Posts Tagged ‘open mic’

I’m Not Tech Savvy

July 24, 2016

But.

I am listening to music that my dearest friend put together as a playlist for me.

French music.

From a Parisian.

I feel so special.

Seriously.

I love me some French music.

Perhaps because it is an easier way for me to understand the language, lyrics tend to be repetitive, simpler than every day conversation and lyrical, which makes it easier for me to access.

And there is just something to it.

I want to couples dance with someone in a cafe with ceramic black and white tiles.

The smell of tobacco smoke drifting in as the door opens.

The smell of coffee in the air.

The low light, the ambiance, maybe I need a French cafe in my home, whenever I get it.

Either that or just frequent trips back to Paris and this time to also experience the night life a bit more, the cafe music life, I got into the spoken word a tiny bit with my excursions to Le Chat Noir for Paris Spoken Word events and had a tiny taste.

But to be there with a Parisian and be let into that exclusive view.

Delicious.

It’s sexy and sensual and worldly.

All things I aspire to.

I got to record with Adriana Marchione today for a podcast she’ll be posting along side  her ongoing project “The Creative High” .

I was really honored to be thought of and it was a great experience, and I have to say, I felt my voice, I was in my voice and it felt really powerful.

And.

There’s something to be said to having an artist, an auteur, and a teacher, interested in my work.

Also.

How she described me.

Well.

I’ll leave you in a little suspense, but it was quite flattering.

The podcast will go up in about a week and will be on her website.

I got to share a part of my story, a bit about my process, my experience with writing, blogging, poetry, the little bit of spoken word I have done, my best friend passing nine years ago and how that prompted me to Burning Man, my other best friend and how she was the person to whom I went to for help when things all came crashing down.

It was a great experience and I didn’t prep for it other than run through a small set list of poetry pieces of my own that are memorized.

Three.

That’s it.

I have three of my works memorized.

But they please me and it’s nice to share them once in a while with someone.

I shared about the patron last year from Burning Man and doing the collaboration with him.

I talked about my memoir(s) and how I still don’t know what to do with them, or how to go about getting them together, but also, how much that striving has pushed me towards places and experiences that I was just not expecting.

At all.

It also gave me another taste of recording.

And I have to say, I liked it.

“Are you going to do something for the talent show,” I was asked by the amazing MC last night before it was about to start, “you sing right?”

I told her I didn’t.

“You look like a singer,” she said.

Now there’s a compliment.

I admitted that I do some spoken word.

But frankly, it didn’t feel appropriate to recite one of my pieces to the fabulous birthday girl, they weren’t quite in the spirit of what was happening, and they also weren’t pieces that would have been celebratory of her and her experience.

And that was important to acknowledge.

There was a moment, I thought, well, there’s that one piece that might be fun, but really, it would have been to garner my own attention and I wanted to just sit back a little and be a wall flower and watch the main act and really enjoy that I got to have the privilege of being asked and then showing up to celebrate someone’s life and the gifts that she brings into her circle of friends.

It was a great honor.

And fun.

Although I had to bail “early.”

Heh.

Though I was slightly shorted on my sleep, I came home and unwound and blogged and watched part of Stranger Things.

Which.

Side fucking bar.

FUCKING AMAZING.

So good.

I mean, I really can’t recommend it enough, except.

Well.

Ha.

I’m susceptible to the scary.

And I did have a moment last night when I was curled up in my bed with my hands literally over my ears, because I did not want to hear the soundtrack and I was preparing myself for the scary, that I thought.

Hmm.

Maybe I should’t watch this right before I go to bed.

Oof.

It’s good.

Seriously.

Check it out.

End side bar.

I can’t just get right into bed, even on a late night, so, not so much sleep was gotten.

But.

Oh.

I took a nap today.

I am so proud of myself.

I never nap.

And it was just begging to happen.

I mean, only getting five hours of sleep will catch up with me, sometimes it’s not so bad and I can have an extra cup of coffee, but I didn’t want to blow my vocal cords out and be dehydrated from drinking coffee today, so I skipped my usual Saturday morning large coffee with my person today at Tart to Tart.

Then went straight to the podcast, after that to Scooter Centre, then to Scuderia, since Scooter Centre was unexpectedly closed, aired up the tires, scooted home, ate a late lunch, caught up with a girl friend on the phone, and then I looked at the time.

I can nap for one hour before going to my new Saturday night commitment.

I folded up my laundry, nothing says sexy like knowing I’ll get to slip into fresh washed sheets tonight, and grabbed a pillow.

I lay down at an angle on the bed, on my back, head propped up on a small throw pillow and closed my eyes.

It was just a touch chilly.

Afghan, the one I got in the mail from my grandmother.

I reached for it.

It had been sitting folded on the end of my chaise lounge in the sun.

Extraordinary.

It was like being wrapped up in warm soft sunshine.

Best nap ever.

Covered in the love of my grandmother.

Warmed by the sun.

After getting to do some art and be available to my friend.

It was glorious.

I almost didn’t get up.

In fact.

Had I not had that commitment, I would have gone back to sleep.

Grateful I didn’t, I don’t need to muck with my sleep schedule.

But.

Boy howdy.

That might have been one of the best naps I have ever had.

Plus.

It was good to connect with my people.

To see and be seen.

To not let myself be isolated.

A sweet, simple, glorious little day.

Full of light and warmth and art.

Poetry.

Narrative.

Recovery.

I mean.

Really?

My life is fucking awesome.

Seriously.

It is.

Happy.

Joyous.

Motherfucking.

Free.

 

Out All Day

April 13, 2014

Up all night.

Well, maybe not all night.

But I realized that I drank caffeinated tea up in ye olde Noe Valley and that was not my intention to do that at 8:30 p.m. in the evening, not at all.

AT ALL.

Oops.

What’s done is done and I won’t die, despite having a speedy mind and some rapidly moving fingers over my keyboard.

Hopefully once I get my frenetic energy expatiated out via my blog I will be able to unwind with some non-caffeinated tea and chill out.

I have things to do tomorrow.

Two things.

Perhaps three.

I really don’t have jack to do tomorrow, but I like to tell myself that I will be keeping busy.  I will make some soup for the week, thinking split pea, and I will go out for a ride or two on my scooter.

I say two, because I believe I may actually get my butt out of the Outer Sunset and go maybe, perhaps further, say to Church and Market.

I have a commitment in that neighborhood at 6:30p.m.

It will go an hour, then I can zip back.

I feel like the traffic on a Sunday at that time won’t be too bad and once I get through the Wiggle I can hit a stretch of streets that brings me down to the Pan Handle and on through the park.

I shall play it by ear.

There’s a big piece of Fell Street that I may not want to navigate until I am a little more comfortable on the scooter.  The park I won’t have a problem with, but Fell, that could be busy.  I will get on my vehicle and scoot around in the morning and see what is what.

Then cook some soup.

Then, I dunno, nap?

Relax?

I was told to explore the joy of living, so whatever that looks like.

Baha.

I actually did ok with that today.

I spent the morning doing my normal little routine, with an extra cup of coffee, one of my few extravagances on the weekend, that and a longer meditation.

I know, coffee and meditation?

But I find I can do it.

And I do enjoy it.

Slowing down for me is not a bad thing at all.

In fact, I slowed down a lot today, I didn’t even ride my bike.

I took the train to my meet up at Tart to Tart, spent an hour there checking in, doing the deal, letting go of some inventory that had to be discussed, then being told to go explore the joy of living.

I got picked up shortly thereafter and rode over the hills and through the woods, sort of, to the Mission and perhaps not to Grandma’s house, but grandma would have approved, to Mission Pie.

Where, I discovered there’s more to them than just pie.

Sat there for an hour then walked with my companion to Scarlet Sage and bought some pretty smelling candles and canoodled about the store.

Afterward I walked back toward Valencia and Cesar Chavez, hit up the Salvation Army, on the hunt to replace my jean jacket, and decide to walk up and down Valencia until I was to be in Noe Valley–dinner date with a salad bar at Whole Foods and a catch up with a girlfriend soon off to Paris.

I walked down one side of Valencia from 25th to 16th, then turned around and walked up the other before heading up to 24th and going up into Noe Valley.

I felt a bit like a tourist and I acted like I had never been there before.

I went into a bunch of stores.

I window shopped.

I found a sweet sweater at Therapy and I got the best tea mug at Viracocha.

In fact, the stop at Viracocha might be my favorite and most adrenalin producing, shopping of all time.

It’s a very cool little store, bit of an artists co-operative, from what I can see, a venue, a vintage store, a music shop, there’s a person playing the piano, the clerk sitting behind the desk is in an old barber shop chair, there’s repurposed furniture, art, cool things that need to be picked up, touched, stroked, appreciated.

I had poked into it hoping the lending library was open, but it had been shut down or was not in evidence so I just noodled around and I saw this very cool Mason jar with a leather tea cozy sewed around it.

$20.

I was torn.

Do I want to spend $20 on a tea cozy?

I mean, yeah, it’s cool, but a Mason jar costs a buck, maybe two, do I need this?  Don’t I have enough tea like things already?

But it sort of called to me.

And then I saw the sign by the piano.

“Recite a poem from memory and receive half off one item in the store.”

Now that could be a big freaking deal if I was buying the $1200 reupholstered vintage couch in the back.

I just wanted the tea cup.

But I wasn’t sure I could do it.

I left the store, but it stayed with me, and yes, when I was walking back from 16th and Valencia, I swung back across the street and peaked in the store.

I walked over to the tea mug and picked it up.

Jar.

Really, it’s a tea jar.

Went over to the counter, said “nice chair,” and then asked if the sign was true.

“Yup, recite a poem and I’ll give you half off,” the clerk said, I was beginning to think he might be the owner, or manager, but I wasn’t sure.

I stood in front of the register, a beautiful old one with the swinging handle to open the cash drawer, and drew in a breath.

“Ok, I’ll do it,” I said and prepared to tell him a poem.

I have done this at Burning Man, recited a poem to a stranger, how could this be any different, but it was.

It was miked.

“Oh, great, now turn around and speak into the microphone,” the clerk said with a wry smile.

My body temperature went through the roof, I could feel myself about to actually start sweating.

“The mic?” I said.

“Yup, into the mic,” he repeated.

Which happened to be next to the piano, which happened to have some one playing jazz on it.

And, yes, I did it.

I recited one of my poems from memory, listening to the soft plink, plonk of the piano being cajoled into a deconstructed and slowed down jazz rag, the mic was mic’ed through the store and I almost jumped when I heard my voice drift down from the rafters.

But I did it, to soft sweet applause after, and I sketched a quick curtsey, told them my name, paid for my half price teacup and collected my new mug.

“That was nice,” the pianist said to me, coming up on my elbow as I was departing the store, high on adrenaline and the quiet applause of the people in the store.  “I really enjoyed playing underneath your poem, we found a nice place together.”

“Thank you,” I smiled, and floated away down the street.

San Francisco you may be a bit gentrified right now, but that experience, surprising, sweet, slightly anti-establishment, kind, and generous, resembled the city I came to twelve years ago.

Came to live.

Came to love.

Glad to make your acquantaince once again.

 


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