Posts Tagged ‘Paul Simon’

Day One

February 11, 2017

Down!

God it feels good to be moving through the days of my program.

I felt super good today, even with starting the day with Trauma class.

Which.

Well.

Is oft-times traumatic.

However, having done so much of my own work around trauma I feel pretty grounded and able to hold myself in the stream of information that is being shared and to share my experience, not someone else’s experience.

I have been privy to much information that is confidential over the years and many confidences of delicate nature, trauma, abuse, sexual violence, stalkers, bad jobs, violence, drug abuse, emotional abuse, troubled relationships with partners, children, spouses, parents.

I have heard so much trauma and witnessed so much that I am surprised that I am not inured.

Rather.

I am impressed.

I am a little bit awed, in fact.

By the ability of us humans to heal and grow despite, or perhaps because of the nature of the pain that has been experienced.

This is not to say that I wish for you a traumatic experience, it is rather to acknowledge that holy fuck I have done the damn work.

I have shown up.

I have held my space, my heart, I have eaten out of the palm of pain and I have lived to tell the tale and in the telling, grown, blossomed, survived, thrived.

Despite, not because of the trauma.

I am graced in the knowledge that walking through the fear is never as hard as the fear wants me to believe.

I get to do this work and I am so situated that I have been allowed to go to graduate school and pursue it and be a kind of healer in my community.

This is a blessing.

This is a gift.

A gift that carries a burden that could be hard to shoulder had I not already done so much to strengthen myself and move my own stuff out-of-the-way.

That’s not to say that I won’t come up, that it hasn’t come up, that there is not some ugliness there or terror to shed light on, there is always room for growth, for more blossoming and even when it is the dead of winter I know that the plum trees will bloom on Church street and the act of walking, my face lifted to the blossoms pressed against the night sky will carry me forward through another season of pain and growth and exquisite beauty.

I was also just happy to see my cohort.

Let’s be honest.

I missed my friends.

And.

I acknowledged to myself how important these friendships have become to me.

I feel really amazed, I wasn’t expecting that as a product of doing the grad school work, that I would have another unique set of circumstances and fellows to travel and trudge the road to happy destiny, a destiny designed to connect me further with people in community.

With love.

I love that I am seen and accepted.

Oh.

I am not always liked and I don’t always like people in my cohort, but.

I love them all.

I do.

Unconditional love.

Meaning I wish for each and every one of the people in my cohort, in my class, in my school, in my neighborhood, that same respect and love a showering of respect and a willingness to acknowledge that we all deserve to be happy, however that looks.

I don’t have to like you to love you.

I don’t have to like you to wish for you the best, whatever and however that manifests.

I am an equal opportunity lover.

Heh.

Maybe you find a love that falls across you gently like a pick pocket brushes your thigh.

This means.

That I also unconditionally love myself, even when I wonder, am I people pleasing again, am I holding my tongue because I don’t want conflict, am I acquiescing to someone else’s need?

I might be.

At least I can recognize it now and more forward with that knowledge too.

So much to learn.

So much to feel.

The good new kids, you’re going to have feelings.

The bad news?

You’re going to have feelings.

But.

The nice thing is, feelings aren’t facts and despite feeling many things, I don’t have to be held hostage to my feelings.

I can have them.

I can let them go.

I can let them move through me.

It is a gift to see the emotion, to name it, to love myself and let whatever is there, rise, float to the surface, gather light, bloom, blossom grow, then slowly wither, become a puff of dander that the next feeling breathes against it and pushes the seeds carried by small parachutes of fluff and gossamer, carrying the impetus for so many other feelings to grow, blossom, wither, and die upon the warm air of God’s breath.

A sigh of kisses.

A multitude of stars.

I can contain millions.

I do.

In fact.

So too, do you.

Extraordinary.

This.

How hard I have striven to find these small moments of metaphor, Dolly blue in the hand crank washing machine of my heart, the pain renders it all the more beautiful and I rise to the light of the full moon.

Woman.

Once more.

My own.

You may have tried to trespass.

I may have shut the door.

I may have resisted.

I have come to understand my struggle and my power.

I underestimated my strength.

My fellows see it.

They breathe it back to me in the language of love and unconditional surrender.

The is that is right now.

The being that is scoped across my heart, a light house beaming its beacon at the end of the universe.

A small flower opening.

My face to the sun.

Uplifted and held.

Tears on my face.

The water of love showering my heart.

Where all the wild things go to grow.

I sing my barbaric yawp at thee.

Sounded over the rooftop of the city.

Howled into the nether regions of love.

I gather you here, upon my breast, open hands to cradle you close.

The music of the spheres.

The resonance of light in your eyes.

Your head upon my shoulder.

Warm breath.

Human.

Together.

Moving through and above.

Beyond.

Into another realm.

Which is only this one repeated again and again as I attend to all those things that I thought were lost underneath the attic stairs where my dreams went to nestle and die.

Or so I thought.

They only slumbered.

They only dreamed.

And now.

Well.

I have them again.

And I won’t let them go.

Trauma class.

Trauma.

Trauma.

Trauma.

I meet thee there.

With.

Love.

And.

Surrender.

And.

Gentle.

Repair.

 

 

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What Do You Write About?

September 19, 2016

Myself.

All the time.

Me.

I’m thinking about the Carmen show and what’s on the channel, and hey, what’s she going to do next?

I could also just take a moment, a fucking minute, a second, and appreciate what I did do today before moving on to the next yoga class, the next day at work, the next doing the deal, going after my PhD, the next date, what’s up with this thing, that thing, the other thing, hey where did all my time go?

Today.

I did a lot.

A LOT.

I cleaned like a house a fire.

Because.

Hey, don’t you know, grad school papers being due will light that fire under your ass and suddenly, wow, look how clean my toilet is!

Who knew I wanted to scour the bathroom today?

I mean.

Seriously.

I washed three loads of laundry.

Put fresh sheets on the bed.

Cleaned, tidied, swept, vacuumed, Swiffer’ed the floors, yeah I know it’s not a noun, shut up.

I also met with a lady for an hour and did the deal.

I just got back from sitting in a church on a folding chair too.

And.

I cooked like a person who is going to be hella busy all week.

A person who will be heading into her second weekend of grad school intensive madness this upcoming weekend.

The thing with the weekend program is that I have to work doubly hard the weekend before.

Not just catching up on all the reading.

ALL THE READING!

FUCK ME.

There is so much reading, especially for my Psychopathology and Psychological Assessment class, an absurd amount of reading.

I read so much yesterday I thought my eyes were going to fall out of my head.

I definitely felt my brain getting squashed trying to retain the information.

Anyway.

There is so much to do the weekend before too as it’s my prep for the work week and make food for school and make sure I have all my necessities in the house because I sure as shit won’t be making any stops after an eleven hour day in class.

The usual pit stop is my bed.

With maybe a blog in there to offset the school.

Granted.

I am looking forward to going to class because I miss my friends.

One of my girl friends and I texted a ton today and thank god for girlfriends, I got to get in a good check in, have a good cry, get it out of my system, and then suddenly see that I am taking things to damn seriously, that it’s not that big a deal and I have my big girl pants on and fuck me, it’s a gorgeous day out.

And.

My house is sparkling.

And.

Yes.

I did all the cooking.

I mean.

All of it.

I roasted a chicken yesterday.

I made salt and pepper encrusted roast chicken with tarragon butter; brown butter brussels sprouts with crimini mushrooms, and applewood smoked bacon; and huge pot of brown rice with turmeric and garlic.

I had an amazing dinner on the back patio and saved the chicken and rice for cooking today.

I made two things.

One of them I’ll be eating at work and the other I will take with me to classes over the weekend.

The first thing I did was strip the meat off the chicken I roasted last night and I tossed the bones and carcass along with a yellow onion into some water and let is simmer down for soup stock.

Then I took the nicer bits of the chicken and sautéed them with onions and garlic and added shredded brussels sprouts and brown mushrooms to the mix.

I mixed in some turmeric garlic brown rice and froze up three double containers of it.

One for each day I’m in class.

Then.

I made chicken soup.

I shredded the chicken meat off the bones, after they had cooled off a bit, added a bunch of veggies and herbs and let it all sit and simmer while I got on with my grad school self.

I wrote two papers today.

Booya!

They were actually a tiny bit more challenging than I thought, but mostly from the standpoint of having to be succinct and clear in two to three pages.

Sometimes a short paper is harder to write because I have a lot to say.

A lot.

And then I have to go back and tailor it and edit it down.

Which I did.

Then when the papers were done I had a nice bowl of homemade chicken soup and a slice of sharp cheddar cheese and sat on the back patio and caught the last of the warm sunny day.

I was not remiss to miss the day.

It’s going to happen.

I’m in graduate school.

There’s a lot I am going to miss out on while I do the work to be in the program.

I’m grateful that I get to go to graduate school.

Not that many people do.

Despite my skewered position and perspective, I know how extraordinary it is to be getting a higher education in this world, my griping about student loans not withstanding.

So when I ran into a woman tonight and we were talking school and writing she wanted to pick my brain and ask all sorts of questions about writing and how do you do it.

 

You want to be a writer/you don’t know how or when/find a quiet corner/use a humble pen.

That’s it.

Sit down and write.

Show up to the page without expectation of what is going to come out.

Practice, just well, just fucking do it.

There is no becoming a writer or a therapist or a doctor or a pro-athlete without putting in the time and effort.

If I had waited until I had a good idea about what to write, well, I wouldn’t be writing now.

I just show up.

That’s the magic.

That’s it.

I swear.

Sit down.

Show up.

The magic always happens.

Granted it doesn’t always look like what I think it should look like.

It’s often better.

Now.

You’ll have to excuse me.

I have some more reading to do.

Happy Sunday y’all.

Make it a great fucking week.

 

A Possible Solution

July 13, 2016

Day by day.

One small action at a time.

Things are falling into place.

I bought my ticket last night.

I made some calls today.

And.

Ooh.

I got a message that will need some exploring, but it looks like I will have a fabulous friend’s set up at Burning Man.

In fact.

It may work out really well for both of us.

I have to go early and leave early.

She won’t be able to get there until the day or the day after I need to leave.

I can go, take her gear, tent, sleeping mattress, etc, and get her tent set up, have it for the first part of the event, then leave it there, all nice and set up for her to take over for the second part of the weekend.

I mean.

Freaking fabulous.

I will be conferring with her this Thursday.

Last Thursday I had the heart to heart with me, myself, and I, did some inventory, got right with God and made the leap to go to Burning Man.

Less than a week later, ticket purchased and possible camp set up, well, set up.

Freaking amazing.

Rather like the show I just came from.

Diana Ross.

DIANA ROSS!

So freaking good.

The woman is what, 72 years old?

And she can still sing.

I mean sing.

Here’s the set list from the show, In The Name of Love Tour:

  1. “Overture”
  2. I’m Coming Out
  3. More Today Than Yesterday
  4. My World Is Empty Without You” / “Baby Love” / “Stop! In the Name of Love” / “You Can’t Hurry Love
  5. Love Child
  6. “Instrumental Sequence”
  7. The Boss
  8. Touch Me in the Morning
  9. Upside Down
  10. Love Hangover” / “Take Me Higher” / “Ease on Down the Road
  11. “Instrumental Sequence”
  12. The Look of Love
  13. Don’t Explain
  14. Why Do Fools Fall in Love
  15. Theme from Mahogany (Do You Know Where You’re Going To)
  16. Ain’t No Mountain High Enough
  17. “Instrumental Sequence”
  18. I Will Survive
Encore
19. “I Will Survive” (Reprise)

 

The encore was actually shorter than I thought it would be, but her voice, by the end of the show was tight, it was just starting to get a little noticeable in her last two songs, but her energy was super high.

I was hella impressed.

And quite happy to see so many friends in the audience and to be there with my friend from school.

I felt super happy to be there and to see an icon and be in the theater with so many people who obviously just adored her.

So much joy.

“You are hitting musical jackpots,” my person texted me this morning.

She had asked what my principle was for today and I responded happy since I didn’t think fabulous was a spiritual principle, though, I could be wrong, it seems to fall under “joy of living.”

And she’s right.

I got to see Paul Simon at the Greek.

I have gotten to see Diana Ross at the Orpheum.

I am going to get to see Mike Doughty in somebody’s living room in Burlingame in September.

And who the hell knows who I will see at Burning Man.

Odds are generally good that I will see some good music.

The dj set I caught last year on top of the Mayan art car deep in the playa was astounding.

And since I won’t have to work, I will be able to go play and dance and not worry about getting “home” at a reasonable hour.

More like getting home, to San Francisco in time to see Mike Doughty play and get myself ready for the first weekend of my second year of school.

I had a moment of thinking about going to Outside Lands, but one, it’s sold out, and two, it’s sold out, and three, I’m not always great at great big festival thingy’s.

Too many people.

Yeah.

I know.

I’m going to Burning Man, but it’s pretty spread out.

It’s about as big as San Francisco in circumference.

It covers about seven square miles.

That’s a lot of space.

Outside Lands happens in Golden Gate Park and it has about oh 40-50 thousand people.

Per day.

That’s a lot of freaking people in a space that is not all that big.

I should know too, I live by the park and it is always a bit of a shit show the weekend of the festival.

I have only been once and that was almost three years ago when I first moved into this studio.

I had been given VIP passes by my employer for the last day of the event.

It was actually really a lot of fun to see Hall and Oates from VIP.

I saw a dj, who I can’t remember now, who was really good, and some fun people watching but I was pretty over it, pretty quick.

Too many people.

I did resolve though, tonight, watching Lady Diana Ross up on that stage, girl, she changed three, no, four times!  That I should make an effort to keep going to live music shows.

There is something about it that just fills me up.

And I love music.

Radio Head will be at Outside Lands, that might be fun to see, and Grimes.

But yeah, not too worried about missing the shows.

I will be busy with plenty of other things.

My weekend is getting a tiny bit booked up already and it’s just Tuesday.

A tentative MOMA date with a friend in the afternoon on Sunday.

A blind coffee date on Saturday in the early afternoon.

Doing the deal with the ladies.

Doing some yoga.

Really glad I got up this morning and went.

I will definitely be hitting the yoga again a few times this week.

Not tomorrow though, early to work and a longer day for me, it’s the dad’s birthday.

Ah.

Anyway.

Happy feet.

Sore feet.

Busy feet.

One step at a time.

Doing a little happy dance of joy.

Getting my diva on.

Diana Ross.

Getting my Burning Man.

Fuck yeah.

One foot in front of the other.

Life is fucking fabulous.

Seriously.

 

 

 

You’re Like A Female Version

June 7, 2016

Of Peewee Herman.

Um.

Thanks?

Hey, Carmen, Peewee Herman is hella cool.

I mean.

Hello.

I may get confused with a hipster at times, affinity for coffee with notes of butterscotch and stone fruit, the one speed whip in the garage, the numerous tattoos, the arty glasses with the wood frames.

But.

The fact is.

I like glitter way too much to ever be a hipster.

Unless they suddenly make glitter in aged wood paneling or something ironic like that.

I also have a pink riding jacket for my scooter and um, heh, my helmet has not only glitter but stars and yes, I did, I have appliqued star stickers on my scooter that I put on myself.

Shut up.

So.

Heh.

I could see what he meant.

And I was flattered.

I mean, really, I haven’t been compared to many famous people, although a legend in my own mind, I don’t have that much claim to fame.

I like to think that I am.

But really.

I am just crazy old me.

“Don’t forget me when you’re famous,” he said to me last week when I saw him and told him about the podcast.

I still don’t know what the hell that means.

I suppose that I will be recorded and to that extent I have been practicing a little.

I love the sound of my voice, except when I hear it recorded.

Ugh.

Then.

Seriously.

Ugh.

Although, I heard a friend’s little guitar riff on his facecrack page and found myself making up little lyrics to it.

I’m not a singer, but I can carry a little breathy tune.

I shared that with my friend who I went to the Paul Simon show with, my vocal abilities, or lack thereof and his response?

Fucking golden.

“That never stopped me,” he replied.

Dude.

That’s right.

But.

I don’t play an instrument, even though I did play cello once upon a time in a land far, far away.

Wisconsin.

And there are days when I think, I should pick that up again.

In what time, Martines, in what time?

But, I do.

I love the sonorous voice of the cello and the prickly velvet thrum in my heart when I have been with an instrument that I connect with.

I had a friend who once took me to the luthier that all the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra uses, he’s a cellist with the San Jose Symphony, and the smell.

Oh.

So delicious.

The wood and the rosin.

The sounds.

I remember, still, it’s been many, many years, picking up a cello and the feeling of it nestled between my thighs and the weight of the scroll against my neck.

I remembered the feeling of the strings under my finger pads.

I pulled the bow across the C string and hit an F# and just about cried with the pleasure of it.

Heh.

Yeah.

I know.

It’s been suggested to me a lot to pick it back up.

And I digress.

A lot.

The Peewee Herman thing had me pause though.

I look like an artist.

But often times feel like I’m not quite the potential I am supposed to be.

That I haven’t done enough, I’m not prolific enough.

Suffice to say, how many of these fucking blogs have I written?

Over 1800.

There’s something prolific happening here.

And maybe it’s just me being kooky and dressing funny.

But really.

It’s just me.

It’s just how I like to be.

The glitter, the heart on my sleeve, the poetry that falls out of my eyes.

I may not have the degree of fame or fortune or whatever it is that I think I’m supposed to have to be considered a successful artist.

But.

I create.

That’s the thing.

I was thinking of a shred of lyric from one of my favorite Paul Simon songs, and not one that most people would quote from either.

It’s from “Hurricane Eye,” from his album “You’re the One.”

You want to be a writer/but you don’t know how or when.

Find a quiet corner/use a humble pen.

And I tell myself that everyday.

I am a writer.

I have my quiet corner.

I use my humble pen.

Fuck.

Thank God I got to Walgreens today.

I was almost out of ink in my last couple of favorite pens.

The last couple of times I was in the store they were out of my favorite and man, it makes a difference, just like the quality of paper that I like when I am doing my morning pages.

I hate those decompostion notebooks with a fervor.

Yeah.

I know.

Ecologically friendly and all that.

But the quality of the paper is shit and it feels like crap when I write on them.

Nope.

No thanks.

I prefer Claire Fontaine notebooks from France.

Or.

When I can’t procure those.

The college ruled glitter notebooks in bright turquoise, silver, and hot pink from Safeway.

Heh.

Yeah.

I told you.

I can’t be a hipster.

I love glitter a little too much.

I don’t have to be anything, I don’t have to fit any category.

I can be the girl, or woman, should you so prefer, who wears flowers in her hair and cries a lot.

“Dude, that’s what you do,” my friend texted me back when I told him that I was in tears half the Paul Simon concert.

I do.

I do, do that.

I sort of leak with gratitude and happiness and joy.

Even when I experience shame over things I can’t control, at least I can forgive myself for that, or self-loathing or self-deprecation, I am learning, slowly, oh so fucking slow, that this is ok.

And after all.

These words are not my choice.

I am the conduit.

I am just dead light pushing crystal spun sugar into the veins of the universe.

I am just the channel through which the words move.

And I cannot tell you.

I cannot tell me.

Why this beleaguered life.

Why on my knees.

I still.

Love.

Love.

Love.

This tumult, this strife.

The promise of every day that breaks.

Across my face, the grey morning light.

The sun sequestered in fog.

The call of the day.

The fall of God.

Into my lap.

The kisses freckled on my skin.

The rapture of song.

The life within.

That small quiet voice.

Always there.

Even when I am hoarse with tears.

There are still flowers in my hair.

And my heart upon my sleeve.

It’s tattooed there.

Lined in the liminal.

Luminous.

Lustrous.

Love.

Of all that is.

Which.

Is.

In the end.

Just.

Love.

 

 

 

Fuck Me!

June 5, 2016

That was so good.

I mean so, so, so very, very, very.

Yes.

Oh yes.

Good.

And no, sir, it was not my Tinder date.

Who never confirmed.

Dudes.

Strike two.

However.

As they, the infamous they, like to say, “rejection is God’s protection.”

Um yeah.

And apparently I was supposed to be doing something other than have stupid good sex.

That did bum me out for a minute, oh the plans I lay when I want to get laid, like, um, having a weekend of stupid good sex, that was the plan, God, don’t you know?

Ahem.

Anyway.

So.

I was positive, I acted with positive things in mind.

Well, if God doesn’t want me to be on the aforementioned two day date, which as I said, previous like was cancelled at the same time that another sexy offer came floating in, and, well, yeah, no confirmation on that either, which means, something stellar is going to happen.

I believe.

I have faith.

I woke up, let myself sleep in and take the later yoga class.

Which kicked my fucking ass.

Why did I not start doing yoga years and years ago?

Hindsight.

Fucking 20/20.

I had the most intense moment of diseased thinking that I have had for a minute today in class, which surprised me, brought tears to my eyes and I thought to myself as I was collapsed in a heap in child’s pose (can’t even get this one right, Martines, my head whispered to me, as the teacher adjusted my hips in the pose) I was overcome with a deep, intense, overwhelming wave of self-loathing.

Whoa.

Come on.

You showed up.

This is it.

This is the only body that you have and it didn’t drop dead on you all those years that you beat it to shit, beating your soul down, wearing down your heart, selling yourself so short, abusing it all with as much crap as I could shove in my mouth or up my nose.

Why now?

Why?

Because, that’s the story, that’s the narrative, “you are just not good enough, sexy enough, smart enough, blah, blah, blah, and why are you still single, blah, blah, blah.”

Shut the fuck up.

All that being said, I did move through the poses and some were awkward and painful, but I did it, I showed up, chatted with the teacher after, thanked her, gratefully, I am grateful for this beautiful body that God has given me to walk around in.

Even when I can’t do a stupid vinayasa pose.

So what?

I am able bodied.

How many people wish for a body capable of being able to do yoga?

Yeah, so I don’t look as good doing it as Suzy perfect who is, by the way brain, 20 years younger than you.

I forget that I am 43.

I forget it, then, I smile and whoa, hello, smile lines.

But they are sexy.

I am sexy.

Please.

I know.

I am also not real humble, but hey, I know what I am, even if the body is not 20 year old banging, my brain, well, that’s where the real sexy is at and believe me I am better in bed than I was twenty years ago, and frankly, healthier, both emotionally and physically, not to mention spiritually too.

So.

I got back from yoga, took a hot shower, made a late breakfast and got down to do some writing.

As I was about to launch into my morning pages I checked the social media things and saw that some friends of mine had gone to Paul Simon at the Greek Theater last night.

I was jealous.

Damn it.

That would have been such a good show, I wish I had gotten tickets.

Cue.

Scrolling down the page and what?

WHAT?

No fucking way.

One of my friend’s has posted about having a spare ticket to Paul Simon at the Greek, anyone interested?

Oh hells yes.

Me, me, me, me.

I wrote on his page.

“You, you, you, you,” came the response.

Followed by a rapid number of texts, including the set list from last night show.

Cue listening to Paul Simon all day with a smile smashed on my face.

My heart so on my sleeve, I swear there were little drops of heart shaped blood glowing luminescent in my wake, small moons of joy as the music washed over and through me.

Who cares if both my Tinder dates cancelled?

I’m going to Paul Simon!!

See.

God really did have something better planned.

Thanks God.

I sort of needed that.

Not that I don’t think that I’m the bees knees, the cat’s pajamas, and all that jazz, it was just a little disconcerting to get back to back rejections.

But that’s ok.

Rejection is just getting things out of the way so that I am prepared for what is supposed to happen next.

Like.

Um, oh.

Paul Simon.

Playing an amazing, mind blowing, joyful, serious the joy level was off the chain, energetic, passionate, amazing set.

He played from Rhythm of the Saints, which is one of my favorites of his albums, if not my favorite, songs I have never heard performed live before.

I was in tears.

Really.

A whole bunch.

I was washed with the perspective of decades and thought about all the times I had closed down the bar at the Angelic Brewing Company and depending on who I was working with, mostly one particular bartender, I would turn off all the lights, set up a few globe candles on the bar, tap out a couple of pints of bitter and listen to Paul Simon until the very edges of dawn were pushing through the windows of the bar.

All the narratives I told myself, all the stories, all the melancholy and remorse and the unrequited love, the blue cornflower eyes and the sheaf of blonde hair that beguiled my heart, the dancing to Diamonds on the Soles of My shoes, in the dark, with him.

Oh, be still you silly heart.

Maybe these emotions are as close to love as I will ever be.

All the stories I told myself, the stories that I can spin, but choose not to, I saw them all rising in the fog of the open air theater, adrift on the music spinning out into the night and I was so grateful I could burst.

Then.

Mike Doughty friend requested me on facecrack and my brain broke.

I was taking out my phone to take one of three photos I took tonight, I really just wanted to be present with the music instead of stuck in my phone, and there it was.

I punched my friend in his arm, he’s a Doughty fan too, and I was like, “um, so what do you think should add him?”

I could not handle it.

I was so happy.

I am so happy.

These are all just humans.

But something glorious shines through.

Love.

God.

Music.

I am the luckiest girl.

I am a wanton word woman.

I am delirious with art and music and memory and gratitude.

Because really.

Sometimes even music cannot substitute for tears.

What this is, all is.

Is grace.

I am graced.

And a little hoarse from singing along at the Greek Theater with thousands of other very happy people.

It was a beautiful night.

And I accepted Mike’s request.

Only seemed like the polite thing to do.

Heh.

I mean, God forbid he ever find out I have a tiny crush on him.

Please.

My heart is just happy to have all that I have.

I have so very much.

So very much.

Yes.

Love.

Love.

That and always that.

Truly.

Just.

Love.

 

 

We’ll Record When I Get Back

June 28, 2014

Holy shit.

I ran into a friend of mine.

A dear, sweet, darling man who has known me from the days of yore when I went to an event that he was playing at, his birthday party, and I danced my ass off while walking around with a cane.

I was in the last stages of healing from a really bad back sprain.

The music, his music, was so infectious though, I could not help it but to dance.

“You know, I’m playing one show here for Pride (tomorrow is Pink Saturday and the high holy holidays of queer are here in San Francisco), it’s going to be good.” He leaned in a subtle, conspiratorial manner and whispered in my ear as he gave me a hug good night, “I’d invite you but I don’t think you should be dancing quite yet, heal well, I’ll see you in seven weeks when I get back from Europe.”

Oh awesomeness.

He’s right too.

I would probably try to shake my groove thing.

I have been listening to a lot of jazz of late.

Smooth.

Mellow.

Sit still and heal, soothing.

I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the dance music when I took the train downtown today to run an errand.

I should know better than to run downtown during Pride Weekend when I am hobbling about on my walking boot.

But it was too late and I was there and as I slowly maneuvered through the crowds, I kept myself occupied by listening to a Green Velvet mix live in Dublin, Ireland, that was just smoking.

Best genre I can come up with to classify it is Retro-Electro/Ghetto Techno.

So good.

So dirty good.

I just wanted to shake my ass.

At least the half that wasn’t affixed to the boot.

So, “running” (I suppose wobbling is the much better adjective) into my friend the day before he’s off on seven week tour of Europe was great timing.

I told him about the epiphany I had at Lighting in a Bottle and how I love my writing practice, can’t get enough of it, doing it all the time, but that I wanted to expand a bit more and I wanted to record a full album with him instead of just one song.

I gave him some ideas.

I would love it to be called “Music of the Spheres” or “Jesus Was a DJ”.

Something spiritual, sexual, definitely a little retro and ghetto sexy, but with some sugar lip sass, I have to be able to dance to it, it can’t be too slow.

He suggested we do an EP then play out some clubs and press some vinyl.

Ah.

Ok.

OHMYGODREALLY?!

Fyi.

I don’t even know what an EP is.

I suppose I shall have to Wikipedia that right quick.

I know enough to know it’s not a full length album.

But it’s a set of songs.

Ah.

Thanks Mister Google.

Extended Play.

Not a full album, but an extended set of songs, usually three to four.

Perfect.

That sounds exactly what I want to do.

And play out?

Hells to the yes.

I miss that kind of performing.

I mean, yeah, it freaks me out, but I also loved doing the couple of shows with him the summer before I left for Paris.

It was pretty amazing, even just that little bit.

We played together with another vocalist and a violinist at the Elbow Room and then a few weeks later I joined him with another vocalist at Club 222.

It was pretty epic.

At least for me.

And the opportunity to do it again, but with more music and lyrics and a longer story, I am down with that.

I would not mind calling it “Baise Moi” either or “Sugar Kiss”.

I have a few ideas.

Some old material and some new material.

I also don’t have to have as much per piece written as I did for While You Were Sleeping.

It’s a long poem.

It’s not epic length, but it’s too long for a song.

Knowing that I have an idea of how many words each song can hold.

This means cutting and gutting a few poems.

I can do that.

It’s just editing.

And I have an editing eye.

I want to include “Cry Baby” on it.

OH.

That’s it.

Love Junkie.

That’s the refrain for the poem, the repeating thematic of the piece, a nonce I wrote years ago, “she’s a love junkie.”

We talked about mixing it with Paul Simon’s Graceland.

At least that’s the inspiration for me.

There’s a certain time in my life I would like to allude to, where Cry Baby came from.

And then the channeling another kind of music in there, underneath it, maybe some Hues Corporation.

A little mixing of “Don’t Rock the Boat” underpinned by something French retro or new wave.

Oh, the ideas.

EEK.

Yann Tiersen.

The guy behind the Amelie soundtrack.

Oh goodness.

Snowflakes on the steps of Sacre Couer, straight to my heart, the glow lamps in front of the cafes in Paris, the Eiffel Tower glittering in the snow fall and mist.

Baise moi indeed.

I have some writing to do.

I have a creative project.

Yay.

This will make the continued editing of Baby Girl that much easier to withstand.

Not that it’s all that difficult, although I am still cringing at the errors that rife through the work.

Sophomoric errors.

But hey.

I am learning and I get to have this experience and how many folks are in the middle of editing a book, their own memoir, and also writing lyrics for a pending album with a world-famous, globe-trotting dj?

Not so many I am going to suppose.

My friend who sold me the scooter also suggested I get back into dj’ing.

I did it very briefly, very much as an amateur, never played out, when I first moved to San Francisco in 2002.

I might have to do some investigationship.

I would not be getting turntables again, I’ll be honest, I’m too busy and a bit too lazy for that, but a good mixing system, a premium membership to Spotify, and my own ear, I think I could mix a good party.

Not really for money.

Just for the fun of it.

“We’ll press some vinyl and makes some money, and play around some clubs and get you before some crowds, and,” my friend’s eyes lit up.

I interrupted, “oh, I don’t care about making money, I just want to have fun and create and…”

“Oh, you get to make money too, don’t you worry, you make something and you’re going to make money too.”

He hugged me.

“Go, we’ll talk when I get back.”

He ducked into a tacqueria to meet some friends and I walked off to the N-Judah stop to take the train home.

Music rumbling through my head.

Right foot tapping a rhythm.

Happy to have a distraction from the ankle.

I’ll dance again soon.

I know I will.

And I will get to make new music too.

Life is pretty damn grand.

I just have to get out the way.

And ask.

The Universe really wants to say yes.

Just ask.

The answer is yes.

It always is.


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