Posts Tagged ‘manifest’

And Like That

September 4, 2016

I got a date.

Now that was fucking fast.

I don’t know that he is necessarily the man I have been hoping to manifest.

But.

Then again.

I have no idea.

Funny this.

He asked me out over a year ago and then I ran into another guy who I thought was him and I asked that guy out thinking it was the first dude who had asked me out.

Oops.

Not the same dude.

But they both do look a bit alike.

That being said, this is pretty much a blind date.

He was someone who friended me on social media after reading one of my blogs.

I think a mutual friend must have shared it, because I am uncertain how we connected, just that I remember he asked me on a date, but we never did connect.

Then a couple of weeks ago, right before Burning Man, while I was still working in Glen Ellen, he messaged me on Instagram.

I think he liked one of my photos or I liked on of his, who knows, but he reached out and asked me out to dinner.

We chatted a bit and I said probably after I get back from Burning Man, but yeah, I also got that school thing happening, so, it might be a minute.

And then.

I forgot about it.

Except there it was on my phone tonight, a little message in the in-box on my Instagram account.

And like that.

I have a date tomorrow.

I’m not certain exactly what we are doing, but we’ll hang out after I get done with school.

Sunday’s I have a half day, done by 4p.m. and I also have Monday off, so if it goes well and I’m out a little late I’ll be cool with it.

I’ll be happy to celebrate getting through my first weekend of the second year program.

I ordered more books today, well, one more book, a big gun, the DSM 5 and I also got my advisor situation worked out.

My advisor is on sabbatical this semester.

Which is cool by me, we didn’t really click and I never met with him.

My new advisor is actually the head of the program department, and though I know he’s really busy, I also had him for one of my classes last year and I really connected with him and how he communicates is right up my alley.

I got the paperwork sorted and I’ll be having him sign off on it tomorrow.

I had a tiny moment of panic today when I thought about things, all the reading, all the paper writing, all the paying attention and learning and doing, there is so much of it.

But.

Then I remembered.

I only have to do today.

I only have to show up, to the best of my ability, on time and alert and to participate.

Sometimes that participation is just to make sure I take a moment, sit down and eat my lunch.

The next things will fall into place, the next actions will happen, and the next thing you know I will have my masters in psychology and I will be heading into the doctoral program at the school.

I get a head of myself.

Just a note to self.

One day at a time.

One moment at a time.

And.

I don’t have to figure it out.

It will happen how it is supposed to happen.

But damn Gina.

Am I ever so glad that I have a writing practice, that I sit down here every night and write.

That I sit at this same table every morning and I write.

Write, write, write.

It’s a good habit, it’s a life line, it’s the thing that makes my blood surge and my heart beat and I decompress and unwind and let the day do it’s thing on the page.

Sometimes it’s really good.

And.

Sometimes.

Well.

It’s ass.

But.

I do it anyway and I keep doing it and one day, millions of words later, and I do mean millions, the blog I published last night was number 1,900.

I average 1,000 to 1,500 words per blog.

Which means I have written over two million words on this site.

Not bad man.

I don’t know what that breaks down into hours, they, the infamous “they,” say that it takes 50,000 hours at something to be considered a master.

Want to be a master cellist?

50,000 hours.

I wouldn’t say my blogs take me an hour to write, they typically take about a half hour to 45 minutes depending on what I have to say or what kind of mood I am in.

And the longer I have done them, the faster I have gotten.

My typing skills are pretty sharp, lots of practice, yo.

So.

Let me just think about that if I’ve got 1,900 published, which is less than I have written, I have a few dozen drafts that have never seen light of day and about another 50-100 that I scrubbed out after wanting to be careful about what I am writing and making sure that I am keeping the focus on me and my experiences and not judging others for whatever their experiences are (but I’m not perfect, it still sneaks in once in a while), so let’s just say, 2,000 blogs.

2,000 blogs at 45 minutes=90,000 minutes/60 minutes to the hour=1,500 hours.

Nowhere near a master.

But.

That being said.

I’ve spent thousands of hours writing.

And I don’t see it easing up any time soon.

For which, I am grateful.

One of my cohort and I were discussing options in regards to the program as we move forward and she was curious about the come to Jesus moment I had at the intensive week.

I shared my experience and basically outlined some thoughts about wanting to do a dissertation and get my PhD in East/West Psychology and what that might look like.

I really, fyi, have no fucking clue what that would look like except that I would be Dr. Carmen and also that I could do more with the PhD than I can with just a regular MFT license.

Which is not to say that I won’t sit for the MFT boards.

I will.

I want to be able to get my hours and also intern and make money as a therapist while working toward my PhD.

And if I keep with my writing practice.

Well.

“Oh my god, you’ll be great, you’re already a writer, you should totally go for the PhD,” she said with much assurance.

Thanks lady.

That’s nice to hear and I’m so grateful to get to do the work by getting to do this work, this little exercise that has carried me so far, let me work on so many issues, writing things out, letting things go.

Growing all the damn time.

I am so grateful I am a writer.

Even if my audience is small.

Motherfucker!

I have an audience.

How fucking cool is that?

Pretty cool.

Seriously.

Way.

Fucking.

Cool.

 

PS.  I promise my dissertation won’t use profanity.

I think.

Heh.

You Got Some ‘Splain’in

September 3, 2016

To do.

I have not told you guys something!

I’m off Tinder.

Yup.

It’s official.

I cancelled the app and deleted it off my phone.

Now comes the hard part.

The sit and wait part, the let it happen without looking for it part, the re-integration of lost things and places and experiences, the growing up part.

The.

Oh, dare I say it.

The adulting part.

I did some work at Burning Man and not all of it was fluffing, a lot of it was spiritual work, growth, therapeutic work, allowing myself to look at it like a dusty spa of spirituality and a sort of recovery conference in the desert.

I got my God on.

Heck, I even did a shaman journey.

Yeah, I know, shush.

I have been living in California for 14 years, please, it rubs off.

And I was ready for it.

Especially.

When I ran into my friend who was at the first camp I stayed with ten burns ago.  We hugged and reconnected and talked and I shared my experiences being in graduate school for therapy and psychology and that I want to pursue a doctorate now, I mean, really, it might be time for a new playa name, Dr. Carmen has a nice ring to it you know.

Anyway.

We chatted, he’s a therapist and he also does shaman work and I recalled a time when he had offered to take me on a spirit journey and how I sort of pooh poohed it.

Then.

I found myself wanting to ask when I saw him this past week at the burn.

And.

I found a great big lump of fear on my chest.

Oh.

How interesting.

When I feel that much resistance to something it is rather indicative to me that it’s time to do some work on something.

So.

I asked, and I admitted my fear and then we laughed and he said, of course and then asked me to ponder a question or to sit and be with what it was that I wanted to address.

What popped into my head?

Sober boyfriend.

Yeah, like that.

We met the next day in the heat of the afternoon, in the middle of a white out dust storm.

Things were said, deals were done, navigation of emotions, experiences, lots and lots of therapeutic theory.

He knows his stuff and I recognized a lot of the techniques he used and I wasn’t uncomfortable with the way it went, despite, yes, there being some fear there too, but mostly a curiosity to see what would arrive and an eagerness to address these baffling relationship issues that seem to crop up for me often when I am least expecting or most wanting to have a relationship.

It’s like a wall, glass, that I can feel, that I can see through, but can’t quite figure out how to get to the other side.

We talked and talked and got down to some root things, which when expressed from his perspective was obvious, so obvious, it made me feel a bit baffled then I realized how I am most often unable to see what others see so clearly, I have no perspective on my own life or abilities.

None.

Hearing all the things come out of my friends mouth, with a broader perspective of my history, trauma, and adult male patterning that I did when I was a little girl.

Well.

Fuck.

Of course I tend toward being single.

Hello safety.

I am either chasing after the unavailable boy or I am being the mother to said boy.

I don’t date adult men.

I don’t know how since I hadn’t seen healthy adult relationships growing up as a little girl.

I often tend toward two ways of being in relation to men I want to date.

I have been the mother–my longest lasting relationship was five years and I was definitely the care taker.

And then.

A long series of men, boys, that I chased, who were not often, or ever really interested in dating me romantically.

These paradigms made a lot of sense to me and I think I have been dancing around this knowledge for such a long time that when it was finally revealed it was less a great big aha moment, but more of a softening and relaxing into myself.

I had a lot of compassion for myself and a gentleness that I found so tender that I was in tears just from the relief of that.

So.

My friend made some suggestions.

Stop chasing.

Stop being the mother.

Write it out.

What does an adult man look like, what qualities do I want?

And lastly.

Be patient.

Don’t expect it overnight and stop looking for it.

It won’t be the impetuous passion of a sixteen year old in a romantic crush.

It will probably not be someone I’m crazy wild about at first glance, it will be softer, and I will be pursued and I will be seen and my power, who I am will be my calling card.

He will be strong.

He will not complete me.

I won’t have to mother, and I will not chase.

What a relief.

At first when I deleted Tinder I was pretty ok with it.

Then.

Yes.

I did re-install the app for a half day.

But.

I realized.

Nope.

It doesn’t serve, not after the experience in the dome, in the dust, in the heat, my heart opened, the little girl response to dating laid to rest in the resplendent gold dust light.

My friend said write about it, at least once a day, a paragraph, what my adult man looks like, what I want.

And.

Then.

Heh.

Text him when I start dating.

It won’t be long.

I’m ready.

I am happy, healthy, smart, employed, in graduate school, sober, loving, lovable, funny.

It’s on.

And I’m done with the dating apps and the chase.

I am here and available.

And I don’t need to chase.

I am fucking awesome.

I would date me in a heart beat.

I don’t need fireworks, although passion is lovely, I’m not going to try to make anything happen.

I don’t need to.

It already is.

 

 

Friday’s Class

September 2, 2016

Fuck Friday’s class.

Fuck reading for Friday’s class.

Fuck caring where Friday’s class is on campus.

Fuck Friday.

heh

Oh.

Fuck me.

Friday is tomorrow, is like in less than an hour and I’m wide awake.

Because.

I slept eleven hours last night.

ELEVEN.

Holy cats man.

I can’t remember the last time I slept eleven hours, without being intoxicated into doing so by way of a super bad hang over.

I mean.

Really.

The grey foggy morning helped.

The ringer turned off on my phone definitely helped.

The lack of sleep from being at Burning Man, the absolute clincher.

I have no recollection of what I blogged about last night, in fact, amazed that I blogged at all.

I woke up pretty groggy and pretty much ready to go back to bed after relieving the bladder.

I glanced with little care at my phone to see what time it was.

11:15 a.m.

Oh shit.

Getting up.

Getting up now.

Not that I couldn’t have slept longer, but it’s not the best idea for me to ruin my sleep pattern by staying in bed that late, I would have shot myself if I had slept past noon.

Again.

Not because I had anything pressing to do today.

Except get to the Mike Doughty Living Room Show that I just got back from attending.

So good.

I laughed a lot, clapped a lot, sang under my breath to the songs a lot, he was recording the show and since it was so small it felt utterly inappropriate to sing along to the music, even though I found myself mouthing along silently to many of the songs.

I also found myself in tears twice.

First, when he did an acoustic version of Sweet Dreams of Wichita.

Oh God.

That song, it still slays me.

I can still be transported right back to the house on Franklin Street where I lived with an ex-boyfriend and two other guys, two cats and a small hydroponic pot farm growing in the hall closet.  I can feel the wood floor underneath my feet, the summer night warmth on my body, and suddenly being transported by the music to another place, swaying in front of the double tape cassette of the boom box on the table in the living room.

I remember that was the year I got turned on to Jeff Buckley and to Soul Coughing, both of whom I got to see in concert.

Funny that.

Doughty talked about Jeff helping him move into a place in New York and eating a bucket of KFC in a U-haul at the show in regards to a question that was asked from the audience.

He, Mike, had a clear plastic jar that you could scribble down a question on a post it note and he would answer.

I asked what was a favorite line of poetry.

He recited the first bit of Xanadu by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Fucking swoon.

It was a great show.

I was able to chat with him afterward, we have some mutual friends, and I was shy as a kitten and perhaps, well, perhaps social anxiety is the best for me.

Even should I have wanted to have said what I wished I could have said, I really couldn’t have said more.

He did sign a birthday card for my friend who was at the show and, a friend who might be a bigger fan than I.

Might.

It felt good though.

So good.

All the things, the way the Universe connects, these places and parts of me, these heart shaped words pressing agains the back of my throat with a longing wild and slow burning to be seen.

And I was.

I feel that.

And I didn’t need an autograph for me, but one of my friends did buy me a poster as a thank you for getting the tickets to the show, so I got the signature.

It may be the only autographed thing I have.

It is enough to have the music autographed on my soul.

Stitched into the memories and the placing of who I am in this world.

Time stamped on my heart.

True Dreams of Wichita is not about Kansas for me.

It is about Iowa and it is also about running away from home when I was young and stupid and naive, God damn, so naive, but gratefully so, had I not been, I would not have had all those adventures.

And mis-adventures.

So many experiences and stories.

The soundtrack came with the music after.

I had never heard the sound track to my story until then.

There are memoirs I have written, years ago now, and they have these sound tracks.

The music that was there for me to lean into and the music that was on the stereo, the cd player, the record machine, the tape cassettes, the sound track to my young, raw life.

It is a good one.

And I realized.

Yes.

I will re-write some of the memoir, I will tighten it up, and I will also screen play it.

And some day, far, far, far away, but someday, because I can, because I will, because I manifest, I will have Doughty’s music be the soundtrack to the film.

Even if it’s small and indie, because the material is not mainstream.

But.

It will happen.

I had hoped, fantasized, come on, let’s be real, to kiss him, to linger at his knee, to look into his musician’s eyes and make woo woo faces.

Of course.

Real life being, well, real.

That did not happen.

But I saw an artist.

I was inspired.

I was moved.

And I got a hug.

“We meet at last,” he said with a smile.

I am seen.

I am recognized.

That, well, in my tiny, wee little way, was very special.

Thanks Mike.

Thank you for the music, for the memories, for the joy of seeing how far I have come from being that scared nineteen year old girl on the run from all the horrors of life, horrors I was so used to that I didn’t even know they were terrifying.

I got through, in no small part, by listening to you.

So.

To get to say thank you to an artist who has meant so much in my life felt very special, unique, privileged and it was just a plain honor to bear witness to the artistry of the man.

Especially with my friends.

Life is so good.

School starts tomorrow.

And though I will be sleepy.

I will be there.

Happy and replete with the soundtrack of wistful longing embossed upon my dreams.

Thanks again, Mike Doughty.

It was awesome.

Seriously.

 


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