Cherries In A Bowl

My hair disheveled in the sunlight.

Sound of Chopin in the walls a susurration of hummingbird wings.

Flight of fancy.

Figurative.

Literal.

Light on the face of the moon.

Light in the eye of the blue storm.

Revery.

Summer grass.

Uncut, thick, lush, warm from sunlight.

Kisses like thunder building behind storm clouds.

July skies.

Pressing down.

Burdened with the knowledge of connection.

I sabotage myself.

Cherry flesh on my tongue.

Swallow the pit.

I always swallow the pit.

There in the spot of my stomach.

A fluttering.

And the light slanted down across the road and I am on his motorcycle.

A child.

Girl child.

Wild haired and windblown.

Sitting in front of my father on his motorcycle.

He steers with one arm wrapped around my waist and the other on the handlebar.

We fly like blown dander.

The flotsam and jetsam of cotton tree bloom thick in the air.

The slant of sun.

The press of sky.

The road unfurled underneath the wheels.

This moment.

Always.

Golden.

Memory like a savage at my throat.

Kissed me mercilessly.

Devouring every good intention.

Sentimental journey of devotion to the shrine of the past perfect father.

Welling sorrow on my face.

Heart, as per usual, on my sleeve.

Parting such sweet sorrow.

Abyss of longing.

Flying into that darknight.

The rush of falling only to be caught and pressed back and still and held.

There.

That undoing.

Stars flung out, scattershot like dust motes.

Freckled love on the bridge of my nose.

Asunder.

Lovelorn.

Forlorn.

Trampled by my own heart.

Fledgling girl.

Wet winged with love.

Fly away.

Into that sea of fireflies.

There, in the high grass.

Burgeoning.

Slender necks of snapdragon flowers.

Sweet coral pink and pale creamsicle throats.

The thumb of Eros pressed against the padded

Softness of my tender mouth.

Kisslet.

Kissling.

Kissed foundling.

Buried in the pillow of my cheek.

And.

Just.

There.

In tousled gold.

The sun spray on your face.

And.

The barely soft whispering word.

My longing to be heard.

 

Is It A Little

Dusty in here?

Just a mite.

But not too bad.

I got all my Burning Man gear sorted, finally.

I still find it rather amusing that I was back almost a week before my stuff landed back in San Francisco and then it took another week for me to source a vehicle.

It happened last night though.

I got done with work and my friend picked me up from work and we headed over a few blocks to 19th and Valencia.

My friend gave me heaps of shit about the dust and my badge of pride.

I don’t know about that, but it’s amusing.

I always know my friends by the amount of shit I’m willing to take from them.

Some people.

I have absolutely no tolerance for, you want to give me shit, I might beat you.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

My friend gave me a lot of shit over the last day about my gear and that allowed me to gauge our burgeoning friendship pretty well.

He’s a good egg.

Nice to have more friends.

I wasn’t expecting to have this coalesce and it’s been a little bit of whirlwind here at Casa Carmen.

Hmmm.

That looks right, but you know, not quite.

Maison Carmen.

AH.

Yes.

Better that.

Anyway.

I ended hanging out a lot with this person the last few days.

Totally unexpected.

I had a date Sunday who cancelled in the weirdest way yet.

He, the guy who cancelled on me, texted that he’d had a date the night before and they hit it off so well that he wasn’t interested in going on a date with me.

The message I got was that he was super happy (don’t recall asking, but great) and that things had radically changed (I should have known when our date was rescheduled–he’d originally made it for Saturday) and the new set of circumstances being that he wasn’t available to date.

But.

Hey, if you want to hang out as friends we can still meet up.

Um.

No.

Not even going to waste my time doing that.

I don’t need to cultivate more male friends, I need to cultivate the female friends I already have.

Of course, I already mentioned my other male friend, who is a new friend.

Um.

Ha.

Friend with benefits.

Ahem.

Heh.

But.

I, ah, get a head of myself.

The other title to this blog, fyi, was going to be “Hickies at the 7-11 in Sausalito,” but well, it didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

Anyway.

When Sunday’s date cancelled I decided that I would take my own damn self on a date.

I eye-balled the Mike Doughty poster my friends had gotten for me for getting the tickets to the show, the poster Mike signed for me, yes, and decided I would hie over to Cheap Pete’s and get it framed and then in the spirit of more art, go to the MOMA.

I did my Morning Pages, cleaned around the house a little and hopped on my scooter.

Oh.

Small scooter update.

Total wash on the cost of getting the repairs.

Yes.

It does turn out I have a deductible for collision, but it’s $500 and the cost to repair my scooter was $246, so no go.

All out-of-pocket.

Thanks hit and run, hope that karma bites you in the ass.

My insurance agent suggested though that I could probably right it off when I do my taxes this year.

I had no clue.

He told me the deal and I said thanks and got on with my day.

End of aside.

So I hit Cheap Pete’s dropped off the poster–I’m framing it in white with a black mat, it’s going to look hot.

Then I headed down town to the MOMA.

As I approached the museum, I realized that I was going to go right by the Nordie’s Rack on Market street and I had a twenty-dollar gift certificate that was going to expire if I didn’t use it.

I turned right on Mission street and hit the motorcycle parking by the old Mint.

Then a little shopping.

I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

I’m still not sure why I answered.

But I did.

New friend on the phone, and we’ve had some social media contact prior, so it wasn’t weird that he had my number, also we have a lot of friends in common, a lot.

He needed a favor and was calling for some help.

I explained that I wasn’t in the position to lend a hand, I was downtown shopping, and I’m not sure how it fell out my mouth, but that I had basically gotten stood up on a date so I was heading to the MOMA.

He thanked me, asked if I might change my mind and I said I might check back in later, depending on how my afternoon went.

I hung up and got to the shopping.

I was in the changing room when I got a series of texts.

Hmm.

Yes.

Actually.

Ok.

The gist being this gentleman wanted to know if he could be my stand in date since I had gotten stood up.

I was flattered and thought for a minute, then a light bulb went off in my head.

He’s pursuing!

Aha.

This has been a thing I have been writing about, being pursued rather than being the person that chases–I tend to chase guys who aren’t interested.

So.

I said yes.

We made plans to meet up at my house.

He picked me up looking dapper as fuck.

He’s a handsome guy.

In a suit, thank you very much.

And we headed out over the bridge to Sausalito.

Dinner at a little Italian restaurant.

Then.

Parking his vehicle over by Fort Baker, we changed up into riding gear and went for a motorcycle ride.

To the 7-11.

It was with some chagrin that he realized that I don’t eat sugar.

He was taking me to get a Slurpee.

Ok.

Now I don’t know about you, but it struck me as so adorable I almost couldn’t stand it.

Fast forward two days and being back at that same 7-11 at 11:30 p.m. at night getting snacks and water and giggling like I’m a sixteen year old.

Because.

Fuck me.

I have had a fucking blast over the last 48 hours and there’s something so 80’s movie perfect about being in a 7-11 with a paramour getting silly shit from the aisles and making out at the cash register.

I am not kidding.

I’m 43 but I was definitely channeling some teenager glee.

And today.

Well.

Back to reality.

I won’t say that I won’t be hanging out in the 7-11 again I probably will but the adult world is calling to both of us and we agreed at the beginning that whatever happened it was going to be light and fun.

It may have gone a bit deeper than that, I’m pretty sure it did, but it circumstances being what they are, he’s not really available.

So.

I get to be super grateful that I let myself be pursued and for 48 hours I had a goofy, sweet, silly, sexy, fun, amazing time with a new person who surprised me in more ways than one.

Here’s to new experiences.

And being hella grateful that my date on Sunday cancelled.

I hear “rejection is God’s protection.”

It wasn’t meant to be, that date, but it was the impetus for the two dates that followed with this new paramour.

Thanks God.

Let me be sure to remember this experience the next time a date cancels.

Seriously.

Sudden And Unexpected Stimuli

May cause surprise tears for no good god damn reason.

I wasn’t in a bad place, in fact, I was in a really sweet place—my back patio, sitting in the sun enjoying an after lunch cup of pumpkin spice black tea, a little hold out from the holidays, and I heard it and I felt my heart lurch and the prickles of tears at the corners of my eyes.

And damn it man.

I was all good.

I was.

Until I heard the loud, low rumble, of a Harley Davidson motorcycle go booming past.

My ex rides a Harley.

I don’t think it was him.

Although I did at first.

I expected the sound of the muffler to suddenly quell and to hear the engine cut out and get a text chirp that he was here.

That’s how it used to work.

Now.

I apparently have an emotional connection to motorcycle muffler sounds.

Great.

There is more than one Harley in the neighborhood, my housemate reminded me, and his is not the only Harley in the hood–he does live in the hood however, four and a half blocks away, so there is the possibility it was him.

Whether or not it was is not the issue though.

Just the sound of it.

It was not something I had any awareness was going to trigger such a response.

Not that I thought, oh, it’s been a weekend, I’m done with the process, I have done enough feeling, let me go back to normal.

But.

In a way, I had done just exactly that.

I got up, had breakfast, did my genuflection upon my knees, I jest I don’t really genuflect, but the posture of humility by going down on my knees to help me get right with God is one that I find really helpful.

God, please show me what you would have me to do.

Write.

That’s where I go.

I write.

I wrote four pages long hand after breakfast and into my second cup of coffee.

I wrote about my feelings, I wrote about having the day off and having no idea what I should do, but that I would be taking it easy, that I did not, in fact, have to go out clothes shopping, I did not have to deal with my scooter (nothing’s really wrong with it, but the friend who adjusted the idle did so a little higher than I need and it made the ride home yesterday a little untenable), I could, perhaps, just stay put.

Oh.

I had to get out there a little bit; I had to get groceries, I mean really.

When this lady has no apples in the house, it’s time to go get my shop on.

I did my writing and then snuck in a ten-minute meditation.

That too, the meditating really helps.

I decided I would stay close, just get my groceries, cook some food up for the week (red beans and brown rice, chicken and tomatoes with Italian herbs and black olives, garlic, onions and broccoli).

I would then do something for myself that looked like fun and easy self-care.

I would sit in the sun and read.

I got back from my grocery outing, may I just repeat, for the zillionth time how lovely it is that my commute to the grocery store is along the Great Highway next to the Pacific Ocean, the beauty of it gob smacks me every time, prepped my food and then made up a plate to have outside on the back patio.

Lunch was raw veggies and homemade humus and a hard-boiled egg, a banana for dessert and a chaser of pumpkin spice tea.

Totally simple and easy, which is usually what I want when I am making food I don’t plan on eating right away—I jarred up my stew and rice and froze some of it too—I plan on taking it into work.

I picked up the Stephen King novel I’m totally into and let the sun shine down on my face.

More than once, I slipped the bookmarker in between the pages, shut the book, and closed my eyes, drowning in delicious white, warm, golden, sunshine.

I am a whore for the sunlight.

I need it, I need to capture as much as I can, soak it all up and store it in my body at the cellular level—ward of depression—and well, it just feels so good to sit in the sun and be smothered in it.

I was thus reposed when I heard the rumble of the motorcycle pipes.

I couldn’t ignore them.

And I was surprised by how deeply it touched a part of me.

The sadness, it’s still there, muted a touch from going about my daily routine, but still there, still needing to be felt.

Not my plan, man.

Can’t I go back to enjoying my book?

I could not.

I packed it in, made a fresh cup of tea and went up to my housemate’s pad, where she was prepping popcorn for an afternoon movie.

We had tea, caught up, and I told her about the break up.

It was nice to get a little more out there and also get to hear a little bit about how she is and what’s been going on in her life.

The helpfulness of listening to someone else rather than focusing on my little trials and tribulations is beyond measure.

Then I got to do it again, twice more.

I met with a couple of ladies in the late afternoon and did some work with them and shared my experience around what had happened and then let it go some more and showed them that I didn’t have to do anything stupid about it.

That yes, I could indeed have the feelings, and then let them go.

Oh, I’m sure they will come up again.

They did along with a hyper awareness of my space when just a little while later I was sitting where I usually sit on a Monday night and I heard the sound of a motorcycle.

He’s not going to come here.

I told myself that.

And I knew that to be true.

But the feelings, they were there.

Sadness, and also a dark expectation of anticipatory dread, will I see him, what will I say? How will I handle this?

He won’t come here.

I heard it repeated in my head and knew that to be true and the only thing to do was focus on the next action in front of me, then the next, and then the next action after that.

And one day, soon, I suspect.

I will hear a motorcycle and it will just be a motorcycle.

Until then.

When I do.

Which I will.

I live in the Outer Sunset, it seems every other person is riding one; I will take my focus and put it to helping someone else out.

However that looks.

In whatever way I can.

This is not about me.

It’s just a feeling.

And this too.

Shall pass.

 

 

Sometimes People Die

I should rephrase that.

We all die.

Sometimes people die and then, well, they don’t.

I expected the worst when I got the phone call this week about my father, the surgery, the injury, the coma, the low quality of life he has had over the last few years (in and out of homeless shelters), rampant alcoholism.

Hell, the last few decades.

However, he’s tough.

Like me.

I get my toughness from him.

And my mouth and my hair and I hate to say it, my big old Hawaiian flat-footed feet, I mean, really, those are my feet.

And my nose.

And my hands.

And my hand in his.

It’s just a slightly smaller version.

Watching him struggle, watching the tubes tumbling out of every single limb on his body, was like watching a version of myself and what it could be like, well, if it weren’t like what it is, which is that–

I have recovered.

From a seemingly hopeless condition of mind and body.

My father has not.

Maybe.

Maybe he will.

Maybe he’s still digging that bottom of his.

Maybe he’ll die.

Maybe he won’t.

Well, he will, I will, you will, we all will, but maybe there might be some juice left, some special spark, some tremolo of love that sings out, come walk with me longer, look at the mountains, see the sunrise over the snow-covered trees and breathe the air–crisp, cold, bracing–let it fill your lungs and soul and heart.

Whenever it got to be too much I would walk the sky bridge between the ICU and the wing adjoining the Cancer Center.

It’s a skywalk with views of the mountains and it commands attention.

Nature.

God.

Great.

Out.

Doors.

What ever you want to call it; that which is a power greater than myself.

That tree, yes, that one, over there, its older than me, it was here before me and it will be here after me.

I am just a blink.

A particle of time and space and love.

But oh.

Such love.

How many times did I tell my father I loved him today?

A lot.

More than a few.

I told him, I told friends, I told my sister, and my mother, my grandmother, my uncle, my great-aunt in New York.

You know who I didn’t?

My boyfriend.

Not because I didn’t want to.

That’s another blog.

But out of fear.

And perhaps that lesson is the greatest one here.

Tell them all, tell them you love them, smother them with love, and tell yourself you love you.

“I have to go papa,” I said and squeezed his hand again.

It’s disconcerting, he’s so lively, so responsive, but it’s not cognitive response, it’s nerve response, it’s like watching a fish with electrodes moving it’s tail back and forth.  I don’t know how much is real, and I don’t want to give myself false hope or for that matter, anyone else.

He twitches and jerks and occasionally an eye opens and it rolls and I don’t see much there and I am afraid to not see it and afraid to see it all at the same time and then I think, he hears me, his head it turned, but then it turns back.

I squeeze his hand, my hand, that is my hand, there and stroke the pad of flesh with my thumb and rub it and touch it and warm the skin.

I lean in and find a place in between the maze of wires and find a spot I can kiss goodbye.

But not yet.

Not goodbye for good.

Just good-bye for a meal and a hot shower.

I stay as long as I can, then I go.

Twice today I went out, out into the world and then in and down into a church basement.

The great thing about where ever I go, there’s a church basement with a pot of coffee and some big styrofoam cups and some principles in red ink hanging from the wall and someone to offer me a suggestion.

“Pray and breathe,” she said to me.

Yes.

Pray and breathe.

It’s that simple.

And say I love you.

Again and again and again.

I love you for your brown eyes and your dark hair, and your big hands and strong legs, those legs, you gave me those, I recognize those knees and thighs–I use them every day on my bicycle or to walk or to kneel down and pray–for being so smart, “you got your intelligence from your dad” so my mom says (although I suspect I got my heart from my mom), and you gave me stories and you told me I was a writer.

“I always knew you’d grow up to be a writer,” my father said to me on the front porch of Patty’s house on Monroe Street in Madison.

We had just gotten a couple of cans of Barq’s (Famous Olde Tyme) root beer from the soda machine at the market–when it was still 35 cents a can and we’re drinking the cold pop on the steps smoking cigarettes and (watching Captain Kangaroo) watching the cars go by.

“You’re a story-teller, just like me,” he said and sipped on the pop and dragged off the cigarette.

The sun was warm, my feet were bare.

I was nineteen.

I was lost, pretty much a college drop out and my dad was basically couch surfing and dating the daughter (18 years old and therefore younger than me) of the woman who lived in the house whose porch we were sitting on (I ended up sleeping with her son, so I think we’re even on that score), living on food stamps and borrowed time.

But in that moment.

Exquisitely happy to be hanging with my pops on a porch, shooting the shit, telling stories, remembering when I was  little girl and he would ride me around on his motorcycle.

Not all my memories of my dad are so golden and shimmering and flecked with creamy root beer spiced carbonation.

I don’t know that I would cast the memories that I am creating here in this hospital as golden either.

But they are a gift.

It is a gift of immensity that I expect to be exploring with new and different eyes for some time to come.

And maybe my papa will come out of the coma while I am here.

And maybe he will not.

But I am here.

I showed up.

I grew up.

And in my heart, I’m still sitting on that porch listening to my father spin yarns and drink root beer in the dusk of a summer evening.

I love you Michael Martines.

I am your daughter.

You are my father.

And whatever happens.

Nothing will change that.

Love never dies.

Or grows older or fades.

It always stays.

So stay a little longer.

There are so many stories I haven’t told you yet.

 

 

 

Wet Day At The Office

Late day too.

It’s hard when it’s wet outside and so much of my routine is en route to play ground or pushing a stroller to the park for a nap underneath the trees.

It was a slow, wet commute, fog so heavy it felt like I was riding through a bathtub full of salt water.

It was also sensual at one point.

I can’t quite describe it.

It felt lush, the water in the air was so rich and dense and I had warmed up on my bicycle, I suddenly felt like I was in a spa.

But I was just on Lincoln Ave trying to not go too fast, slip between any cars, or run any red lights.

I did dash through a couple of stops early in the ride, there really aren’t too many cars coming up from behind me until I hit 25th Avenue.

Then it starts to get serious and when the weather is weird the traffic is weird, either folks are too cautious or they are not cautious enough.

There is something about wet weather driving that seems to magnify the intensity of traffic.

Being on a bike with wet brake pads is not fun and I could hear them slipping on the machined surface of my front bicycle rim trying to get traction.

Say what you will about riding fixed gear, I actually had better control of stopping and starting with my bike in fixed.

Since I put it back into free wheel I am totally dependent upon the hand brake and when it’s wet that makes me nervous.

Despite seeing some silly driving and some drivers that ran just a hair too close to me, or too fast, I got to work on time, just really damp.

The moisture from the ride beading in my hair.

I did feel good though, warmed up and salty.

Bicycle spa.

Welcome to San Francisco, would you like that with a side of sourdough?

The rest of the day was not bad at work, but the day went long and the teething was full on and by the end I was watching for the dad pick up with much longing.

I missed my normal after work event and headed home, slowly, again, though not raining, the roads were still wet.

Although not like this morning.

I got home, made some tea and went upstairs to check in with my housemates.

I paid rent and sat and had a cup of tea while they ate dinner.

Family.

It’s really nice to have that where I live.

I have some distance, I have my own space, but I can hop upstairs and join in the love for a little while and we were all like-minded, having had challenging days in our various ways.

It was good to decompress.

Then when it was time for homework, I departed.

I have my own homework.

Which I have been doing and I will be reporting in full when I do my check in on Friday.

I also booked solid full-time work through February.

Confirming Fridays for the month.

And, yes, I did agree to work a couple of weekend shifts.

However, I did this because not only do I want to fly back to Wisconsin to visit my best friend from home, I also need to sock some money away toward a new computer and I do want to explore getting a scooter or a motorcycle.

I am ready to finally make that jump.

I shall start small with taking the motorcycle class that the SF Police Department does.  I found out that they provide helmets as well as cycles and scooters.

So first invest in that then look toward getting a motorized vehicle.

I haven’t had one since I gave my car to Good Will when I moved to San Francisco over eleven years ago.

My little two door Honda Accord, five speed stick shift, in aqua.

Man, I loved that little car.

I bought it from my boss at the Angelic Brewing Company when he upsized to an SUV and I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and had gotten “custody” of the car.

Since I had paid for it and the title was in my name.

And then a month after we broke up, the damn thing died.

It is one thing to be without a vehicle in San Francisco.

It is quite another to be without one in Wisconsin.

In Wisconsin when winter is coming and I was going to school full-time and working full-time.   I think I took the bus once and freaked the fuck out.

Then my boss told me I could buy his car.

Holy shit.

Saved.

I had to get rid of it though when I moved to San Francisco, the insurance, the tickets, the parking downtown, was not worth it.

Thus, a scooter or a cycle.

Easy to park.

Easier maintenance than a car.

Cheaper to fill up the gas tank.

Easier for me to transport my groceries.

I am getting by all right with the system as it is, but the wet weather really does make it more of a challenge for me.

“Do you have rain gear,” he asked me last night at 7th and Irving as I unlocked my bicycle and brushed the water off the saddle with my elbow.

“No,” I replied.

I did.

I just got rid of it when I moved to Paris.

Remember I only took one carry on with me and my messenger bag.

I winnowed out anything I thought was unnecessary and that was to me.

Might be time to suit back up for it.

Too late for this week, but I do have my detachable fender stuck out over the rear wheel to prevent that water off the street from hitting my back side while I am riding to and from work.

I have a lot of extra riding to do tomorrow, here, 46th and Irving to the NOPA in the morning for work–McAllister at Divisadero–for my Thursday girl.

NOPA to 7th and Irving.

7th and Irving to 8th and Geary.

8th and Geary to 46th and Irving.

That’s a lot of wet weather riding.

Of course, it may not rain as the forecast seems to be indicating, but I have been psyching myself up for it all week.

Anyway.

I am grateful I have work to ride my bicycle to.

This is a good thing.

Wet or dry.