Posts Tagged ‘manuscript’

You’re Such A Nanny

June 10, 2016

My friend chuckled after I admitted that I almost offered him a graham cracker.

“Hey, do you want a gra….oh my god.”

I laughed.

I was so my job at the moment.

I was also just excited to be talking to adults that weren’t the parent of my charges.

Like just my peeps on the street.

I got a text asking what I was doing and where I was and I replied at the playground, my friend knows the one, and there until swimming lessons and the farmers market and laundry had to be got done.

I had already made the roasted cauliflower and vat of broccoli soup during the earlier part of the day.

It was a super sweet surprise to get to hang out with my friend and his lady, also my friend, these are your friends/here are your friends/these are your friends, and it was just a special quick moment of getting to be relaxed and playful with my charges and catch up a little with my friends.

I am so lucky to have the friends I do.

It has taken awhile.

Some relationships get let go.

Some become stronger.

Sometimes I have a friend for a few years then they disappear for a while.

That always makes me sad.

But.

There’s not much I can do except focus on getting what I need for myself and letting that friend do what he or she has got to do to get back to where I am at.

Some do.

A lot don’t.

So the ones that stick.

Fuck.

They are important.

They are cherished.

Plus.

Despite my apparent transparency here.

I don’t have a ton of close friends.

I have enough.

I have just what I need.

I am not complaining.

I am grateful for the amazing friends in my life.

I just am not quite so popular as my facecrack page would like you to believe.

Sometimes I just can’t keep up with it all, the events, the parties, the things, the doings the goings, but I try to keep up with a select few.

And that makes me very happy.

To know that I have friends in my life.

I am a social animal even though I try to act like I’m some sort of lone wolf.

So.

I am quite happy to have a coffee date this weekend, some doing the deal with three different ladies, and a dinner date with a friend who is just had a really big anniversary.

Plus.

I feel good because tomorrow is Friday and I’m almost through my first full time work week after school has let out.

I am getting used to getting up early again and being at the house in the mornings.

I am also happy because I had a little epiphany in the shower when I got home tonight after doing the deal.

I was laughing to myself about the graham cracker offer at the park and then I recalled a brief conversation I had once with an acquaintance years ago.

I was nannying.

Shocker.

It was an afternoon in the Mission and the parents I worked for were hella cool about letting me take there kids everywhere.

Even church basements.

And as I sat in the spot, the metal folding chair more comfortable than the crap running through my brain which was why I was there during the work day instead of after the work day had finished, one of my monkeys was getting fussy.

So I took him out of the stroller and nestled him on my shoulder and crooned to him and rocked him until he fell asleep, heavy in my arms, completely warm, soft, a puddle of love, all collapsed on my shoulders.

I hummed a lullaby under my breath.

I have two go to’s–the classic “Hush Little Baby” and one I made up that consists of a couple of bars that I hum.

I couldn’t tell you what key it’s in.

Perhaps the key of gratitude.

But.

It’s affective.

I cannot tell you how many babies, toddlers, children I have hummed that little ditty to, rocked to sleep, held through teething bouts, calming them down at the park after a scraped knee or a startled dropped plate shatters on the floor.

I would later, much later, realize, fuck I am dense, hit on me after the deal was wrapped up.

“I don’t know that I have ever envied a two year old more,” he said to me, eyes a twinkle, “what I wouldn’t give to be held in your lap having you sing me a lullaby.”

God damn it.

Even writing that I can tell he was hitting on me.

I however, was busy bundling the monkey back into the stroller and keeping the other one, I specialize in nanny shares and almost always do double duty, busy with the snacks and the milk.

I tucked the blankets around them and smiled.

I walked away.

And I wonder why I am single.

Gah.

Anyway.

Total digression.

All this in a flash in the shower, the lullaby, the song, the oh!

Oh!

Oh!

I got it.

I got it!

Lullabies and Love Songs.

My book!

Er.

Well, my chap book.

I’m not sure how much I’m going to get, but it has been needling at me to put together a group of poems.

Hmm.

Or should it be.

Love Songs and Lullabies?

Not sure.

But.

I want to gather my materials.

I have tons of poems scattered through out my notebooks.

I want to go through them and find the pearls.

There’s a lot of dross.

But there is gold too.

I will also mine this blog.

I have some poems tucked in here too.

I got super excited.

I have something to report on for the podcast and I have a real sense of it.

I can see it very well.

And I want it.

I want to do this.

Lullabies and Love Songs.

That’s the one.

That sounds good coming out of my mouth.

Oh.

Happy.

I like having a creative goal and I don’t know that I’m ready to go back in and try and re-work my book yet.

I also do want to find one of my old short stories.

I have an idea to polish it up and submit it to Glimmer Train for their emerging authors contest.

I have had a short story published, but the circulation, I’m pretty freaking sure, was under 5,000, which was the cut off to be considered for the contest.

Anyway.

I am going to do this.

I usually do.

When I put it here.

This blog.

My blueprint.

My happy.

My graham cracker.

Heh.

My crumble bum muse, tumbled out like grains of sand from the park expedition, harmonies of love and joy and the sweet hands of a little boy riding my shoulders calling my name out gleefully as we stride down Valencia street.

Can’t ask for more

My life.

So.

Fucking.

Good.

Are You Just Coming

May 31, 2016

From the Warriors game?

He asked me, his head cocked and curious, “you look amazing, really, beautiful.”

And he gave me a big hug.

So surprised, sweetly so, to run into my yoga instructor as I was mailing off a letter at the corner mailbox on Judah and 44th.

“The what?” I asked, “no, um, ha, I was working on a poetry submission.”

“That’s even better!”  He smiled and lit up, I mean, really lit up, it was nice to see.

“It’s the blue,” he said, “that’s what got my attention.”

And.

Wouldn’t you know?

It is the exact shade of blue as the Warriors blue and gold, and though I was not technically wearing gold pants, um, ha, I am wearing leopard print leggings which in certain light do come across as gold.

Nice God.

Subconsciously supporting the sports ball.

I mean.

Seriously.

Same blue, some gold, blue eyeshadow and blue glitter, blue flower in my hair and yes, I’m not kidding, blue nail polish, blue star necklace, blue star earring, and I don’t often wear this color, nor in the amount that I did today.

It must have worked.

I hear they won.

Heh.

“Carmen you are the only person I would take a phone call from at this time and only because I know you have no idea what is happening right now,” my friend on East Coast time said to me years ago when I called to chatter excitedly to him how I was taking dj lessons and the guy that I was working with really thought I had some skills.

Note to self, cocaine addiction not great for keeping up with things like.

Although super grateful that I did not know how much I could get for my sweet Technic turn tables until after I had gotten sober, sold my entire (oh the tears on my face) vinyl collection to Amoeba on Haight Street and all my cds too.

I might have been out there running awhile longer.

As it stands the money I got from the sales of those things kept me in food and rent for a month of San Francisco living.

Well spent, frankly, well spent.

My friend who I was talking to on the phone was in the middle of a nail biter, seventh game of the World Series, his team, tied or some such thing, and only took the phone call from me because he realized I had no clue.

Still little to this day.

Cue parking on 15th and Valencia the time the Giants swept the series in 2013.

Oops.

Ha.

I left the car there.

I was literally on 16th and Valencia when the entire world erupted and people poured out into the streets with brooms and starting lighting shit on fire and drinking open containers and screaming and jumping up and down.

And fuck people.

Cue the same team winning the series two years ago and I’m coming from The Gratitude Center on 7th and Irving at the exact time the series is won and I’m on my fucking bicycle trying to get around police in riot gear and the entire block erupts.

So.

Yeah.

Um.

I knew the Warriors were playing and it was a big deal.

But.

What was really a big deal to me today.

This.

Thank you for your entering the Rattle Poetry Prize competition—your entry has been received. If there are any problems with it, we will let you know, but otherwise it is safe to assume everything is set. Winners will be announced on September 15th.

It’s a huge prize.

The odds of me winning it are slim.

But the odds of me winning if I had not submitted, well, that would be nil.

I took the effort.

I pulled together three sonnets and a longer free verse poem and I submitted to the journal.

I am not making any promises, but what with the time I have off over the summer, I thought it wise to submit some work again.

Plus.

I read a blog that someone wrote about me a few years ago and it inspired me to submit again, it’s been a hot second since I have sent any work anywhere.

I had forgotten about the blog–She Inspired Me To Write–by my friend.

I was googling searching something and it popped up.

I re-read the blog and got a little misty eyed, recalling how excited he was to talk with me, about my travels to Paris, about taking risks and not knowing it and doing it anyway.

I have had it in my head to unearth a short story I wrote years and years ago as well and perhaps submit that out as well.

And.

I would like to put together a small manuscript of my poems.

I have never published a chap book or a manuscript, well, I did a limited, and I do mean very limited, press of a zine called 7 Months, but that was super small and super rough.

I think that it’s time to do something with all the words.

I have felt this before and gotten out there and submitted and nothing happens.

And.

That is ok.

I have to remember that, it’s just how it works.

Loads of folks get loads of rejection.

It’s not to take it personally.

This is my art.

“What kind of art do you do?” He asked me, assuming what I’m not sure, but that from my attire, my tattoos, my star tights, the flower in my hair, that I was an artist.

There was a time that I would have said.

“I’m not an artist.”

There was a time when I was more comfortable with the lie than the truth.

That I have been an artist since I was young and picked up my pen and started scrawling poems in a notebook sometime in middle school.

Or when I started doing forensics and reciting Edna St. Vincent Millay poems at competitions.

Imagine if you will.

I took first place at state.

Not too shabby.

Although I won’t soon forget what it felt like to have the entire school wait on me, as no one else on the team had made it to the final round–the guilt I felt as I progressed was almost subsumed by the pride I felt when my name was announced during the awards ceremony and I got up and walked to get my first place trophy.

And then I thought about being at The Strand book store in New York recently and how I touched and caressed titles of books that I had read, and then, to see a class mate from Wisconsin and his series of books doing so well, displayed prominently at the front of the store.

And.

Then there.

Another woman I know in San Francisco.

Her memoir there.

I had a moment.

I’ll be here too.

When?

Who knows.

But I will.

I have been given a gift and for me it is enough that I get to write.

Not that I am acknowledged for my efforts.

But.

To hear once in a while that I have inspired someone else.

That means the world.

Or.

To have someone tell me they loved a blog I wrote or a poem they heard me recite.

Well.

Love.

That means so much to me.

It’s almost unbearable to express.

But.

Thank you.

I am so graced with these gifts.

I have to share them.

Whether or not they are received.

That’s not my business.

I just get to have the experience of giving the gift.

And.

That.

Well.

That is everything.


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