I was also very, very touched.

I like her.

I like her a lot.

She’s quick becoming a friend and I feel very much a part of the family.

I was also grateful to leave tonight.

It was a long week.

I had a big trip the weekend prior and school the weekend before that.

So this is actually my first weekend at home in a couple of weeks were I’m not obligated to much.

To much.

Ha.

Fuck.

I make myself laugh.

I have plenty I need to do this weekend and plenty that I will attend to.

I do hope, though, that I will have some down time and some moments to relax.

I will definitely be going to yoga.

I have missed it for two weeks, the travel and school, and I’m sure I’m going to be rusty and sore after tomorrow’s class, but I need to get back in it.

And my best friend is going to come with me to class on Sunday, so there’s great impetus to get my butt to go to the studio.

We had breakfast today before work and I was very happy to meet, to spend time, to feel like a human being connecting with another human being, before I became a comfort pillow for the baby for 8 hours today.

Grateful for my friend and the time I got to spend and that I get to have company in my yoga class on Sunday, that will be awesome.

Although I know I will be self-conscious.

I’m usually a bit self-conscious any way, but I go, and I always feel better and I usually wish that I could go more often.

But I’m also never sure when the hell I’m supposed to be able to get to another class.

I may be able to squeeze in a third this week though, my therapist is out of office on Tuesday, I could make the morning yoga class happen before going into work.

Any time I can squeeze it in I am trying to do so.

Life is busy.

Yoga in the morning, shower, breakfast, writing.

PhD application preparations until I have to go to my internship.

Group supervision from 2-4p.m.

I might try to swing over to Hayes Valley and go to Optical Underground afterward, I have the prescription for new glasses to get filled.

I have gotten my last two pairs from them and I always find something I like there and they are cheaper than a lot of places.

I am still a bit miffed that the UCSF optical department doesn’t accept my insurance for glasses.

What was the point of going there?

I’m still so not pleased with my school’s health insurance but hey, I do have it, even if it doesn’t seem to have paid off any, at least I won’t get the ding when I go to do my taxes.

Which I also want to do very soon.

Indication of how busy I have been, I haven’t yet done them.

I can’t believe that it’s almost the end of February and I haven’t done them.

Very unusual for me.

But.

Hey.

Last year I didn’t have an internship or supervision, I wasn’t in therapy, I had a few spare minutes to attend to it.

I will, and soon, just need to get my PhD application done this weekend and then the taxes.

And then.

The carrot.

With my return I will be doing some traveling.

That’s always the reward for taxes getting filed.

A trip.

I’m still waiting to see if the family is going to take me a long for part of their vacation and what that will look like, but I do have it narrowed down to July.

Paris in July will be hot.

But it will be Paris.

Anyway.

That’s a wrap on today.

I’m ready to chill out.

Have some tea.

Watch some Peaky Blinders and go to bed.

I have a lot to do tomorrow.

A lot.

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Gold From Dross

January 8, 2018

I keep hearing my person talking to me about my life and what’s been happening over the last few months and school, and work, and relationships and how she managed to give me the most amazing compliment and also an admonition all at the same time.

She said that of all the people who she’s met in her life I am the best person at making gold come out of a poor situation.

She was giving me a really big compliment.

And.

She was also pointing out that I am used to not getting to work with much, so I manage to make the best out of whatever situation that I am in.

That I also, it was noted, have a tendency to take whatever I can get and spin it into something beautiful because I was never really allowed to have wants or needs.

And as it turns out, those wants and needs are not being met.

In a way.

My needs are being met and wants are desires that have a pretty name attached to them.

I have everything I need and then some.

But she had an interesting point, that just because I have the ability to make due with less does not mean that I must have less, that I’m allowed more, and that I can acknowledge those wants even if they are not met.

It’s a poverty thing, growing up so poor, take what you can get and be happy that you got anything.

It’s a kind of scarcity thinking that I have to often work around.

Like yesterday when I was getting the crown for my cracked tooth and there was a part of me that was loud and vehement, go with the cheaper option!

Fortunately.

I have done so much work that I knew that what I needed to do was go for what was best for me and my health and have complete faith that I was being taken care of.

And I was.

I paid for it, it’s done.

Today was actually quite nice, no pain whatsoever.

Well, once, once I bit down on my dinner a little too hard and there was a snatch of pain, but other than that, nothing worth noting.

I’ll be gentle with my teeth for the next couple of weeks and head back in on the 20th to have my permanent crown put in.

What has stuck with me about the comment was partially what I did yesterday and also acknowledging that there are parts of me that I just don’t let out, I don’t acknowledge that I have wants and desires that are very human and pretty typical.

Again.

She noted in the sweetest, kindest ways, nothing judgmental about me, or my situation or my life, just that she wanted me to see the parts of myself that I was perhaps pushing away as I made gold from my situation.

It struck me deeply.

And when I got off the phone with her I hopped onto the website for my yoga studio and signed up for the 4:30 p.m. class.

I was going to skip it today having been plenty active this morning and then going back to bed and sleeping until 10 a.m.

Which is the last time I will be sleeping in for a while.

Supervision starts back up tomorrow morning.

I will be up at 6:30 a.m.

I’ll be taking my car, rain in the forecast, and I will need to leave home earlier than normal to get to my supervision in Hayes Valley, during morning rush commuting hours.

Blech.

But.

Hey.

Not riding my scooter in the rain!

Supervision for an hour, then a phone call with the dean of the Transformative Psychology PhD program, then work, then two clients, then home.

It’s a long day.

So yeah, letting myself have that kiss of extra sleep was nice, plus I went to bed late last night, I was restless and had a head full of thoughts, dreamy thoughts, but thoughts that kept me up a little later than I would have wanted.

I don’t think I fell asleep until 1 a.m.

So morning yoga was out.

I flirted with the idea of doing either the 4:30 p.m. class or the 6:15 pm restorative yoga class.

But after my phone call, I knew, I had to get into my body and exercise.

It was super good.

So good.

Great instructor and I got super sweaty and just worked.

My head was quiet, except at the very end right before the final pose and it got a little too chatty, but it was emotional chatter that needed an outlet, and I was able to cry a little and let it go.

Sweat, tears, all the same thing, pain leaving the body.

I floated home and when I got there a message came in from a woman in my neighborhood about what I was doing this evening and where I might be going and did I want to head over to Quintara and 20th?

Um.

Yes, please!

Super good, caught up with my fellows, did the deal, got right with God, connected and feel really positive about moving forward into this week.

As I come up on my sober anniversary and see all the amazing insights that I get to have and all the growth that I have gotten to do this past year, it blows my freaking mind.

Like.

Just for instance.

Right before my friend picked me up to go do the deal I sent off my graduation application to my school program.

I paid the $90 fee and I filled out the four pages.

I noted my 4.0 grade point.

I expressed what name I want on my diploma, my full name, middle and all, thank you very much.

It asked if I wanted to speak at my commencement and I said I would be honored if so chosen.

I said I was going to attend the commencement and that I would walk in the procession and yes.

Yes.

Yes.

I said I wanted to pick up my diploma in person.

I want that baby in my hands as I cross the stage.

My god.

What a day.

Started with love and gratitude.

Ended with love and gratitude.

So much love.

So much gratitude.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Officially Astounded

December 4, 2017

And just a tiny bit exhausted.

Just a tiny bit.

I did it!

I got all the things done today that I needed to do.

I did not think that was going to happen and I started to resign myself to the idea that maybe I was going to have to write my Drugs and Alcohol paper sometime over the week.

But.

Fuck yeah.

I did it.

I just printed off the paper a few minutes ago.

About twenty-five minutes ago to be exact.

I sat through my last CBT Webinar (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) and when it was done I made the executive decision to just crank out the paper.

I had done some reviewing of the material before the webinar and I felt like I had a really good idea of what I was going to write about.

In fact, I was sort of, sort of, haahahaha, fuck this online webinar class, annoyed with the CBT webinar, I really did not like the format, and wished that I did not have to sit through it as I had the Drugs and Alcohol paper so in my mind I wanted to get right on it.

But sit through it I did and when it was finished I flipped once more through my notes and got it done.

I’m done with it!

So much fucking relief.

It’s printed off and in my folder.

I still have a couple of small things to do to be prepared for the final weekend of classes, but the two big papers I needed to do are now done.

The relief is real.

I have a worksheet that I need to spec up for my final group project presentation, but I’m not going to go in with an actual paper script, I know so well what I am doing that I will be able to speak extemporaneously.

Thank God for extemporaneous speaking.

I did a bit of that today as well.

I had the final dress rehearsal for People Who Usually Don’t Lecture.

I got to hear all the talks and I was pretty engaged.

The project is really going to go off well and I’m very grateful to get to be a part of it.

Mostly to get to be in the same group of people doing big things in community.

It is really a nice feeling to be a part of something human and getting to connect with yet another group of folks that I might never have met except for having been invited to participate in the  project.

It is a blessing.

And I’m beyond grateful that I get to do it.

Granted.

Still nervous.

I get pretty nervous before speaking and this will be in front of 150 people as well as being on stage, lit and video recorded.

In fact, I was video taped today.

Which I was not expecting.

I wore a flannel and jeans.

Sigh.

Oh well.

I think I’ll be wearing a dress for Tuesday’s performance.

I want to look pretty and I have a feeling that I will be more confident dressed up.

I also just want to give a good talk.

The person going after me references me in his talk and it’s an honor to get to be on the same stage.

I leaked tears the entire time he was speaking and it was really just such a nice moment to hear how he was affected by me and also that he got to know, via my blog and various other ways, how much he affected me.

I am still mystified how that works, but human connection is something so powerful.

I am a creature who needs companionship and people and I am just so grateful for all the people in my life that I have gotten to know and be around.

It’s amazing.

It’s amazing too that I’m almost done with this semester.

By this time next week I will be done.

Well.

I might still have one last paper to write, might, that’s funny, I do have one last paper to write, it’s due the 15th of the month.

My last class is the 10th and it ends at noon.

So.

I’m going to go out to sushi with a girlfriend from school to Domo in Hayes Valley to celebrate, and then, yes, I will go home and write my last paper.

I’m not really looking forward to doing more work on that day, but it really makes the most sense, especially as the paper is due on a Friday.

I won’t really have a good block of time to work on it except that Sunday.

What I’m hoping is to enjoy a good lunch with my girlfriend and hang out and spend quality time with her and then get back here to the house and kill my last paper.

I want to get my Christmas tree next Sunday.

That’s the goal.

Finish my Jungian Dream Work paper and then go celebrate by getting myself a Christmas tree.

That’s how I like to roll.

I still can’t believe that I got all the two papers done this weekend that I needed to do.

Considering how overwhelmed I felt yesterday heading into my group supervision it really is something else to be on the other side of it.

Now I just have to get through the performance Tuesday and I’ll be golden.

I’ll be able to roll up on my last weekend of the semester very mellow and relaxed.

So, so, so grateful it’s almost done.

So very grateful.

Now.

Tea and climbing into my bed.

I’ve got a big week ahead of me.

Seriously.

A Crow Will Smile

July 31, 2017

At your funeral.

Le petit mort.

Or.

Perhaps it is.

The death of self.

It, the crow–

Audacious trickster.

Sits on my open chest.

Eating my heart.

Dismembering it.

Pulling it out with its strong beak.

I can feel it, severing the connections.

The blood pulses and pools.

The crow, grabs it out and flies off.

Carrying my heart across the fields.

Over the desert.

To you.

Will you eat it?

Will it be a fricassee?

Will the fire of blood sate you?

But no.

The crow.

He is a messenger, a courier, a carrier of things.

All the things.

The bright and beautiful.

Magic and mysterious.

They catch his eye.

And he carries them back and forth.

A shuttler of bounty.

A lover who is masked with darkness and the slick oily flutter.

Of his wings.

He settles upon you, my heart in his ebony beak.

A daisy springs from it.

There.

See.

It flowers for you.

You in turn, hand the crow your heart.

Plucked from beneath the cage of your chest.

The crow hops down onto your raised arm and tucks the heart.

My heart.

Into the cavity there.

The blood and sinews collapse upon it and take it into your body.

I am within you.

The crow chortles in its throat.

A satisfied sound.

Then it grasps your heart in the lance of its bill.

And.

Flies back to me.

My chest bared, eyes wide open, laying flat on my back.

Tears spilling down my face.

Knowing that I have given you everything.

Not expecting.

Not once.

To have your heart placed inside my chest.

To have my blood pumping through its chambers.

And yet.

This.

This is exactly what happens.

The dark wings flutter.

The open mouth exhales.

The heart falls from the crows beak.

A rose sprouting from it.

And drops into my open chest.

I sigh.

Such.

Unexpected ecstasy.

Lacing my fingers over the wound which seals itself.

Heals itself.

I arise.

Flowering for you.

You now in me.

As I am.

Within you.

Love betwixt.

Apart.

Yet.

Always.

Together.

Limbo Land

August 19, 2016

At least it has a pretty moon.

I stopped my car, my cute little VW rental in powder blue, on the down slope of the road.

Sonoma Mountain Road.

To pause, stop, appreciate the beauty of the big, full, pumpkin orange moon in the sky, peeping through the trees.

I took a photograph with my phone.

Perhaps not the best way to capture that glory, but a small remembrance of the moment, a stop, a pause, push the reset button and breathe.

I’m out of town.

I’m out of my element.

I’m in Glenn Ellen.

I’m doing the travel nanny gig in the hills replete with vineyards and blackberry brambles.

It is a pretty place.

I keep using that adjective, but it is apropos.

As I drove off the property headed to Sonoma proper, the town, not the mountain road, I caromed around the corners and marveled that this was my life.

I was a little sad, I’m not quite sure why, a sweet sad song on the radio perhaps, a hint of melancholia, a wish to be with someone, other than my lonesome, but I gently reminded myself that though lonely in the moment, I am really never alone.

The sun slanted ahead of me, as it was going down in the West and I was heading East, splashing a gold liquid shine onto the trees and the hills and the dry yellow grass.

It’s drought time up here.

Has been for a while.

But even with the absence of moisture, there was no absence of beauty.

I was also deeply reminded that I am a California native.

I was born here.

And though I was raised for a good part of my life away from it, it speaks to me in murmurs and memories, it has seared itself into my being and my first senses and experiences happened here in the Golden State.

The synchronicity of it did not escape me, the almost deja vu like experience of driving in a VW Bug down twisty roads in the golden highlighted moment of the day right before dusk falls and the sun sets.

My mom’s boyfriend when I was a young girl had a VW Bug.

I have many memories of being in that little car.

Which was not so little when I recall it.

I used to ride around in the back, lying on the shelf between the back seat and the window.

They didn’t give a fuck so much then about car seats and seat belts.

I would watch the sky overhead pass and the clouds too, would impress themselves upon me, layering me with all good things, all things California.

I took many naps in the back seat of that car.

The rental car handled beautifully and hugged the corners and seemed to almost drive itself.

It took me a minute to get used to craning all the way around to make sure I was backing up well and that there were different blindspots to the vehicle than in other cars I have driven.

But.

It has begun to feel like home.

Being in that car.

Transported from this house in Glenn Ellen and back out into the world.

I did not want to return.

There was a moment, unacknowledged while in it, but there nevertheless.

I can feel it in my heart.

When I thought, I just might keep on driving.

Take it for a spin down the coast, ramble about the state, fuck the job, don’t come back, see you later, alligator.

Of course.

I did no such thing.

Rather I zoom zipped over to Sonoma to the clubhouse there and got right with God.

Brief pit stop at the Whole Foods to pick up some hair conditioner since I have run out and a couple of late season white nectarines.

One more day.

Then I’ll be back to the city for the weekend.

I canceled on a date I had for this Sunday.

Not sure I can afford the time to hang out and also, oh man.

I have to pack for that thing in the desert.

All my friends be like packing maniacs right now and I am stuck, in limbo, in Glenn Ellen, mentally going over what I have to do.

I was hoping to do a dry run on my tent, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.

I’ve got bins to fill.

Clothes, gear, this and that, stuff and things.

I ordered a few more things on Amazon this past week to make sure I wouldn’t have to run around willy nilly in my last hours to gather supplies.

See I have to pack this weekend, there is no other time.

I’ll be back here, in Glenn Ellen, either Sunday evening or early Monday morning for one more work week before I go.

I’ll work up until 6p.m. on Friday, then speed on out of town, drop the rental car back at SFO, catch a hired car back home, pee, then pack my cooler and smash everything into my ride share to the playa, who’ll be picking me up at 8:30p.m.

We will be driving all night to end up on the playa Saturday morning.

I hope to get my tent and such set up before it gets too hot and then sleep through the worst of the heat.

I have evening plans.

Yeah, ahahahaha, plans at Burning Man.

But I do.

A girl friend is having a birthday party and I’m a going.

I can’t wait.

I will get dressed up.

In what?

Who the fuck knows, but dressed up I will.

And I get a head of myself.

Pull back.

Pause.

Breathe.

Because I am still here, in Glenn Ellen.

Still doing my homework and reading and keeping up with all things graduate school.

Because that’s happening too.

I have two papers to write before I leave for playa and a lot of reading to do.

Not as bad as last year, but enough.

All the things.

They will get done.

Or.

They won’t.

Either way.

I’m alright and the moon, like a quiet place to rest in the sky, my pillow of beauty to lay my cheek against, moves asunder and smooth through the night.

My heart a float.

Here and now.

Here and now.

Here.

And.

Now.

Ta Douleur

August 6, 2016

Wake up – I’ve just decided
Let me replace you
I will take away your pain
Softly; no noise at all
Like rain wakes you up
I will take away your pain
Take away your pain
I will take away your pain
She is struggling and fighting
But don’t bother escaping
I will block the elevator
I will take away your pain
Sabotage the switch
I will take away your pain
But who is this hanger-on
Thunderstorm before the summer
Dirty little brat sister
I will take her everything
Her darts and her whistle
I will spank her little ass
I will take away your pain
Remove her from the playground
I will take away your pain.
But who is this little heiress
Who bathes and hides herself
In the warm water of your loins?
I will deprive her of dessert
Make her eat dirt
of those who aren’t hungry anymore
I will take away your pain
from those who don’t have any more
I will take away your pain
Tell me what science will do
when we have this bridge between our bellies?
If you are hurt where you are scared
You’re not hurt there I think
What does this bitch want?
Cake and eating it too?
Whether you live or whether you die?
She must crave happiness
or a new pair of shoes
She must collapse under the flowers
Change the colours
I will take away your pain
I will take away your pain
Tell me what science will do
when we have this bridge between our bellies?
If you are hurt where you are scared
You’re not hurt there ooh I sing
Okay get up
Lève toi c’est décidé
Laisse-moi te remplacer
Je vais prendre ta douleur
Doucement sans faire de bruit
Comme on réveille la pluie
Je vais prendre ta douleur
Elle lutte elle se débat
Mais ne résistera pas
Je vais bloquer l’ascenseur
Saboter l’interrupteur
Mais c’est qui cette incrustée
Cet orage avant l’été
Sale chipie de petite sœur?
Je vais tout lui confisquer
Ses fléchettes et son sifflet
Je vais lui donner la fessée
La virer de la récrée
Mais c’est qui cette héritière
Qui se baigne qui se terre
Dans l’eau tiède de tes reins?
Je vais la priver de dessert
Lui faire mordre la poussière
De tous ceux qui n’ont plus rien
De tous ceux qui n’ont plus faim
Dites moi que fout la science
A quand ce pont entre nos panses?
Si tu as mal là où t’as peur….
My new favorite song.
Oh my gosh.
So good.
My dear Parisian friend made me a playlist on Spotify.
I have been listening to it pretty nonstop.
The above is one of my favorite songs on the the playlist.
Ta Doleur.
By Camille.
I immediately put the album Le Fil on my favorites.
I love finding new music and new French music?
So lovely.
Then.
I am at work and I am listening to music blasting quite loud and it comes on the sound system.
Except.
It’s not Camille.
It’s Mike Doughty.
Holy shit.
I had no idea that he had done a cover of the song and he did it in French on his album The Flip is Another Honey.
I don’t think he actually speaks French, I could be wrong, I would guess that he’s doing it phonetically.  However, it was nice to hear coming out from the speakers in the kitchen while I was cooking up a storm for my absent family.
I got it all done too.
And was able to get out a little early, get some personal shit taken care of and even meet a friend for tea.
While we were sitting there catching up I had a deja vu to the first time we had sat at that same cafe, other table, in the front, one night after doing the deal and had coffees and talked and I think it was a sort of let’s investigate whether or not we want to date.
We did off and on.
The best I can say is that I had a friend/lover/friend.
I was moving to Paris and it was fun to share some of that juju with him.
He sent me a few mixed cds to me in Paris.
They came at the worst possible time, I was so homesick that week I had burst into tears in my French class over a “futbol” exercise.
Football.
Thanksgiving.
And I’m in Paris where there is not Thanksgiving and they just go about their days ambivalent to your football, it’s soccer anyhow, you heathen.
I didn’t watch football when I was in the states, it was just something that said Thanksgiving to me, family, playing eucher at the table after dinner was done and the girls, my aunts, and me and maybe one other cousin, were washing dishes in the kitchen.
I hadn’t even been to a family Thanksgiving in years, five, six, seven, more, maybe a decade since the last time I had been to a Thanksgiving meal at my grandparents, but there I was losing it in Paris in my French class in a border line neighborhood at the end of the line 7 Metro train.
It was rainy.
The rain fell in heavy splatters against the windows.
The room was overheated.
The French, mostly bad, except for the teacher.
And me, I was the best speaker in class.
Not because I am the best French speaker, oh no, it was more like I had taken a class below my skill set because I am stupid on computers and when I took the skills test on the school’s system I fucked up, so I was assigned a beginning class.
Which was actually really helpful, it was a great way for me to refresh my French.
The teacher was going to move me into a different slot after she heard me speak, but I told her I was just fine and I was.
It was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
The rain.
The homesick.
The culture shock that I didn’t realize I was going through, but was absolutely going through, was taking a toll on me.
The paltry Thanksgiving dinner that I could barely eat anything from at the English speaking pub a friend worked at, the cold Metro ride home, the rain, the rain, the rain.
An instant message from my friend/lover/friend.
Did you get my package?
I hadn’t.
And then.
I knew where it was.
I had known, you know, sometimes you just know, and it was like a homing device.
I ran back out into the rain, crossed the courtyard, and there, I found it.
Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer.
50 Euro note.
Two mixed cds.
One which was “Something To Write To.”
The other “Something to Dance To.”
He knew me well.
I burst into tears listening.
He knew me.
But not well enough.
And.
That is another story.
We’re both fans of Mike Doughty and there was a song on the “Something To Write To” mix from the album “Yes and Also Yes.”
I immediately downloaded that album.
It became my Paris soundtrack.
I don’t know why, it just did.
And there is this curious serendipity as I talked to my now strictly friend/friend, as we’ll be going with mutual friends and his girlfriend to see Doughty play and I think of my French friend from Paris and it’s odd, or God, or both.
And there is just this deep beauty in it.
The song, when it came on, the cover by Doughty, made my arms break out in goose bumps.
I don’t have to find meaning.
There is just sometimes magic in the world and when I open my heart to it.
It burns.
Rare.
Pure.
Bright.
Smitten to my core.
With.
Love.
Yes.
Love.
And more than a little forgiveness.
But most.
Simple.
And.
Most.
Just.
Love.

God Damn

November 12, 2015

You are sexy.

Thanks.

I needed to hear that.

And now it is time to listen to some French music.

Frenchies are sexy.

I like being sexy.

I remember when I was in a little bistro up in Potrero Hill, I think it might have been Chez Papa, but I am not 100% sure and I had just had my hair done, colored so that it was as close to my natural color as possible.

No more hot pink.

No purples or magentas.

No blues.

Just a rich, lustrous, dark brown.

And it was blown out.

I remember having the hamburger with an egg on it and Gruyère cheese.

To die for.

No bun, thank you.

Just a little green salad.

And after my friends and I were paying the check and leaving out the front door, saying good night to the owner, he waved, got up and came to see us out.

I let my friends go ahead of me and as I was walking out.

The owner leaned in, just a tiny bit into my personal space, but not too much into my space, just enough to know it was deliberate.

“Bye bye, sexy,” he said with a smile, his heavy Paris accent a lyrical whisper in my ear, and opened the door for me.

“Oh!” My friend said and giggled, “I heard that!  Do you want to go back and get his number, he’s single.”

I laughed, “um, DIane, the reason I was at the salon today was to get my hair ready for Paris, since I’m leaving in four days, probably no the best time to set up a date with a guy, but I think the hair is a hands down success.”

Heh.

It was a sexy hair do.

And I am feeling sexy tonight.

Just.

Well.

Because.

Suffice to say I know I am, but sometimes when someone you like says it to you, it makes all the difference.

Especially after a full day of being a nanny, running around, doing errands, going to the market, stripping beds and doing laundry, cleaning up little boy messes, filling the dog bowl with water, putting away groceries, wiping little runny noses and re-filling milk cups.

Of course.

There are moments too.

Oh, when the littlest guy, says, “pick me! pick me!”

He means, “pick me up.”

And I do.

And we dance around the kitchen and he throws back his head and smiles like a Cheshire cat and we sway to the music and I feel so much love and his little stuffed kitten is squashed between his arms and I have the best job in the world.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I told him as I snuggled him on my lap, “you’re my favorite three-year old in the world.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispered, then said, “STAR WARS, Carmen, STAR WARS.”

So I put on the John Williams score and he does this crazy little interpretive dance and just melts my heart.

“He’s going to be a lady-killer,” a friend of mine said when I showed the video I took of him dancing.

It was just something else.

My job.

It is a good one.

I am grateful to have it.

Grateful to have not been priced out of the city and able to afford my rent.

Grateful for everything.

Hearing about a friend who is out there and can’t make it back really brought it home to me today and I was tender about it.

I remember the last time I saw him.

I have a picture of him, sitting in the sun on my back porch in the little tiny in-law I lived in on 23rd and Folsom Street.

He was all smiles and handsome and lit up by the sun.

We’d gone on a date or two, but never had anything come of it.

Just that we were friends.

And yes, there was some attraction there, but hey I was going to be traveling, leaving on a jet plane, jumping out of the country, getting the heck out of Dodge, and I was telling him about my decision to get up and go.

He reminded me of the time we had spent together with other friends, almost two years!  Doing the Artist Way, all the adventures we had, the group waxing and waning, but he, and five or six of the others of us, met weekly on Wednesdays for an hour, then we would all go up the hill and hang out in a church basement and drink crappy coffee and hang out after and fellowship some more.

We were tight.

We all were tight together and it was every day it seemed that I called one of those friends or saw them around the Mission.

Until I didn’t.

Until time passed.

And people change.

And not always for the better.

Sometimes for the worse.

I remember my friend leaning over and saying, “and I’ll bet you’re going to do it, too, you always do, you do what you say you are going to do, look at that first time you went to Paris, you just up and went and look at how many people you inspired in that group, you inspired me.”

“You’re going to love it, and you’ll be ok, you know you will,” he ended, leaned back, rocked back in the chair, the high Juniper trees of the next door neighbor waving behind him, “send postcards.”

I did send a lot of postcards.

I send them to lots of friends.

But.

I am not certain I sent him one.

He asked after me though, today, sent a hello out into the Universe via a mutual friend, and my heart broke reading the message and seeing how hard a time he was having of it.

Sexy is sad too.

Sexy is of the world.

I have experienced love and loss and sorrow and pain.

And that is what makes the living, the life I lead, the love I give so much more valuable.

it is tempered by that pain and explodes with sexiness.

“What’s up sexy?”

My friend said to me tonight as I sat down on a wobbly folding chair next to him in a dimly lit room.

We hugged.

“Nice hair cut!” I said and ruffled his hair.

“My girlfriend did it on the front step of my house with a set of fabric shears,” he replied, turning his head and giving me profile.

“That is hella hot,” I said.

“I know,” he said and we laughed.

Life.

A simple.

Full.

Graced life.

Sweet and round.

Limned in music.

Bursting with light from a glowing globe lantern.

The soft plink of piano keys.

The mystery of being on the top of the steps in the Montmartre.

Not knowing where I was going, just walking down those cold steps.

The stars so low in the velvet sky.

The air so cold.

It would snow the next day.

The silence of the city a soothing balm on my soul.

My little morose soul as it wandered the streets around Sacre Coeur.

Allowing one more experience to be impressed upon my soul.

The drift of wind, the muffler pulled tighter around my face.

A tear slipped down my face.

Then I thought.

There is no one else in the world at this time in this place.

Not another soul on this cold mid-week late evening stroll in the heart of Paris.

I am special.

And.

Just a little sexy.

Although I did not realize it at the time.

I am reminded of it now and I look forward to only growing.

Sexier.

With time.

My life.

It just gets bigger and grander.

The best.

Truly.

Is still to come.

And.Snow on Sacre Couer

That.

Is.

Sexy.

Steps of Sacre Couer

Stair way in the Montmartre

Take The Day Off

October 1, 2015

How the fuck does one do that?

I have things to do.

I have places to go.

I have blogs to write.

Don’t you know that?

Haven’t you encouraged me to do just this, write, live my life, do my thing?

I thought so.

So.

Here I am showing up one more time at this keyboard.

But typing rather fast, if I do say so myself.

I do have places to go other than this small laptop.

I have a beautiful new bed to crawl into.

That’s right.

The mattress has arrived and I wish I had actually video taped the unboxing.

It was hella fun.

And fast.

It took perhaps two minutes, three, tops, to let out of the box, unseal the plastic and arrange it on the wooden slats of my Ikea frame.

Then I laid down and made the “sushi face.”

“Uh, haha, I guess I know what you look like when you have sex,” my friend said to me years ago when we were in We Be Sushi and I was having a Dragon Roll.

I can’t help myself.

I make a face.

And apparently it is a tad sexual in nature.

Or I could just say that I am expressive.

I was a touch expressive when I lay down on the mattress.

“Oh my God.”

Then I giggled madly.

I am looking forward much to getting into that bed and making all sorts of “sushi faces.”

Heh.

Especially since I have finished and sent in the paper for my Therapeutic Communications class and I also realized that I was caught up on the reading.  I mean that makes two classes that I am caught up with all the reading and all the assignments.

I have two other classes of course where I am not.

However.

I am much further than I was the last time I had class.

And I feel that this will become a trend with me.

Getting it done.

I can’t help it.

I don’t have the time to let things slide.

Although.

Occasionally.

I do have time to.

Let my love light shine.

And breathe.

And ride my bicycle in the rain.

It rained today!

I was not happy about it, I don’t like commuting on my bicycle in the rain, but I was also grateful for it and the rich smell of it heralded me all the way up Lincoln Avenue and through the Pan Handle and on into work.

Today in work stories.

I managed to not let myself freak out too much.

I stayed focused on my job and being of service to the family and putting into my job rather than taking out of it.

And.

I made a new dish for dinner that I have never made before.

The mom and I renamed it since it was mushroom casserole and ain’t no five-year old boy anywhere going to chow down on mushroom casserole, so we called it quinoa risotto with mushrooms and cheese.

Heavy emphasis, mine, on the cheese.

The three-year old will sometimes ask me to just put shredded cheese in his little outstretched hand so he can just eat as quick as possible.

Once.

When the parents were not around I actually tipped the plastic bag directly into his mouth, he just begged and I couldn’t help it, I didn’t drown him in cheese, thank you very much, but I did pour a good amount into his happy little face.

So.

Mushroom risotto with CHEESE.

Really, it was casserole, made with quinoa.

I remember when I had no idea what the hell quinoa was.

You may not know what quinoa is either.

I don’t think I did until I moved to San Francisco and despite having had it a few times I have never made it until today.

It was easy and the casserole, er, I mean, risotto, was lovely.

I may end up making it for myself one of these days.

You know.

When I have a bunch of free time.

Hahahaha.

Ah.

Fuck.

Sorry friends.

Sorry if I don’t go running out to the clubs to cut a rug or to the cafe to hang out or to that dinner party, house-warming, baby shower, birthday party, fellowship dealio.

Sorry.

I’m busy.

“You’re just going to have to put your head down and say, hey, I’ll see you in three years,” my person said to me over a tea the last time I sat down and did some work with her.  “Some of your friends aren’t going to be happy about that, but they will all understand it, and when you can and where you can, you will find the time to make to hang out with friends.”

It just won’t be what you want it to look like.

And.

It won’t be how they want it to look like.

And I want to date.

Who the fuck am I kidding.

Although there does seem to be space between the space to sneak things in, there is still the schedule and the routine and the doing that I do to take care of the things that I need to.

“Don’t stop writing on my account,” he said and went back to checking something on his phone.

He sat and watched me write my blog from the chaise lounge across the room.

Demands change.

Friends and lovers.

Graduate school and work.

Recovery.

Let me not forget that.

I can’t really take too much time off from that, at all.

I have to do these things and I make no excuses for that.

I am this woman.

And.

Should you want me to come out and play, I will, I just need to take care of a few things first.

Really.

Just a few.

I promise.

Turn Around

October 31, 2013

To come back home.

I find synchronicity interesting.

Devastating at times.

Seasonal senses on high alert, emotions, tied to the falling leaves that I scuffle through on the way to the park, the smell of burning smoke, the delicious burnt black singed scent of the  tops of pumpkins whose lids have been cradled too close to the licking flames of paraffin candles, the endless blue that caps the sky, reminding me of all the things I said goodbye to.

To say hello again.

I am back home.

In a new home.

With a heart that still aches and wonders what happened and how and why, but why, well, I could spend my whole life trying to figure out why and then what a shame, no?

To lay upon death’s door and realize that the whys and the whereofs do not matter.

To have wasted precious time sequestering myself away to attempt to ferret out meaning, when it is of no consequence.

In a hundred years will my name be on any lips?

May I never live to live for that.

“Your blogs make me cry,” he said to me.

They make me cry too, sometimes, or that feeling, that elixir of emotions that bubbles up inside me that makes me notice, almost relentlessly so, those things that are magic in my life.

I was walking the boys to the park today, oh my boys, my darling boys, and a mom and her daughter were asking directions at the head of the Golden Gate Park area at the bottom of Haight Street.

She was looking for the Koret Children’s Area.

“Follow me,” I said, “I am heading that way.”

The girl, four, five, long brown curly hair, spirals of chestnut-brown nicked with golden blonde highlights, danced around her mother’s legs and peered out at me now and again with a shy smile and inquisitive eyes.

She wore purple tights with pink polka dots.

I showed them the way and we parted just past the bridge that runs under Lincoln Avenue.

The frame of the arch spanning over the mother and daughter, the playground with its turrets of towers in the back round, the skittering of leaves, and the squirrel that ducked and leapt across the pathway made my heart just stop.

Whallop!

My heart boomed, and without meaning to, without thinking, I said, “Oh God, I want one of those.”

The little girl with the long brown hair clinging to her mother’s hand as she bent over and pushed the hair from her childs face.

Hormones?

Maybe.

I am 40, there are those that suggest I could have a biological clock happening, there is that.

I don’t argue, I don’t agree or disagree, I am just stating the facts.

It was like being bowled over.

Then I thought, is it me, do I just want to be that little girl, do I still have a clamouring for polka dots and pink and sashes and mary janes, carousel rides, furry collars on coats, Paige boy bangs on a haircut, woolen tights, and pigtails, slides, and bubbles and princess trappings and dreams.

Who knows.

I am just here reporting what happened.

It did give me pause though.

There was no having baby, family, or relationships in Paris.

Despite the fantasy that just that would happen.

Oh, come now, like you didn’t see that happening?

Well, you could always get married to a Frenchman and get your papers that way.

Sure.

But I seemed to have come full circle, back to these places and faces and friends and lovers that I wonder, what did I miss that first go round.

Here is this person and that person and here are what our relationships looked like when I was leaving for Paris: the friend, the lover, the Mister.

Now, could I roll them all up into one, I would have the perfect person.

But there is no perfect person and I am no perfect person.

Perfectly fine with that, at least for the moment, who knows what five minutes from now will look like, but let’s not quite go there yet, shall we?

My sensitive dear friend who would stop by the bicycle shop and ask me about my plans for Paris, my lover who I wondered, what if, but hey, don’t go there heart, you are leaving, the Mister who was dressed in love’s trappings, but did not seem to have the sensitive life inquisitiveness that I was desiring, just all the romantic accoutrement of courting at his fingers, nor the passion and ardor I had with the lover.

Six months of distance.

Six months of interactions with all of them.

Some more than others.

Some in surprising tender ways that still cause me pause.

Of course, my filter is slanted, it is all me, it is all one-sided.

I never asked what I could bring, was I more than a pretty face driving away in a convertible.

“You look hot driving my car,” the Mister texted me after I pulled away in his black convertible he was loaning me for the week before I flew off to the land of Once upon a time and far, far away.

I never asked my lover what he wanted, I was too scared to say what I wanted.

“Use your words,” he said to me with a smile, rosy, blown open, skin flush with desire.

I never asked my friend what was it about my writing that made you cry?

What service did I bring?

What lesson am I back here again learning as I re-engage with each one of them.

Some who have traded places the lover to friend the friend to lover?

The leaves today, crisp under my heels, the sun-bright on my cheeks.

I went to the farmers market as the afternoon was winding down and the baby snuggled to my chest was consistently confused as mine and for the first time in some time I didn’t correct those folks who made the assumption that the child was mine.

No, he is just on loan, but I am here, too, repeating this relationship, the nanny.

“You will keep having the same relationships until you learn what you need to learn,” she said to me over cafe cremes in the upstairs loft of the Lizard Lounge in the Marais.

I am willing to learn and I am willing to not shut the door on this past year, I am too, a little misty eyed to think of myself at this time last year, one night away from my last tryst with the lover, the last date with the Mister, the last hug with my friend.

Fly, I think to that brave girl, fly little girl, go find yourself.

Woman returned.

I turned around and found that I am grown.

Girl no more.

Woman.

Soft roar.

Strong walk.

Tender heart.

The child has been subsumed and the woman emerges.

From the hollowed hearts of persimmons and the capped lids of pumpkins.

Turned out topsy-turvy into another new moment.

At the edge of the world.

The foot of the ocean.

I find myself.

And stand anew.

 


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