Posts Tagged ‘passion’

You Are My

August 19, 2017

Eucastastrophe.

You are my euphoria.

You are my sudden joyous turn.

You are the opposition ending the couplet in Shakespeare.

You are the happy ending to the fairy tale.

You destroy me from within.

When all joy seems to be lost, you find me.

You grant me beauteous hope.

You light a fire in me.

You have burned me down and I am built back up.

I babble in tongues for you.

I am overwrought and emote arrows of hearts.

I flail in my fear and shake in my desperation.

And then.

You see me.

You show me the beauty of the story.

A narrative I thought I wrote alone.

For I have written my own dark ending so long ago, that I forgot.

Happily ever after is possible.

With you.

I can glimpse the underlying truth.

I am in awe of you.

Of us.

Of alchemy and passion and love songs.

You wield the sight of angels.

You see me.

I cannot lie.

I have tried.

I need to be truthful in all things.

I need to be passion.

I need to be fire for you.

You encompass me.

I will slay dragons for you.

You are the impossible problem overcome.

You resolve me.

You are the joy that brings tears.

You are the laughter after terrible adventures.

You.

Yes.

You.

Love.

Are my everything.

 

 

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Little Glass Heart

July 30, 2017

Sitting in the window seat.

Sun slanting across my body.

I lift my face to catch.

The warming.

Holding your heart in my hand.

This gift you have given me.

Little glass heart.

Ground down sand.

Heated and changed.

Charged.

A tiny crucible.

Prescient you.

Seeing it there.

Little glass heart.

Laying amongst the trinkets and baubles.

Not knowing.

Yet knowing.

You wanted.

That.

Little glass heart.

To give.

Away.

To whom?

You knew not.

Yet you knew.

Revery this.

Denoting your own sweetness, your own–

Tender heart.

Carrying it with you.

Nestled in a box.

Inside a box.

Waiting.

To be opened.

Said present.

A gift.

A gracing.

Displayed now on my chest.

Just there.

Below my dream.

Grounding me.

Settling me.

I touch it.

My.

Little glass heart.

My touchstone.

My dreaming.

So.

Smooth.

Polished.

Satin soft.

A sweeting kiss swaying with the rise and fall.

Of.

My breath.

A reflection.

A shimmering.

A memento.

Of.

Love.

All these things.

And.

More.

My amazement.

At.

This.

Coup de foudre.

Hiding in plain sight.

Holding.

On so.

So.

Tight.

To.

My.

Little.

Glass.

Heart.

When I Lose You

July 20, 2017

It will hurt.

What if you don’t have to?

What if?

You don’t have to lose me?

Don’t listen to those old stories lover mine.

They are just dusty faded book jackets for unrequited love.

Those stories don’t apply to us.

We are something more.

Something more than finite.

Infinite love.

Infinite good.

God smacked.

Graced.

Gorgeous, golden, you.

I have besmirched my heart for you.

And

I will stand naked before any jury.

Gallows.

Be damned.

Ours is not the history of failure.

Rising above the fog.

Riding along the waves which batter my heart.

And.

Grind down the rough edges.

All the shows and previews that your mind have written for you.

Well.

They are not true.

Not true in the sense of who we are.

Who I am.

I am so adorned in my love for you.

All this.

Passion.

Dirty blues songs ain’t got nothing on me.

Enhanced by your love.

I will wear it like the war paint of gods.

Driving further into the land of unknown.

Despite.

How well I know the darkness there, the fear that can come.

Careening out of those chasms.

I am stronger.

I will sing for you.

Cry for you.

Fight.

I am not going anywhere.

You cannot lose something that belongs to you.

I am a part of you.

As you have been imparted to me.

A blessing.

A gift.

Gracing me with all that is you.

All that is the glory of you.

It has been pressed into my skin.

All.

The.

Glorious.

Glad hearted.

Gorgeousness.

That.

Is.

You.

Don’t worry baby.

Baby mine.

I am not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not at.

Any.

Time.

Sunshine

July 19, 2017

I’m listening to an old Mike Doughty album of covers, The Flip Is Another Honey.

It just seemed appropriate.

I feel sunny.

I had a super yummy day.

Literally.

I cooked some good food today.

I had a first stab at recreating a dish I had yesterday at Samovar by Yerba Buena Gardens.

I had gone there for lunch with a darling friend who I don’t get to see very often anymore, we used to meet up on a weekly basis and now, well, between my schedule and hers, it’s more like once every couple of months.

However.

Thanks to the time off from my day job, I was able to go with her to the MOMA yesterday.

We saw the Edward Munch show.

It was good.

Dark as fuck.

But.

Um, that’s Munch.

There were also some super sexy, lush paintings that I hadn’t really known were in the artists oeuvre.

I was impressed and it was a good show.

My favorite artist?

Nope.

But nice to have some exposure to his work and I love going to the MOMA.

We had coffee in the cafe and got caught up on life.

Then we went to the 7th floor of the museum and wandered through the sound installation, which was super intriguing, but made me feel bad for any kid that might wander through, the desire to touch and tinker with the little wooden machines and instruments would have been too much temptation for my little paws when I was younger.

I was, however, able to restrain myself.

The part of the exhibit that really got me though was a room full of video screens with a synchronized song that was being played by six or seven different artists in different rooms of an old mansion in upstate New York.

It was so well done.

I was stunned and moved and completely captivated by it.

I got the chills and was dreamy and in reverence.

I love art.

I love it when I am surprised by beauty.

I love music.

And the two were just the most elegant conceptualization and moving amongst the screens and seeing how well synched the videos were and the sound was arranged so that there were speakers not just for each screen but also in the ceiling above.

It was like literally being inside the song.

I get a little shiver thinking about it.

Of course.

I stood the longest in front of the screen with the woman playing the cello.

I have such a soft spot for cello and again it went through me, time, soon, when, I don’t know, but it is there, that longing, get a cello again, practice when, fuck if I know, but do it, get lessons, start again, start again, start again.

I have enough on my plate.

But I do dream on it once in a while.

I also recognize that I was so lucky to have had the cello when I had the instrument in my life, that I was given an inordinate gift beyond any comprehension that I can now just barely muster.

I got to play the cello for four sweet, stirring, amazing years.

How many people can say that?

It was a gift and I love classical music and Bach’s preludes can make me inflamed, like I have to go buy a cello NOW, as can the passion of Chopin, although I feel his music is more piano than string, and Debussy, ack, be still my heart, Claire de Lune?  Please.

Exquisite.

So much music.

So much joy.

That’s what I felt like today.

Suffused with joy.

Sometimes soft.

Sometimes furious with passion.

I am so alive.

Even the little mundane things I did today, laundry, cooking, making check in phone calls, taking out the trash, they all were filled with this light and I just felt a glow.

I also felt full.

I ate well today.

And my tummy seems back to normal.

Yesterday, as I mentioned earlier, I had a dish at Samovar that I replicated this morning.

It was their Salmon Egg Bowl.

Brown rice, smoked salmon, poached eggs, sauerkraut, and ginger soy dipping sauce.

I took a few liberties and made one mistake.

I over poached the eggs.

One of my liberties was to poach my eggs in Miso broth, which did not give me a clear broth and I couldn’t see the egg white form on the egg, I don’t normally time things when I cook and I should have just timed the eggs.

They ended up being soft/medium boiled.

Not horrid.

But I missed getting that super creamy yolk that would have pulled the whole thing together.

The other liberty I took was to add pickled ginger and sliced pickling cucumber, the cucumbers weren’t pickled, but just the tiny little ones they use to make pickles, so fresh they added a nice clool brightness to the salt brine of the sauerkraut and the richness of the salmon.  I also used turmeric spiced brown rice, to give the rice color and I thought the plate was actually quite pretty.

It was not great.

But.

It was good.

It will be better the next time I make it.

I also roasted some asparagus, still going through the asparagus my employer gave me last week, wrapped in bacon.

Mmmm.

Bacon.

That was breakfast.

A slight departure from my normal oatmeal and fruit and hard-boiled egg, but a welcome one.

Once and a while I get to shake it up.

For lunch I roasted a chicken with a salt and pepper crust and made brown rice.

Nice and simple.

And that’s what I had for dinner.

With, ha, um, some more asparagus.

Heh.

I think I will pull the chicken and shred it up and make a cream of asparagus soup with brown rice and chicken.

That will “kill” the asparagus.

Otherwise I don’t think I will be able to finish it up before it goes bad and its a shame to waste asparagus.

And in between the cooking and the tasks I saw people I love.

I connected with fellows.

I sat in a cafe in Noe Valley and reconnected to my people, two back to back.

And I had a really good therapy session.

Also up in Noe Valley.

I was supposed to have a client after all my meetings and sessions in Noe, but it was cancelled by the client and I found myself able to quickly zip up and over the hill and hit the Inner Sunset and get right with God at Irving and 7th.

Such an unexpected gift.

Ran into some folks I hadn’t seen in a while and got my God on.

A damn fine day.

I really, really am.

The luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

A Good Cry

July 12, 2017

And then back to living.

I saw my therapist today.

Yes.

A psychotherapist has a therapist.

Especially since I am a therapist in training, although, let me tell you, I felt like a therapist today, seeing clients, filing paperwork, checking all the boxes, circling all the things that needed to be circled and doing the work.

I can get super caught up in how much longer this road is and how the hell am I ever, I mean, ever, going to get 3,000 hours, but I can’t, I just can’t focus on that.

One hour at a time.

Fortunately I have some practice living a day at a time and when I reflect on how those days add up and all my accomplishments have come in small increments, but come they have, then I don’t have to get too caught up in the numbers.

It’s just a numbers game and I’m doing it the best I can as fast as I can without killing myself in the process.

I mean.

I still have to process all my own stuff, plus carrying around my clients in my head.

I do that now.

I have them in my head and sometimes I will think about them and once in a while I have a momentary flash, a connection, a thought or feeling and a little aha moment, that feels pretty special.

But.

Yes.

I do have to process my own stuff too, I have to look at my own emotional life sift through the chafe and dander and see what is needing to seen and what is needing to be let go.

I knew.

For instance.

I needed to titrate my social media intake today.

I woke up a bit emotionally hung over.

I cried a lot yesterday.

On and off all day, with one really big cry in the evening when I was talking with my person on the phone and going over the shock of what had happened and how the death of my friend had not just hit me, but many others, the numbers of people who showed up to be present for each other and for the family of the deceased was extraordinary.

Not to mention all the people in so many other places he had affected, who’s lives he had touched–Portland, Seattle, Memphis, New York, Los Angeles, Austin, Oakland.

Gah.

I can hear him saying “West Oakland” in my head and such joy at his goofiness suffuses me.

For he was joyful.

Oh sure, sad and fucked up and scared and young and insecure, who hasn’t been those things, but also bright and kind and funny and so there for you and warm and sweet and musically talented.

Oh the music the world has lost.

So.

Seeing all the pictures, all the photographs, all the expressions of heartbreak, my social media feed was just awash in tears and sadness.

I really had to not look after a while.

And I knew when I woke up having felt puffy eyed and sluggish and a bit off kilter that I wasn’t going to allow myself to wallow in the emotionalism of social media.

I needed coffee, some ibuprofen, and a good breakfast.

Sounds like a hangover, right?

Except instead of booze or blow it was emotion.

And as I expressed to my therapist today after plopping down on her couch and telling her I was going to cry and then immediately doing so, I also realized that some, a lot of the emotion I had in my body, on my heart, in my head, was not mine.

It was the communities.

And I’m grateful.

Really grateful.

I got to feel it and touch into it.

But.

I could not continue swimming in it any longer.

So I talked it out, processed it, linked it to other things, made traverses, expressed emotions, cried a lot in the beginning, but by the middle of my session I was going other places.

Oh.

It was all interconnected.

I am good at making connections.

And it was honest and insightful.

I am pretty good at those things too.

Not always.

I am a work in progress, people, don’t expect perfection, I am far, far, far from perfect.

But.

I am loving and kind and sweet, I would hazard.

I am compassionate and more importantly, I am empathetic.

Sometimes too much and I get overextended and I give too much, I have been trained well in that way of life, being my mom’s caretaker, taking care of my sister, my oldest niece, an ex-boyfriend of five years who might as well have been my mother for all the caretaking he required, but I have grown a lot.

Oh, so fucking much.

And I know when I need to caretake and when the other person needs to do the job their own damn self.

And there’s no irony that I am in the care taking profession.

A. I am a nanny, I care take all day long.

B. I am a psychotherapist.

But it’s not my job to care take as a therapist and that’s a really intriguing thing for me.

I am also not there to make my client feel better, to sugar coat, or to shoo away uncomfortable feelings.

Uncomfortable feelings need to happen.

There’s nothing wrong with them.

I like to look at them as signposts, directions, “hey this thing you do, it doesn’t work for you.”

For instance.

There’s nothing wrong with anxiety or depression.

They are signs that the way things are going, the tools being used for living, well they might not be working so well.

I mean.

Booze was one hell of an amazing solution for me.

Until.

It was not.

So was cocaine.

My God.

I remember the first time I did a line of good blow.

It was like I had all the answers.

ALL of them.

And I was fine with the way those answers were conveyed and I rather scoffed at a friends warning that perhaps I like that drug a little more than was perhaps healthy.

Um.

Yeah.

But when those solutions failed I had to find a better way, a different way and there was depression there and there was anxiety and all sorts of other juicy psychological terms and conditions.

And slowly.

One step at a time.

I got to change what I did.

What I ingested.

What I thought and felt.

For something else.

I was given a significant solution to my problem.

Of course.

I won’t tell that to a client, they have to find their own way, I think that I am a mirror, an attachment figure, a person who can and will have to withstand the disappointments and anger and discomfort of others so that they can learn how to use that information and devise their own solution.

Therapy is not for symptom relief.

Just like alcohol, ultimately, and every other drug I took, weren’t for symptom relief.

I had to find a different way.

And I did.

And today when I walked out of my therapist office I felt a lightness and a joy.

I am alive.

I am not guilty for being alive

I have so much joy and passion in my life, such happiness, I felt light and though there is still sadness for the loss of this beautiful person, I have also a deeper connection to how alive I want to be and how alive I am allowed to be.

To be alive, in this moment, sober, and free.

It is amazing.

Happy.

Joyous.

Moved beyond words for my experiences and this amazing place I have been lead to.

Grateful.

So very grateful.

Thank you for being a part of my journey.

May it bless you too.

The Practice Of

June 25, 2017

Showing up.

Showing up to yoga.

Showing up for my recovery.

Showing up for my internship.

The practice of showing up here now that my readership has been cleaved in minute pieces and no one reads the blog anymore.

Not exactly true.

I know that the folks who subscribe are still reading, at least they are getting the blog in their email whether or not they read it I can’t always tell.

But.

The readership that I used to have from using social media has dwindled to just about nothing.

On one hand.

GREAT!

I’ve gone dark, my blog is not being read, it’s not search engine popping up in response to my name and whatever therapy clients I have now or those who will follow in the future, won’t find my ruminating thoughts if and when they decide to Google me.

On the other hand.

Sad.

Not horribly sad, but a little sad, teeny tiny bit sad, just a touch of sadness like a hint of vanilla on a sugar cookie, fleeting and gone and sweet to taste with hints of nostalgia.

I miss the interactions I used to get from people seeing and reading my blog.

But.

I am still here, still showing up, still doing the deal, and it is for me, ultimately that I continue to write for, to please myself, to find all the hidden caches of words in my soul and delve them out, throw them up on the screen and try once again to frame my own world experiences through these scintillating verbs and nouns.

I don’t always succeed.

But when I do.

Oh.

The happiness.

It is joy.

And one side effect of not writing the blog for a social media audience is that I have found myself less abashed to put my poetry up as a blog.

Once in a while I have done that before, written a poem and posted it as my daily blog post.

But recently.

I have been writing a lot more poetry and I am happy to have the forum to throw it out to the world.

The poems get almost no hits and they seem just for me, a sweeting expression of lush moments in my current life.

There is so much pleasure for me in the poetry, I cannot even express it.

The passion it lends to my life, it is a grace, and I am so happy to be pursuing it more here and in my life in general.

Having a muse helps.

Having a line, an image, a word sometimes that captures my attention.

And then.

I am in thrall.

I am writing and the words unlock and open themselves and spread across the sky, backlit with poems that have come before and the surprise of the new moon in the sky over the horizon of the darkling ocean.

I have a gift.

Not everyone will agree with that.

It is like someone who sings, slightly off-key, with fervor and love.

You have to love that person to put up with the passion of what they are creating, but in that loving, in that allowing of the story, the narrative, the poetry, the witness grants the artist succor and the work becomes a gift.

I don’t know where all the words come from and I don’t care, they fly from my fingers, wind themselves around my heart and ensorcell me with abandon and wild loving.

How could I not show up to the page?

Just for the chance to dip myself back into that pool of words and images and love.

It’s really all about love.

Love.

My words just outpourings of infinite love and thus I do know, even if I protest that I don’t, that all love is around me that God surrounds me, that God and love are interchangeable.

What came first it does not matter.

I use love in many different forms.

And.

Oh.

Does love use me.

And I am a grateful servant to this master.

Supplicating upon bent knee, bowing my head to rest it against said sweet skin.

The skein of it binding me as it frees me.

Lost in this world I have no rumination of leaving.

Only to examine and frolic and let my curious heart go.

And the words.

Oh.

They astound.

The feelings fleet and fast and forever changing and then changing again.

Yet.

A constant.

A consistent feeling.

A naming of those things that bind me and I know.

I know intrinsically, without worry or grief for what it belies about my heart, that I am this artist, this is my calling.

So.

I fear not when I am not read.

For having read the book of my own heart.

I am healed.

And for that.

Graced.

Grateful.

Awed.

Loved.

 

The Disruption of Love

June 25, 2017

Astonishing this renaming of myself.

As the magic man comes to me.

Leading me.

Leaning into me.

Learning me this new language of passion.

Fledgling on this path of unknown sometimes I startle.

A deer in the woods.

A flock of starlings rise in my heart.

Murmurations of love painted across the sunset sky.

Your face in the light.

Center of my attention.

The planes of your cheekbones.

The shape of your eyes.

Curvature of your lips, the smiles dancing there

A minuet of Mozart.

Slain back, surrendered to you, all distance

Drops, shatters, soft, like petals falling from the shaking boughs

Of apple trees.

Caught and cradled.

Through sunrise.

Moonset.

Feathering kisses across my face

Summoning me into velvet darkness where

Stars splatter with spangles of bright desire.

Astonished by you.

Conjured,

I lay myself before you.

Heart splayed and open

Beating like the wings of the birds flashing against

That burgeoning dusk.

Creating patterns of mystery I never

Knew

Abided within me.

I rise then.

Kissed alive.

Anew.

Graced.

 

By you.

When You Get The Package

January 10, 2017

But.

It’s not the package.

Grr.

I was super excited to get home and see that my new dress had arrived.

But.

Hmmm.

That seems like a smallish package.

Yeah.

Because it was.

No unboxing video coming out of the opening here.

Nope, maybe just a few profanities, and no body wants to hear me swear, it’s not pretty.

I was pissed though, I was planning on wearing the dress for a special occasion, an anniversary of mine that is coming up.

Oh well.

I understood the mistake too, the person doing the packing had put in my invoice, but the wrong item of clothing and it totally made sense, the person who should have gotten what I got lives in the neighborhood.

So what I’m hoping is that this girl got my dress.

I shot her an e-mail and fingers crossed she has my dress and I can just swap her sweater and we don’t have to deal with sending the stuff back to the company.

Because it’s in LONDON.

Actually, it shipped from Essex.

So yeah.

I’d love it if this lady gets back to me and says, yup, I got your dress.

I sent her my e-mail and I’ll see what comes of it.

I also e-mailed the company, because, well, I’m a little disappointed.

And if she didn’t get my dress or already returned it I want to know what to do.

I am not keeping the sweater, that’s for sure, I want my dress and the sweater though cute is the wrong size, so no matter what some action needs to be taken.

Mistakes happen.

Not the worst thing ever.

Nothing was the worst thing ever today, although sometimes the small things can get under my skin much more than the big things.

Oh!

I just got a message back from the girl, she said she got a notification that a package was delivered to her, she’s going to let me know when she gets back.

Ok.

That would be lovely.

Cut out the middle man and have myself a new frock to wear for the weekend.

I’m going to meet with a few friends and fellows on Sunday to celebrate my anniversary.

It feels so surreal and so amazing and I’m super pleased that so many of the people I asked to join me are going to be able to join me.

Sometimes letting in the love is the hardest thing and I hadn’t even thought about trying to get people together.

I hadn’t.

Not my idea at all.

I had made the decision that I would leave school a little early so that I can go to my spot that I like to go to on Fridays and share with the folks there, but nothing past that.

My person was like, um hello, come up on Sunday and pick up your chip and we’ll have dinner beforehand and I was like, oh my God.

Yes.

What a fucking fabulous idea.

I messaged some folks today

And some could make it and some can’t but.

Holy crap.

There’s eight of us going to dinner and ten I think hitting the spot afterward.

I was blown away by the responses I received.

You are the one thing in my way, you are the one thing in my way, you are the one thing in my way.

I am the only thing in my way.

There is so much love and though it is scary and hard to open up and receive it, I shall.

I am learning.

It is a job that seems to be the most important to me, the most healing and also, sometimes, oft-times, the most difficult.

To hold the doors of my heart open, to accept love.

To be told, “I would be honored to be there.”

To have someone message me that they were clearing their calendar to be there.

To be seen.

To be witnessed.

To be loved for who I am.

I don’t have to do a tummy tuck or make a million dollars or manipulate you through with holding my honest response.

I am just me and you like me?

No.

As it turns out.

You love me.

I feel so special.

Some of the folks I asked are girl friends from school.

Some are people who I walk the road of happy destiny with.

All of them responded with love and kindness and joy at my invitation, even those that aren’t able to come said they would be with me in spirit and I totally believed them.

It feels astounding and I am so grateful for this little outpouring of love.

It feels miraculous and I have to tell myself, gently, without negativity, that yes, they do love me and I’m lovable and worthy of love and it’s ok to accept them in.

I might get hurt.

Hell it’s bound to happen.

I’m human, I’ve hurt others, absolutely I have.

But it’s worth getting hurt.

Besides, when it comes right down to it no human can fulfill me completely, that kind of love comes from within, from a source deep with in, that still quiet voice that tells me with unequivocal truth that I am loved.

I was hurt when I was young and I developed ways to deal with that.

One of them was to disassociate and to not let you in.

It was too hard, those that I trusted hurt me.

So.

I built up some walls.

Bigger and bigger and harder and I blocked you the fuck out.

But in the end that defense stopped working.

I looked out over my towers and ramparts and I felt safe, but the longing I had for connection became so great it led me to leap.

I leapt.

I had faith.

I changed.

I opened my heart.

I let you in.

Oh.

Sometimes I built the walls back up.

I shut the door again.

I leaned against it, heavy and hurt and burdened by feelings.

I was abandoned and alone and lonely and sad and tired and it was just too much work to keep all the monsters at bay.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I felt the sun on my cheek, through the cracks in the wall and I opened the door again and stepped out into the sun.

You can’t fix me.

I’m not broken.

I just didn’t know that for a long time.

And when the love comes in I do have to take a moment and not run from it, to allow it in, to receive it, to let that love be a blazon and to shine it right back out.

I can’t give it away if I can’t accept it.

And I want to love you.

So fierce.

So deep.

With every fiber of my being.

I wish to love you with all that is bright and right and beautiful.

Love, like fireworks and eider-down, like peonies heavy-headed with dander in the grass at the edge of the garden, where the wild currants grow and the violets nod their sleepy heads, soft sheathed in the sweet, pale, green summer grass.

Love like cotton blossoms and the smell of wood smoke.

Love like light through amber and butterfly wings.

Love, warm, and soft and so, so, so strong.

For you.

All my love.

Love.

Always and forever.

Yes.

There.

Like.

That.

Just like that.

 

Shake It Off

October 17, 2016

Dance it out.

Grind it out.

Jump around.

My blood is up.

Happens sometimes, sometimes when I least expect it and I am suddenly inundated with energy.

Might have something to do with writing a lot of pages today.

I got my Child Therapy assessment paper written.

Twelve pages, over 2,300 words.

It actually didn’t feel like it was that long, it wasn’t scintillating writing, it didn’t make me excited per se, although I did have some trouble falling asleep last night as I was thinking about the case assessment and the history I was making up to do the paper.

But.

Sleep I did.

And it didn’t hurt that I saw a lover last night and got the kinks worked out.

Not enough, to tell the truth.

Sometimes my blood runs high and I could well.

ER.

Ahem.

What was I writing about?

Oh yes.

Graduate school.

That.

That thing I do on weekends.

I didn’t do all that much reading, today it was mostly the writing.

Again I am rather shocked that I wrote twelve pages, that I am writing now, that there are still words to write, they just fall off the ends of my fingers and onto the page.

I have so much I want to write about.

And so much that I don’t.

Oh the stories I could tell.

The flirtations with life and narrative and the long lines of elongated tales tripping down my head, all the sexy words and heart navigations.

The flush on my face.

The small red bite mark on my collar bone, faded softly after a night pressed into a pillow case.

Were you here.

Mouth on my neck I would stand asunder at the thunderous applause of heat on my face.

I distract myself.

I look at the heap and stacks of books and the reading and the comprehending and I can get hooked onto fantasy.

Not that there’s a damn thing wrong with fantasy.

Especially since I don’t have a boyfriend.

I have pondered the mystery of it all so many times and I just don’t even know.

The ones that really want to be with me aren’t available for one reason or another and the ones I want to be with aren’t interested and then I’m just doing this dance.

The dance around my house by myself.

And.

That’s ok too.

It’s just life.

And it doesn’t always mean forever and when I’m honest.

I mean brutal in my honesty.

I have had more lovers than my due.

I have had more than my fair share and maybe your fair share too.

I haven’t always gotten what I want.

I have not had a long-term relationship in a while.

But I have had too many friends tell me how jealous they are of my single life.

Of my ability to choose or not choose how I spend my time.

“So why are you dating him if you want something else?” My friend asked me last night.

“Because no one else is interested in me,” I said flippantly.

Truth.

I don’t know how I responded, but my friend arched his eyebrow at me and said, “oh really?”

“No, it’s because I don’t think I’m good enough” I said, and delightfully, surprisingly, gently, I only teared up a little.

I have teared up a lot more prior to this.

And.

I actually have started to believe, fake it til you make it, yo, that I am good enough.

That I’m not irreparably damaged.

Yeah.

I’m a pervert.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

But I think that’s ok.

I’m a deviant.

So be it.

I can embrace it and love it just as much as everything else about me.

I’m interesting.

And deviant sounds, well, deviant.

But I am thinking that I’m just not of the norm and I think the norm is well.

Boring.

I am grateful I have gotten to explore who I am and allow for all of it to be there, all the good, the bad, “the bad” whatever, it’s all good, the nuances and shades and colors.

The sunset more glorious for the obfuscation of the clouds.

So much life there is to live.

It rained today, the smoke of evergreen pine needles in the air, the fog of sea salt water and the warmth of it, the humidity, the full moon in the eves of the morning when I woke up startled by a dream and fell back asleep pressed into the warm scent of roses on my pillow.

As though your hands were in my hair and tugged me back down into sleep and soft repose.

I wonder at myself, my heart, my desires, the awe with which I still find myself mesmerized with when I think about how lucky I am to live in this world.

When I can get my mind off of myself and into the moment.

When I can let the moon just be the moon in the sky.

Or an owl hovering over me is just hunting a snack in the dark dunes.

But.

I prefer the magic.

The mystification.

I heard him swallow the “I love you” as I hung up the phone, it was there and gone, a soft undertone of story that lines a narrative older than all my desires, old friend.

I love you too.

The romance of the unrequited longing for love.

It still dances next to my skin.

Here.

Then gone.

A ghost.

An imprint.

A kiss of sunshine through a butterfly wing.

A memory of sky blue outside the window of school bus rolling through the barren hills of late autumn, the cold hard frost on the ground belittling the eternal summer inside my heart.

I will continue to dance to French house music in my room, candles lit up around me, cheeks flushed, and even if I am alone.

I know that you see me.

And for that I am grateful.

To be seen.

To be acknowledged.

There is glory there.

Love.

Love.

It’s always.

Just.

There.

Fluttering across my face.

Sauntering in the smile on my lips.

Alive in and to this moment.

Graced.

Yes.

Graced.

And that is all.

For now.

Anyway.

 

Ne Me Quitte Pas

December 14, 2015

Mon cherie.

I miss you so.

And I come up for air.

A hot bowl of soup on a cold night.

A warm face to say to, happy I am today, how are you?

Love fills my heart and it stills my face and then I sit and stare at the walls and wish that the light was still there.

But it is the dark.

The night of winter.

The cold laying frost.

The dormant.

Before the growth.

That is what I believe.

And there is so much love, so much grace, so much more than you can ever imagine, than I can ever imagine and I sing poetry under my breath wishing to encapsulate it all.

I cannot though.

There is a fullness, a fire, a heat, a warmth, a softness, a softening, an astounding, a tenderness, and it aches with all that it does.

I just wrote “id.”

Freudian slip.

Excuse me.

Where was I?

I digress.

She’ll break her own heart.

A beautiful death, that.

And a poem for you that I wrote, aching and full and saddened in the seeping twilight sky that bled rain through the ragged grey clouds outside the window of my class Thursday morning.

I am Going to Go Now

The unwinding inevitable, the snowflake dredged with grime

A kissing time, a hand print fingered dove grey

Soot smeared and dusted with transitory crimes–

Passion pushed, outlined darkling cashmere fey.

Smudged with the meaning of God, gold patterned

Euthanasia, impacted without you, focused after life

Fabled and unique.  This too is true.  Maneuvered

Polite, we dance the waltz of unspoken strife

Rife with lusted desire.  Pagan with practice

Patience and archetypal, the sparked pointed Southern

Crossing resurrected, convicted by love, the chalice

Over full, the wetness on my lips, the flight, a turn,

Rebirth, the exodus of uncertainty belies my certainty

Of you and our luminous connecting, a mastered calamity.

I am grateful for passing time, even when it pains in the passing.

I have felt achey and full and wide open and perhaps that has something, everything, to being in school these last three days.  Not a night in three that I got more than five hours sleep, not a day that didn’t go by where there weren’t tears.

I am in school to be a therapist.

The tears, they do happen.

They happen sometimes in class, sometimes after, sometimes, more times this past week than I really wanted to, when I went to bed, the slip of tears on my face.

Potentially lonely/perpetually human/suspended and/open/open.

OPEN.

So wide open.

So painfully, wide open.

It feels like my heart is on a plate, not silver, not a platter, but a plate, bone china, the cusp of the new moon gilding the edge.

It’s a good place to be.

This teetering on the cusp.

It sounds painful.

And.

Yes.

It is.

And yet, so alive.

So exquisite.

So enlivened.

So playful, when I don’t feel shattered in the leavings of my old idea and the imprinting of the new upon that smote landscape of love and loss and longing.

Smote.

That is how it feels.

Searing.

The grief rolls through, over, and plunges me down and there, a stillness, a pearlescent shell, a spiral, the nautilus, the tiny chambers of soul lit phosphorescent and gilt.

I climb in and float away.

This embedded moment brought to you by listening to too much Regina Spektor (but oh, there is no such thing as too much, not really not ever) and the sad sweetness of end times and new beginnings.

I had my last class today of the semester.

I had a long day, a long week, a big weekend and now, it’s back to work.

With a brief moment of respite in the evening with a friend over soup and Thai food over in the hood.

I have had so much happen over this past six months and it astounds and I look about and I realize I have almost made it and there is still so much more to go, so more to be realized.

So much more of me to be realized.

And so.

And so.

So.

I don’t understand/if I kiss you where it’s sharp/if I kiss you were it’s sore/will you feel better?/better/better/will you feel anything at all.

ANYTHING AT ALL.

Oh.

I will.

I assure you, I will feel all the feels.

Little fuckers.

I am feeling all of them.

Grateful that tonight I will get a full night’s sleep, and yes, there could be more tears on the pillow, tears aren’t such a bad thing, my small dulcet downfall, the shallow sip of sea salt on my cheeks, the flush of my face against the sheet pulled up by my head, the crush of the weight of love and the foolish tender softness of dreams that push themselves into the wet lashes resting on the tops of my cheeks.

The stars, that old light, the seeps in between the cracks.

The liminality of love.

The threshold to the moon.

I watched the sky today while I sat in the student kitchen, the bright, high blue, the push of scudded white bounded clouds, the flight of a seagull in between the buildings.

I ate an apple with sea salt sprinkled over it.

I thought about eating apples, walking the streets of Paris, cold and scared and alive and undone and all done back up again.

I go back in a week.

I thought about Paris.

I thought about the paintings.

Kandinsky, Accent en Rose, at the Pompidou.

Kandisky-Accent in Rose

Kandisky-Accent in Rose

I thought about the alone.

I thought about the aliveness in me.

I felt the lonely and the alive and the love and let it wash over me, the soar of the gull in the sky, the press of the blue, the powder of the clouds, the clock over the counter winding down the minutes to my last class of the day.

That much closer.

Still so far away.

A reckoning on the horizon.

Love in the streets, the cobblestones smothered in shine and light from the lamp posts, the impossible sparkle of the Eiffel Tower.

Dazzle

Dazzle

And my heart a glow.

A small spot, a spiral of ember over the ocean, the rushing sea, the Christmas tree burning on the edge of the water, the beach a bonfire of holiness and the beckoning of the North Star.

I know not into what I walk.

But I walk ever forward.

Joy smeared and sacred with the smut of my own carnal life, the living.

It is good.

Don’t let me fool you.

It is all good.

So good.

So overwhelmingly painfully.

Wonderfully.

Good.

It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

It does.

I am still the love smitten fool.

Who would I be?

If I weren’t wearing my heart on my sleeve.

At least it goes well with my clothes for Paris.

Transparent authenticity usually does.

DSCF6688.JPG

And perfect attire for riding to the top of the ferris wheel.

I’ll blow you kisses from the pinnacle.

I promise.

They may be burnished bittersweet.

But.

They will.

Be.

All.

Mine.


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