Posts Tagged ‘patron’

Home, Sweet, Sweet

May 24, 2016

Home.

It’s so nice to be back.

Sometimes I go away just to have that feeling again, of how much I love being home.

Home is San Francisco.

Oh.

It could be elsewhere, I did find myself experiencing a very deep fondness for the little neighborhood in Brooklyn that was adjacent to where I was staying in Clinton Hill–The Fort Greene historic area, so, pretty, so many gorgeous brownstones and kids on scooters and the park and the feel of it being a community.

I really liked that.

I could see living in one of those brownstones and sitting on the stoop on a warm night or day, reading a book with a cup of coffee, watching the world go by.

I do like that.

I miss having a place like that to hang out, my place doesn’t have a front porch or a stoop.

However.

There are spots in the neighborhood where I can sit and watch the world go by and I did do that for a little while today after getting back from the airport.

Despite big delays on BART, I still made it home pretty much around the time I thought I would as my flight came in a half hour before it was scheduled, so the time I “lost” on the train wasn’t really lost time.

Plus.

I had my book from the Strand and I pulled that out and started reading and got a good 60 pages into it, popped on my headphones, listened to some Radio Soulwax and just sat.

Sometimes I just need to slow down.

I just got off the phone with one of the women I work with and that was the gist of the conversation, the suggestion to just slow down.

I can get going really fast, I won’t feel, and I will be doing and it tricks my brain into thinking I’m being productive, but sometimes I am just running away from myself.

I take myself wherever I go.

Oh.

There I am again, I thought during a moment of being slightly turned around in Brooklyn and hesitating as to what to do next, literally I was walking around in little circles.

I realized that I was there with me and the “me” was itchy and antsy and getting a little irritated and discontent, which is like my natural state, so I said a prayer asked for guidance and got take out from the Thai place I had dinner at on Saturday night.

Now.

Just stopping and slowing down and letting the world happen, I got to meet Doug and go do the tour of his studio, so even when I seem lost and confused, see, there, I am being looked after and loved.

I sent him a thank you note via e-mail and got just the sweetest response from him today.

He told me the price for the piece I want, several thousand dollars (but he also offered to work out a deal with me, which I super appreciated and despite not having several thousand to drop on an art piece, boy howdy do I aspire to that), and also an invitation to stay at his place the next time I visit–he rents an Air BnB as well, and he said when he comes to San Francisco we must get together.

Also, and I found this so sweet and endearing, that I will make a great, empathetic therapist and I will make loads of money and buy lots of art including his.

That literally brings tears to my eyes.

A very secret wish of mine, to be able to afford to buy the art I love and also to support the artists that I see around me, I love art, it does something to me and creativity and my friends who are artists just blow me away.

“What kind of art do you do,” he asked me outside the doors of the meeting hall, it’s an assumption I get a lot.

But instead of saying I’m not an artist, I said, “I’m a writer.”

And that is a kind of art.

I am creating as I type and when it is right, when the mood is lovely and I am completely transparent I am a conduit and what comes forward is not me, it super cedes me and reshapes me and I am a different person after doing the writing.

In that is great joy.

Yeah.

I want to be an amazing photographer, I am a passable amateur.

Of course I want to draw and paint and sculpt, but those mediums I have never quite had the passion for, the drive for.  I do get ideas and have ways of being in the world that I believe, deep within me, are supremely artistic.

It could just be the way I arrange my hair or hang a photograph on the wall.

But.

I have always wanted to be a patron.

There’s just something super sexy about that.

A dream.

A home, a big one, with lots of light and a studio to write in and a library to read in and rooms for friends to come and do retreats and a cottage in the back and art everywhere and recovery and always the work, the growing the finding of new beauty and subsuming it into my person.

How much art can I hold?

How much love can I give.

That is an art.

The art of smiling, being of service, reaching out, kindness is an act of art.

Art is love.

It is perspective and joy and great waves of sorrow and overwhelming moments of uplift and I can’t comprehend it and maybe, probably, I just don’t want to.

It is an art being myself.

I realize this as I move through the world, how I let myself express myself is an art too.

I can be a living piece of art.

Although sometimes I just need to be a tired human.

The well needed to get refilled today.

When I got home I unpacked my bag and threw my clothes in the wash, I put all my things away, all the notebooks and the few little things I had brought back from my travels and walked up to a little spot in the neighborhood and grabbed lunch.

I sat inside, then I realized I just wanted to sit for a while.

I pulled up a seat at an outside table and sat and watched the ocean in the distance and the neighborhood doing it’s neighborhood deal and then I read for an hour.

Occasionally closing my eyes to the sun and I realized I needed a nap.

So a quick pit stop at Other Avenues for some household stuff and then home.

And a nap.

Oh such a nap.

I slept three hours.

I woke up twice to a text message and to pee, but really, I slept nearly three hours and I can feel I am a bit jet lagged still.

So easy does it the rest of tonight.

Full and grateful heart and a gentle song of jazz on my radio and a little more tea.

And sleep.

In my own home.

In my own bed.

In my favorite place in the world.

San Francisco.

Where my he(art) is.

Black Friday?

November 28, 2015

Cold Friday.

Holy Jesus on a pogo stick.

It is cold out there.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I know.

But, you’re from Wisconsin.

Blah, blah, blah.

I left Wisconsin.

I haven’t lived there in 13 years.

I remember one night coming out from closing up the bar and it was way below zero and I was just wanting to get in my car and start it up and be on my merry way.

Except.

The doors were frozen shut.

There’s a trick to opening up a door when the doors are froze shut and that’s to bump against the door and break the ice down.

Except.

The asshat next to me had parked me in too close and was obviously not around as it was 3:30a.m. and freezing and he probably, or she, could’ve been a she, had taken a cab home.

My luck.

The only car in the parking lot except mine and it was parked so close to me that I couldn’t get much body slam technique going to break down the ice between the frame and the door.

I remember bouncing my body between the two cars and hollering out loud at one point, “this is why I am moving to California!”

Now.

I have adjusted.

I have also gotten older.

And.

I lost a lot of weight.

When you don’t have 80-90lbs of extra flesh on your body for insulation, well, you get cold faster.

Plus.

I hate to say it.

But there really is a difference between wet cold and dry cold.

San Francisco is wet cold.

At least it wasn’t raining or foggy today.

Now that would have been a nightmare.

I am just now getting warmed up and I may stop here and make another cup of tea to finish the defrosting of my body.

I rode my scooter around a lot today so that added to the cold ness, wind chill.

I felt so tight in my body riding home that I had to tell myself to breathe.

I am happy to be home.

It was a long, strange day.

Not a bad day.

Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Just different.

I got up and did the deal like I normally do and wrote a lot this morning, four pages, and showered, did laundry, put fresh sheets on the bed, did the compost and recycling, paid for December rent and utilities, balanced the check book, had breakfast, had coffee, dressed, did the make up and made a plan for the day.

I mean.

I had a plan.

Not that I stuck all that close to it.

But there were two things, people, that I was going to meet and I met them both.

One a new friend.

The other a lady to do some reading with.

The new friend is my artist/patron/architect extraordinaire.

We had plans to meet for lunch at Cafe de la Presse downtown today at 1p.m.

I was nervous.

Here’s a person I met once, at Burning Man, have a moment of playa magic, recite some poetry, he looks me up, I write some more poems for him, he sends check for $1,000.

Benefactor.

Patron.

Hero.

Helped me get over the hump to buy my new scooter and also enabled me to say yes to going to Paris.

Totally feel debt of gratitude and I am humbled that he wants to hear me recite the words to the poems.

And nervous.

I mean.

It’s a private poetry reading.

Plus.

It’s Black Friday and I am going to ride my scooter into the maw of the beast, downtown San Francisco Black Friday, ice rink opening in Union Square, tree lighting ceremony, Macy’s, Powell Street, everything.

But.

It was super easy and I intuitively rode there after looking at Google maps and saying, nah, there’s an easier way to do it than that.

I got from here to there in 30 minutes.

I had a lot of stuff with me.

In hindsight, that I did not need.

My laptop.

My Psychoanalytic reader and notebook.

I was planning on doing work on my Human Development final project after meeting and having lunch, but found out the SF Public Library was closed for the holiday, so I decided to bring my Psychoanalytic reader to get into some Post-Freudian theory instead.

Yeah.

That did not happen.

What did happen was a delightful lunch, great conversation, and a tiny peek into the creative genius of a great artist.

I was truly blown away to be talking with him.

We had a lovely two hour lunch then we walked over to his down town office and in the conference room I read the sonnets.

It was an amazing experience.

One that I won’t soon forget.

I remember my friend letting me in then excusing himself to use the facilities and when I looked around I was just struck.

Awe struck.

By how things work, by how things happen, by luck, and love, and chance, and art.

To be considered an artist by someone else is extraordinary.

To share my art with someone who is a visionary was something else and I can’t quite put my finger on all the feelings, but graced was certainly one of them.

I left with a gorgeous set of visual poems and architectural works that he has done gathered in a book of his work and my heart full of love and awe.

It was a pretty smashing afternoon.

Then a ride to the Castro, a trip to the hardware store, a couple of locks for the scooter, and yes, I got my ass to the nail salon, thank god, the hands were looking rough.

Then a quick bite of dinner and meeting with a ladybug to do some reading and discuss defects of character.

I have a few.

But I also have assets.

And I saw those today.

Willing to take risks.

Wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Taking on new adventures.

Being open and alive to the poetry of my life.

Allowing myself to have new experiences and meet new people.

Lovingness.

Perseverance.

Strength.

Positivity.

I don’t know how I got to be that woman in that conference room sharing my own personal poetry with a new influence in my life, but there I was.

Being seen for who I am and encouraged to continue engaging in my art.

I am an artist.

How lovely it is to name that, claim it, honor it.

I am humbled.

And awed.

And grateful.

So very grateful.

It really wasn’t a cold, black Friday at all.

No.

Rather light and loving and winning.

Warm and heartfelt.

Just as it should be this weekend of thanks.

For you I give thanks.

And for all that you give me.

I give thanks.

For this life.

This love.

This art.

For.

All.

Of.

This magnificent poetry.

Thank you.

 


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