Posts Tagged ‘notebooks’

Going Dark

June 9, 2017

I have been scrubbing my Facebook page of all my blog posts.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

It was actually an interesting little trip down memory lane.

It was good to see the pictures and posts and the blogs and to see how steady I have been in my pursuit of this endeavor.

I suspect that as of this blog the readership will go down.

Down  a lot.

But so be it.

It’s the price I pay to get to continue doing this, my little love, my bunny, my pet project for the last seven years.

I will happily sacrifice readers to keep doing the writing.

I was talking with a friend and my words ran away with themselves.

I got so excited about writing and poetry and I just started gushing.

My heart raced.

Words get me all crazy.

I’m not a crazy cat lady.

I’m a crazy poetry lady.

You should have heard me reciting Shakespeare earlier.

I got all kinds of excited.

Ah, Old English you do me so well.

Heh.

Today I actually had time for poetic pursuits, not so much writing it, but perusing it, looking up some old favorites and wondering to myself if it weren’t time to go replace some books of poetry that I used to have in my small library.

When I moved to Paris back in 2012 I sold off all my books.

All of them.

It still hurts to think about a little, some tenderness there, but I wanted to throw myself at the Paris experience and I knew I wasn’t going to pack a bunch of books up with me and carry them across the pond.

No.

I sold them.

I stored a few personal belongings of my own, small framed art works and pictures, my notebooks, my own writing, in a friend’s garage, but aside from that I got rid of everything else.

Books.

Clothes.

Shoes.

Everything but my bicycle and some clothes in a roll on suitcase.

I came back with that same roll on luggage and my bicycle.

And.

Ten dollars.

I don’t regret it, but yeah, I did have a moment today when I realized I had sold my copy of Pablo Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets.

That I didn’t have my complete works for Shakespeare, leather-bound from my undergraduate days.

Or.

Sigh.

My collection of TS Eliot.

Also from undergrad.

And.

Oh.

My OED.

My Oxford English Dictionary.

I sold that too.

I think this may be the first time I have ever admitted that in writing in a public forum.

It was a graduation gift from a set of girlfriends in Madison who were my best friends for years before I moved to San Francisco and became a raging drug addict whose friends wanted nothing to fucking do with her whatsoever.

I managed to keep that damn dictionary through years of moves and geographics and even pretty damn far into sobriety.

But.

I decided to let it go.

It was for God to have.

It was always Gods.

I went into Alley Cat Books on 24th Street a few months ago to see if the OED was still there, I was on my way to an appointment and really did not have time to stop in and look, but the last time I had been in there, the dictionary was still there.

Granted that had been over a year and a half ago.

I didn’t see it, but they had re-arranged the store and I was too shy and pinched on time to ask the clerk if they still had it.

One day I’ll replace those words.

And one day these words will be replaced.

All words are infinite.

All moments meaningful, lustful, alive, here and present and a live and loved in my heart.

I don’t have much contact with any of those old girlfriends, but they live in my heart.

And I won’t ever forget what it felt like to get that gift at my graduation party.

I can still feel the weight of it in my hands and I knew the moment it was set in my arms what it was.

I was blown away.

To be seen for what I love is important.

Although not important enough for me to have to do it, the writing or the reading, all good writers have to read too, I love an audience, but I don’t need one to write.

God is my witness.

My heart is my muse.

I am a channel and I don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going to go.

Only that it will.

These words.

Into the ether.

Into the void.

From out my fingers, from out of my heart, with passion and providence, into the universe.

Perhaps the words will fill the voids between stars, the emptiness that needs be filled by poetry until all the worlds are seemless and held in beauty, together under the great bounty and soulshine, the light will cover the dark.

Or not.

I don’t know.

I can’t ever really know.

I will just keep writing and trying and falling and stumbling and getting up again.

I believe I will fly one day, if not this day, then the next.

And every word I put down an attempt at faith in something so much bigger than I, a tiny glimpse, a sliver of honey and lavender crystals, a shining cello note, a sting pulled, a plucking, a bewitching, an enamourement, a leap,  and love tossed I jump.

I don’t need to know where I land.

The leaping.

Well.

It is enough.

It always is.

 

Let’s Go Out in The Sunshine

May 15, 2017

But before I do.

Let me write my morning pages on the deck of the houseboat and eat a plum.

In my long black, sleeveless dress with my bare feet (well, one bare foot, my right ankle was still wrapped up in its Ace bandage) up on a wooden deck chair.

Still need to rest my ankle when and where I can.

It’s not nearly as bad, but I can tell when it starts to get cranky and then, it’s time to sit, rest, let it go, not push too hard.

I have sat far more this trip than I ever have any prior time here.

I have to say.

It’s damn nice.

I’m not so freaked out that I’m not going to get to have the experiences I want to have.

In fact.

I’m pretty ok with whatever experiences that I continue to have here as they have been simply marvelous.

I will never forget sitting on the deck and drinking coffee and watching the Batobus go by with their tops heavy with tourists.

Not ever.

Nor the way the tree dander floated on the wind along the Seine as I walked the river this afternoon perusing the book sellers.

I picked up a couple of really great postcards and had some nice chats with vendors.

I walked from the houseboat down past Notre Dame and had lunch on Ile St. Louis.

I finally got the crappy Paris service that folks complain about, but I also recognize that I perhaps went too long before having my lunch.

Sometimes the walking just pulls me along and I have to go another block, see another building, watch another couple entwined around one another.

Paris.

You are so enchanting.

I feel enchanted being here.

Like I am in a fairy tale.

I made up for the crap service at lunch by finding a fabulous cafe on the edge of the Marais with bright blue chairs and red tables and had the most fabulous lemonade I have ever had.

And.

A cafe creme.

When in Paris.

ALL THE CAFE CREME PLEASE!

It’s my splurge.

The lemonade was so tart it made my whole face pucker, it had no sugar, which is right up my alley, since I don’t do sugar, but the crushed ice and the big sprig of mint made it a savory, refreshing and delicious.

Sitting in the sunshine didn’t hurt either.

After some slow sipping and sitting I wandered the Marais.

And.

Yes.

Yes, I did.

I hit the fucking jackpot.

I found a papeterie that carried a ton of Claire Fontaine notebooks.

I bought six.

Heh.

I am a very, very, very happy girl.

I also swung into Abraxas Tattoo.

Yes.

I will be getting another tattoo.

You know.

That’s what I do.

I will be going in Wednesday at 3:30p.m.

I will probably do a big swing through the Pompidou prior to getting the tattoo.

I am getting Anticonformiste in script on my left forearm.

A visiting tattoo artist from Nepal, Manish, super kind and we had a great chat about when I was going to come in and what I wanted, will be doing the work for me.

I expect that the tattoo won’t take but an hour.

So I may do the Pompidou after.

But the Pompidou I will do.

Tomorrow I will start the museum circuit.

I have the four-day museum pass and Saturday I have plans to go with a friend to Clingancort on Saturday and well, Sunday, I fly home.

But let’s not talk about Sunday yet.

Today is just Monday.

So.

Back to the Marais, back to my strolls.

Oh.

The reminds me, since I’ll be in the Marais again on Wednesday I should pop into the Marche aux Rouge Enfants.

The Market by the Red Children.

It is located by a former orphanage where the children wore red coats.

Thus the name.

It is a gigantic food market.

Closed on Mondays, so no journeying though the stalls, but it will be open on Wednesday.

I am feeling that is where I will be getting my lunch and maybe taking it to Place Vosges to eat before getting inked up.

Not a plan, but a thought, I make no plans, they melt away, I am just letting myself really experience Paris.

Walking through the Marais I also swung into a couple of stores and yes, I found the perfect black sundress.

Superb!

I am very happy to have found it, not too pricey, 59 Euro, and my goal of finding a dress in Paris is complete.

It almost never happens that fast.

In one day I found my dress, all my postcards, put a deposit down on a new tattoo, and got Claire Fontaine notebooks!

I am set.

I want for nothing.

The rest is icing on the cake.

Tomorrow I will start the round of museums and get the Paris Museum Pass activated by going to the D’Orsay.

The Orangerie is closed, so I might pop into the Louvre as well, there is a Vermeer exhibition happening that I would love to see.

No pressure to do the Louvre in entirety, not that I could, it is so enormous, I can’t even express it, over two city block long, two wings of art, each wing having four floors, there is no way I will ever see everything in the Louvre, ever.

Not that I need to either, I have seen the things that I want and even the infamous, and tiny, Mona Lisa, but the big draws are always too much for me to deal with, too many people, I like the smaller rooms and galleries.

But the Vermeer looks like a really good show, so definitely I will go to that.

Plus.

I know the “secret” entrance to the Louvre in the Tuilleries that helps to skip the massive lines that are the queue for the entrance under the I M Pei Pyramid.

So.

Just a quick zip in and out.

And no agenda.

Really.

I am so happy to be here and I am having a fabulous time.

Really relaxing and slowing down and enjoying the delicious sun and the walking and the houseboat and the cafe creme.

Heh.

Always that.

Bon soir mes amies.

A demain.

Trop grosse bixous!

God Damn!

June 6, 2016

She shouted as she got onto the beach.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” she squealed wrapping her bare arms around herself.

I chuckled inside.

I was wearing leggings, a long sleeve shirt dress, cardigan, and my hoodie, one of the four in my closet, yo.

Yeah.

I was rocking the flip flops, but I don’t like sand in my shoes, I get that enough at work with the boys when we go to the playground.

This is not, of course, the first time I have heard such an exclamation from some one getting off the N-Judah at the end of the line.

Welcome to the Sunset.

It’s fucking cold out here.

My heater is on.

Not on high, but it’s on.

I just got back in from my second, yes, second, bike ride of the day.

Neither one of them was real long, but they both got my heart rate up, and it was quite nice to come home to my cozy, good smelling, little home and turn up the heat a little to warm up the studio.

I was thinking today, why hasn’t some one started a sweatshirt stand out here?

I mean, seriously, I might make a mint.

Or you’d think San Fran Psycho would open a pop up or something at the end of the train line, just would hoodies and hats and probably some scarves.

They’d make bank.

I saw another gaggle of girls, who from the talk sounded like they were coming from the sacred inner city warmth of the Mission district, bleat like small lambs to the slaughter as the minced up the dunes toward the beach in bikinis and cut off shorts.

“It’s so cold!”

And repeat.

I had a nice little day in my neighborhood.

Despite waking up with dread on my chest like a weight of demise and ruin.

What the fuck?

I had a fantastic night last night, why the anxiety, the dread?

Well I know.

I have that thing upstairs that likes to ruin shit for me, my brain, that is.

So.

I just did what I do best.

The next thing in front of me.

And a lot of writing this morning.

I finished up my notebook that I bought in Paris at the Palais de Tokyo over Christmas when I was there visiting.

I opened up my Brooklyn notebook.

Or I suppose, I should say, my New York notebook.

Which I had bought when my friend and I hit the Strand.

A very dangerous place for me to be considering my fondness for the written word.

I did get sucked in, I did, until I realized that I could buy any and all of the books that I had in my hand in San Francisco, and that the weight of the books would not be fun in my suitcase on the way home.

I bought, rather, notebooks, some stickers, a magnet, and today I opened up one of those notebooks.

It was the one I had started when I was staying at the Air BnB in Clinton Hill.

The one that I slapped the Gorilla Coffee sticker on.

I also, happily, glue sticked my Paul Simon ticket from last night’s show in there too.

I have ticket stubs from the Brooklyn Museum, the MOMA, the New Whitney.

A postcard I got at the MOMA of a Warhol Marilyn with a pink background.

Stickers from the Brooklyn Museum.

The business card, which was really a clever word balloon cut from a book, from the art studio I got the private tour of, Doug Beube, as well as the business card from Mat Moreno [sic] which looks like a Metro card, who gave me the tattoo at Three Kings Tattoo in Green Pointe.

I also have their sticker.

There’s a few other things in there and I am always so grateful that I do that, scrap book a little, they are sweet, small tokens of my time.

So.

Yes.

Lots of writing.

Then some phone calls to my people.

It always helps to just drop a message and say, I know I’m being crazy, my brain wants me to have things to do, stuff to ruminate on, all I have to do today is show up to the 7:30 p.m. thing up at St. Gabe’s and just take the rest of the day as it comes.

One moment at at time.

And it all works out.

I think, no, I know, God damn it, I am getting old, that part of my unease was sleeping in as “late” as I did.

Gah.

I remember sleeping until 5p.m. before and rushing to get myself to the bar to work by 6p.m.

Not any more.

10 a.m. is sleeping in.

10:30 a.m.

Fuck.

That’s heresy.

I screwed my whole day.

That was the story, oh fuck off narrative, I was telling myself, I had wasted the day already, even before it had begun.

Might as well just make it a rotten one.

Wait.

Stop.

Pause.

Breathe.

Pray.

Try again.

Call another person.

Ask how they are doing.

Go buy some groceries up the street.

Then.

Oh.

Novel idea.

Cook the food.

Ha.

I actually made a really fucking delicious dish today, I haven’t made it in a long time and I must be craving something, because it was calling.

Basically I made a sort of stew.

Turmeric seasoned brown rice with a little olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper.

And.

Chicken, shrimp, and mussels sauteed in their own juices with a little garlic, chopped onion, Basil, Oregano, Parsley, lots of sea salt, I like things salty, ahem.

Then I threw in four green zucchinis chopped up with a can of black olives and some crushed tomatoes and let it simmer in the pot on the stove.

It was hella good.

I froze some and put up the rest for meals at work this week.

Love taking care of myself.

Although.

There, it snuck in, for just a moment, man I wish I was cooking for someone.

Ok now.

Stop it.

I hate this trope my disease likes to throw out.

It has not been working for me lately though, I’m like, over you, shut up, move on, been there, done that.

I recalled my conversation with my friend last night after the Paul Simon show and how sometimes the solution is just to do some fucking exercise.

Yes.

Hop on the bike.

I took a short bicycle ride and felt much better.

And.

Yes.

There is an afternoon yoga class.

Sign up for it.

Ok.

And fuck it.

So what if it’s grey, take a walk to the beach.

I was on the beach for an hour, talked with the moms for a half hour, did my daughterly duties, and then I collect sand dollars like pennies from heaven.

Seriously.

I have never found so many whole sand dollars on a walk on the beach.

I could set up a sand dollar and sweat shirt shop on the beach if I don’t make it through grad school.

She sells seashells by the seashore.

I found nine or ten and some pretty stones and sea glass.

I picked out the ones that pleased me the most and put the rest back for some one else to happily discover.

I got back here.

Hopped into my yoga clothes.

Got on the mat and got happy.

Then a hot shower, God, I swear, is a hot shower.

And.

Dinner was a repeat of the delicious.

Then, yeah, fuck it, ride the bike up to St. Gabe’s.

And like that.

My day.

Two bike rides, cooking, writing, long walk on the beach, ahem, collecting shells (yeah, I am a girl like that, shut up), yoga, and doing the deal.

Even when my head tells me, lies to me really, that my life is not enough.

It so obviously is.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

 

Warm and cozy.

Down by the sea.

Wrapped up in my music and the love of the day.

Nigh y’all.

Happy Sunday.

It was smashing.

Seriously.

Day Two

May 22, 2016

New York.

I’m beat.

I mean.

I walked so much today, I started to get shin splints.

But I couldn’t bring myself to get on the subway again after getting off it in Brooklyn at the Barclay Center stop.

I had gotten switched up on the trains as they were doing construction and the line that I was supposed to connect with was suddenly no longer available and I could have done another transfer but wanted off.

I wanted to walk.

That’s the best way to see things.

On foot.

I took loads of photos and saw some awesome graffiti and paste art that I wouldn’t have if I had been on the train.

That being said, I am pretty proud of myself at having navigated as well as I did.

The train system is smart and pretty easy to figure out, but I did find myself having some anxiety this morning as I headed off to the big city from Brooklyn.

And I realized now that it was my first time by myself figuring out how to go from one point to the other.

And I did fine.

I did get turned around, but, haha, not on the damn train, on the sidewalk.

I am so freaking dyslexic, I read my navigation backward, I literally look at the screen and go right when I should go left.

I am so grateful for the navigation and map apps on my phone.

I would have been wandering around in desperate circles.

I am a total know it by mistake person and a land mark person.

Oh.

That church there, that’s where I need to go, or I can go on this block, or I will remember, as I did earlier when I was at Union Square, which way I came the only other time I was there and did the deal at the Seafarer’s Union hall, but ask me if it’s North or South, East or West, and I am at a complete standstill and close to tears, if not in tears.

I don’t have pet peeves per se.

However.

Ask me to be your navigator and I will be a very unhappy lady.

Don’t hand me the map.

Don’t ask me to figure it out.

Just don’t.

You want a happy traveling companion, do not ask me for directions.

Or.

Expect to get lost.

Getting lost for some is fun, an adventure, a party, but for me, it just produces a lot of anxiety.

I know from a lot of self work and a lot of introspection and a lot of having done the deal and some outside therapy that has, oh, a little to do with needing to control my environment and being in fear.

It’s a safety thing.

I get it.

I let myself be gentle with myself when it comes up.

I have, however, been on the receiving end of some not so nice words having gotten lost with people.

It’s not comfortable.

I’m very well aware of it, but it will still catch me totally off guard and then I’m like, fuck, I’m lost, how did that happen?

But today, mostly, I just got lost in things I love.

I got lost in books.

Oh.

The books.

Stacks and stacks and heaps and piles and floors and aisles of books.

So many yummy books.

Oh.

The smell.

Such a good smell.

Not my most favorite smell in the world, wood smoke, bonfire, fire wood burning in the fireplace on a cold night, but right up there.

The clean, crisp, warm smell of paper and book binding glue and I just perused the aisles at The Strand and was a very happy lady.

My friend that I met today suggested popping into it.

And my.

What a good suggestion.

I actually put down all but one of the books I wanted to buy.

Not from a place of frugality, although, that did rear its head a bit, but more from the perspective of, oh, wait, how much weight do I want to carry around?

And.

Can I get this book in San Francisco?

The answers were obvious.

But I did buy some notebooks, yay!

And some stickers.

Double yay.

And a magnet.

And one book for the flight back.

So that was nice.

My friend departed before me, off to work on his film project, and left me with directions to get to the MOMA.

Which I promptly forgot when I was on the second floor of The Strand.

Where did he say to go?

Get out the phone.

Map it out.

And yes, still spend way too much time when I got off the subway walking the wrong way down the streets.

Seriously I have a problem.

I did, however, make it to the MOMA.

And started at the top.

Rothko.

Although, to be honest, not my favorite, not in my top ten Rothko’s at all, I didn’t like the lightness of the colors he used, I like the deep oranges and greens or the super dark brick reds almost black or the indigo violet blue ones, this one, though luminous and gave me a pause to look at, was not something that held me for very long.

I was drawn to Van Gough’s Starry Night.

Me and too many other tourists, good grief, too many, too many, too many fucking tourists.

Which is probably why I enjoyed the walk home through Brooklyn so much, like that, “home.”  I have caught myself saying that a number of times, I’m heading home, I’ll be home soon, or I’m at home, and it’s the Air Bnb I’m staying in.

Off all the places I’ve been in the city, I actually like this neighborhood and Greenpoint the best, there’s a mix of cultures and ethnicities that make me happy and I feel right at home and yeah, there’s projects, but I have been in the projects before and I just put on the walk and I am not bothered.

If I were to move to New York, which I don’t foresee, at all, the winters, yo, I would live in Brooklyn–but not Williamsburg, too white, too many hipsters and man buns and women reading tarot in a way too serious manner selling over priced hyper curated vintage and emergency sage smudging kits.

Dude I think I had seen it all at that point.

REALLY?

You’re selling emergency smudging kits?

Where am I?

Santa Cruz or Brooklyn?

I feel better in this neighborhood with the barber shops and the families and the hair salons, the little bodegas and the funky art and the graffiti.

But that’s just me.

I’m often at home where ever I go.

And yes, I got asked for directions again.

This time in Greenpoint by a woman from the city trying to figure out what train to get back on.

I had to laugh.

And.

Of course.

I helped.

The blind leading the blind.

I also walked, because I had a funny feeling about being on the train past the point where I had gotten off.

I don’t know why, I don’t have to know why, but I had to turn around when I was heading down the stairs to the underground, it felt wrong.

And it was raining and I was tired and I thought, shoot, just call a car, but no, the walking.

The brownstones and the lights within, the big leafy trees, the sound of the rain falling like that, the smell of wet sidewalks.

It was a nice way to sort through my day and recall all the lovely art I saw.

I only got to the Rothko before digressing.

The ones that stood out for me, Andrew Wyeth, Christina’s World, that stopped me in my tracks.

The two Klimt’s I saw, Hope II, Adele Boch-Bauer II.

The Mondrians, three of them, just stunning.

The Hopper, House by the Railroad.

Stumbling upon the Monet Water Lilies, I did not know they were there, at least this version of them, and I was brought to tears to think that I have gotten to see them in Paris and in New York.

How lucky am I?

The Seurat, Evening Honfleur, brought me to tears.

I was so startled by it and just stood transfixed.

I don’t always know that is going to happen with me and art.

I get something deep within, I am moved, I am transported, I feel deep joy.

And gratitude.

From my humble, poor, meek beginnings.

To a bit of a traveler and a bit of an art junky.

It’s so nice.

I’m so lucky.

I really.

I’ll say it again.

The luckiest girl in the world.

And.

All tuckered the fuck out.

One more day New York.

Let’s make it smashing, shall we?

I hear you have some art for me to see.

Next stop.

The new Whitney.

But first.

Bed.

Night y’all.

School’s Out For Summer!

May 16, 2016

I’m done!

I’m done!

I’m done!

Take that Psychodynamic Lacanian theoretical paper, I see you, raise you a parental confrontation, a castration complex, and further, you can’t squash my jouissance.

Ha!

I slay you paper dragon.

“That was fast!” my friend in cohort text me back after I gleefully texted her to let her know I had finished my Psychodynamic’s paper.

It was.

And still I am surprised at how fast I can write.

It doesn’t always mean it’s good, I’ve some modicum of humility, not much, but some, but it does mean that I am capable of doing the work in an efficient manner.

And.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

I had done the reading.

I had taken good notes in class.

I participated in class.

So when I needed to review the material and I did not know what I was going to write on, I did not in fact, write on the topic that I was going to, I google searched it and there were too many theoretical papers already out there.

So.

I used an experience from my youth and wrote about that.

I actually thanked God after the paper was finished for being able to use the traumatic event to write a positive piece.

I am amazed.

Constantly.

By how the wreckage and dreck of my past can be put to use.

“Carmen,” a famous writer once told me, “most writers would kill to have the material you work with.”

Meaning that I have lived a lot of life and have had a lot of experiences.

Some of them dramatic, traumatic and packed with pain.

Pain that I have been able to turn to something else.

If not gold, a kind of beautiful word garden that I can pick and choose what I will present in this bouquet of meaning and language.

I love poetry and words and sonnets and prose and sex and eros and flowers and life and apples and culture and French and travel and all these things add up to something, more than who I am and all of them inform me and build me and shape me.

I am so many things.

I am over the moon to be finished with my first year of graduate school.

I am officially a second year student now.

I am proud of the effort I put in and aware that I did not do any of it on my own.

It was with joy and humor that I spoke with one of my friends today from my cohort.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, so and so and I messaged and text and I know people are skyping, I’m totally fine with going over the take home with you.”

We did it together.

I had already turned in my final but I was more than willing to help my friend.

And when I think about all the help I had getting through this first year I am blown away with gratitude.

Friends who bought me groceries when I had to go down in hours at work and I hadn’t gotten my financial aid disbursement yet.

Friends who let me study in their living room when there was a kid’s birthday party here at the house with some many children it was like being inside a bouncy house trying to study.

Friends who bought me readers from Copy Central.

Friends who gave me rides to and from classes.

Friends who commiserated with me about the amount of work involved and how they did it, my nurse and doctor friends, my lawyer friends, my fellows in cohort.

My employers for being flexible and once a month letting me have off on Fridays so I could go to classes all day.

All the people who cheered me along the way and said, you can do it!

I did it.

Thank you friends!

I couldn’t, really, have done it without you.

That is not to down play the amount of work I did.

I did a lot of fucking work.

I showed up consistently, I didn’t miss a single class (which also helps me in writing the papers, let’s be honest, it’s a lot easier to stay on top of things if you are in the classroom, the importance of every class when it’s an intensive full time program taught on the weekend is huge), I did all my readings, well almost all of them, I may have missed an article here or there, but I really read all the books and texts and the majority, over 95% of the readers, I turned in every paper on time and I showed up for every project I had to present on time and prepared.

Yeah.

I know.

Fucking perfectionist.

“Now you can relax,” a friend text me.

Yeah.

Sure.

How though?

It’s going to take me a minute to unwind from all of this, I already know that, it feels very surreal to have all the work done when I consider that over the past year there was always something I had to be working on.

Going back to full time work is going to feel like a vacation.

Speaking of vacation.

New York in four days!

OMG.

I’m fucking going to New York.

I can finally get excited about it.

I have all my work done.

“That paper isn’t due yet, though, not for two weeks,” my friend text me when I said I was going to do the Psychodynamic paper today.

Yup.

Except that I will be in New York next weekend and I don’t want it over my head and I didn’t want to have to worry about carving out time after I got back from the trip either.

Although.

Heh.

I was a smart cookie.

I’m going to be coming back really early on Monday morning, flying out of JFK at 7:30 a.m.

What with the time change it will be 9:30 a.m. or something like that, and I asked off for the whole day from work.

Yup.

A full day to decompress from the trip and not force myself right back into the grind.

I’ll get to ease back in.

Super grateful I planned that out.

I have also made loose plans for the trip.

Friday I will get up and walk around Clinton Park, the area I’m staying in, grab some coffee and eat some breakfast and then make my way around Brooklyn.

I’m just going to wander.

I have an 8p.m. date with a friend to go do the deal in Williamsburg at Northside, so I figure  I’ll just mosey about Brooklyn all day Friday.

Hit the vintage shops.

Hit the coffee shops.

Wander around the Brooklyn Botanical garden.

Maybe pop into the Brooklyn Museum.

Go to book stores.

I’m very tempted to also hop over to Green Point and see if I can get into Three Kings Tattoo for some fresh ink.  I wouldn’t be able to get a tattoo that day, I’d have to go back after the consultation but they’re open late and I was thinking late Sunday I could get the work done.

It’s a thought, I have very tentative ideas about a piece.

I just like the idea of getting a piece done there, as I have in Paris now twice, it would be fun to add New York to the geographic map of my meandering travel life.

Then Saturday hit the city.

I want to go to the Guggenheim and the MOMA.

I know that’s a lot of museum to do in one day, but I’m on my own and I’m good company and I walk fast, I take the subway into New York, I hit the MOMA first, it closes earlier than the Guggenheim which will be open later, then onto the Guggenheim.

I drink lots of coffee.

I see art.

I buy notes books and take pictures of graffiti and get stickers.

I walk.

I soak it the fuck up.

I eat what ever I want.

Raw oysters.

I drink bubbly water till the cows come home.

I go do the deal somewhere if it makes sense to do so.

I plan on doing the new Whitney on Sunday and then walking the High Line Park and wandering around the little independent galleries around Chelsea.

If I decide to get a tattoo I head back over to Green Point and do that.

Part of me also wants to go to Coney Island.

But I’m not sure.

And I think that’s something to do with another person, ride the Ferris Wheel, go on the tilt-a-whirl, ride the Cyclone, seems like I would want a person to do that with.

Museums and walking about and exploring though.

That’s the deal.

That is my celebration.

I gave myself a trip to New York when I headed into the beginning of this semester.

I am so glad I did.

I am so excited to do this for myself.

I’m so grateful I made it through the school year.

Here’s to the beginning of my awesome summer vacation.

I have no idea where it’s going to go.

I just know I earned it.

And.

It’s going to be fucking awesome.

It already is!

Your Assignment

July 30, 2015

Should you so accept.

Is to.

Have fun.

Aw.

Man.

Really?

I’m sorry, didn’t you see that gigantic stack of reading I have to do on the table in my little kitchen area–which is also now my study area/work desk/cry in my coffee and stress area.

No.

Fun is out of the question.

“I think you shouldn’t do any reading the weekend,” he said to me at the Church Street Café this evening as lay my head down on the table and the tears seeped out of my eyes.

I sat back up.

“That’s not an option,” I said.

In fact, as I was leaving my domicile this evening to take the N-Judah to Church and Duboce I walked out the door as the mail man was delivering another textbook to my house.

Five down.

Two to go.

And this sucker was a big one.

I spent about an hour and a half reading this afternoon after running some errands and grocery shopping.

Yes, people, I did sleep in.

And yes it was glorious, but at some point the call of the bed faded to the call of breakfast and I got up and went on my merry way.

I was supposed to be harkening to the call of fun, but I did not answer the door when it called.

Instead it took me 90 minutes to read 30 pages in the text-book for Human Development.

I had looked at the syllabus and thought, oh hey, only three chapters to read in this one, no biggie, I can totally knock that out before I go meet my person at Church at Market at 6:30p.m. in fact, I may even have time to sneak up to Whole Foods and grab a couple of things that I couldn’t get between Outer Avenues, my food co-op up on 44th and Judah, and Safeway.

But no.

That’s not what happened.

I was barely able to finish one chapter, truth be told, I did not actually finish the chapter.

The chapter was 50 pages.

The three chapters are composed of 150 pages, slightly longer than I had first surmised.

And I’m still thinking in novel size books, not text books, this tome I was reading, is just that, a tome.

It is a big hefty ass book.

If it were an ass it would be callipygian.

I digress.

The book is a text-book, the language is scholarly, and again, I am finding that the concepts are not beyond my grasp, but that I have to read with a different kind of eye, that I have to slow down and make sure that I am absorbing the ideas.

There are a lot of ideas going on.

And there are a lot of words on the page.

I would say double what a novel is and so, yeah, it’s taking me longer.

I have to remind myself, too, that I am not in the reader mode yet, I am discovering what I need to do, how I  need to sit, where I need to sit for that matter.

How I read.

I mean, yes, I do have an undergraduate degree, but it was in English Literature and well, people I’m a fiction reader, so the reading for that was not so difficult, nor arduous.

I’m reading literal ideas and thoughts, it’s not so much a narrative, but a fact gathering, complying, and understanding.

I’m also getting a very holistic, as in whole picture, view of what my field is going to be covering.

Ultimately I will be a therapist and I am certain that the skills really necessary to have are not going to all come out of a text-book; however, they are going to be based there and the knowledge needs to be firmly implanted in my brain.

I made the decision while reading the text-book for my Human Development course that I was going to need to go back and actively read the text with a notebook and answer the questions that were coming up in the material–it’s summarized at the end of each section with some tidy little bits of what you’ll need to know, and although I got the gist of the material, I couldn’t spit it right back out.

I’m going to either read all the chapters and then re-read them with a notebook or start from the beginning and re-read using a notebook.

Fortunately, I have some.

Notebooks that is.

I picked up some today while I was out doing my grocery shopping.

Four glitter notebooks.

I’m not sure what that says about me.

But I feel that Freud would approve.

And if not Freud, that anal motherfucker, perhaps Erickson.

I feel a plethora of new knowledge getting slid into my brain and despite not knowing how to accommodate it all and how that it’s all going to get in there, I do enjoy learning and I am grateful that I am going to continue to grow in my knowledge base and to continue to be teachable.

So that, ultimately, I can be of service.

That’s where it’s at.

Irony?

I have to enjoy my life a little too.

I need to strike a balance.

I need to have some fun in there.

I may play hooky, for real tomorrow and figure out what that is going to look like and how I will be flexible enough to let it in, the fun that is.

I have been given this suggestion before and I absolutely do need to implement it.

I may not go off camping, although there is a narrow percentage of possibility on my plate, so if I don’t, I need to do something here in town–go to the DeYoung, see the Turner Exhibit; go to Free Gold Watch and play pinball; go to  a matinée–when I was the last time I went to a movie in the middle of the day?

Or take the ferry out to Sausalito and play tourist.

That is always something I enjoy doing.

Fun will be had.

Damn it.

Let it begin now.


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