Posts Tagged ‘personality’

You Can Write

January 4, 2015

But you can’t edit.



It’s the small things.

The little things that I don’t let get in my way until they are overwhelmingly in my way and then the solution.

A tiny little step out into discomfort and the whole world opens up.

I’m being a bit oblique, I know.

Silly, isn’t it when I can’t speak my mind open and honest.

Ashamed, in fear, what will people think, like it’s any of my business, the process, showing up for it, doing it, living outside the vacuum of my room and my little wee laptop.

Not so wee, it’s obsolete as of oh, five minutes ago.

When this little lady dies, this is laptop is going to be buried lovingly and with ceremony in a special spot.

But until then, I’m going to ramble along on my keyboard, in my spot, with my music, yes, oh yes, my music.

I finally got that little cable thingy ma bob that connects my new iphone to my old ihome stereo box, you know, that other bit of technology that is obsolete–the ipod player.

I have been listening to the same 937 ish songs on that little machine for years now and for a while also on my iphone 4, but then, yes, I went where the cool kids go and I upgraded and now the little jack doesn’t fit the player.



I did it.

I got that cable and now, I’ve got my music on my phone, which is my music on my laptop which is a vast and theatrical compilation of many more songs and compilations and albums, and oh, Regina Spektor, you make my night, my lovely girl you.

I am distracted from the writing by the music which inspires the writing, which is, ah well, you perhaps know what I am saying, is distracting to the process because I am enjoying the music so much.



Be the artist.

Find your way back in my dear, dear friend.

I’m writing my way back in.

I finding my still point again and realizing that I have to commit to re-commit to the process of the writing and that I am not only allowed to do so, but I expect that have to do so.

“Write, Martines, write, write or you’re going to die,” he told me, oh, oh so many years ago.

So I picked up my pen with renewed vigor today and I said, fuck the audience, fuck the ideas, fuck the need to know why I am doing this, perpetually human, take it, take the gift and eat the fuck out of it.

I don’t know why I write.

Only that I have to.

Only that when I am doing so I am alive, I am the fulcrum, I am the glowing bunny night-light from the shop on Valencia street that the owner found in a boutique in the Marais district in Paris and that I have to spend $5.37 about every three weeks to replace the batteries too.

What am I saying?

I am a glowing night-light.

A bunny rabbit.

A light of creativity.

I am not grey.

I am not black.

I am a prospectus of light and color and I cannot deny that the color and light and the music rolls in the worlds of words that I live in.

I could be lonely and open and not alone, no, never alone, just open to the process.

The music, it almost drowns out the clack and click of my fingers on the keyboard and I break my own heart, yet again, to sieve through the painful remnants therein and see what it is that I need to pierce myself with so that I may once again bleed art.

I almost took out the pad and pen today and wrote the opening salvo to my letter of application to the graduate school I intend to be attending in the fall.

I end up writing about pain instead.

I took one of those tiny steps on the thousand mile journey, not toward graduate school, but toward this life, this path of life.

I strew the petty jealousy across the page.

I inventoried.

I wrote supplication prayers.

I wrote about humility.


I saw myself in a new light of clarity and asked for more, more perspective and light and growth.

And what do you know.

I got it.

It’s not pleasant to cry in front of people, nor is it exactly soul-stirring to let loose the waterworks in the front window of the Starbucks in Noe Valley at 24th and Sanchez, but I don’t get to choose where I cry.

I cry in bed.

I cry in the street.

I cry on my bicycle.

The tears they flow when I least expect or desire or want.

I fall asleep with the pillow wet and the darkness rides over the moon lit dunes and the light, so bright, wakes me, and I am awake to feel the ache, and I fall into prayer like a bumble bee heavy with pollen tumbling from the mouth of a Marguerite daisy.

Until I fall asleep again.

The circle continues, the cycle spins anew and I take a knee or two and I pray more and sing more under my breath the soft hum of love a kissing moth in my heart a flutter with dusty motes of sunshine breaking through the bamboo window shades on the back door of my studio.

The silvers of blue sky, the flash of raven wings over the back yard, the cut of the houses roofs and the smash of the waves on the sand, muffled by the pillow on my face and then, I move forward again.

I don’t know where this goes.

I don’t know the changes that need to be made, but they are being made for me, I just follow, follow, those tiny steps shown to me, outlined clear and dappled.

It’s like I am on the same fair ground ride again.

I just dropped another quarter in the rocket ship mouth and the sun sets over the Calliope and I tip my cap to the moon rising above the fairway.

And maybe the Myna Birds come on my little stereo now.

Or Tom Waits and the mood will shift.

To another track.

But not off the track.


I’m on track.

I’m writing.

I’m all in bitches.

I’m back.

I also have no idea what the hell I just wrote.

And it doesn’t matter.

I wrote.

That is all.

She wrote.

Carmen Is So Punk Rock

October 11, 2014



No, actually, I am not.

Although, I take the compliment, I am flattered, I know what you mean, sort of.

I am a nanny.

Carmen is a “hipster” nanny.

Now, that’s a new one.

Again, flattered, but no, not much of a hipster either when it comes right down to it (don’t pay attention to the tattoos, the one speed bicycle I ride every day, or the nose ring, ‘k?), I’m pretty white bread and butter.

I get up early.

I make my breakfast.

I drink some coffee.

I go to work and I am on time.

None of these things say punk rock to me.

I don’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or stay out late.

I used to do all those things and I still wasn’t much for punk rock.

Much to my consternation.

“I just don’t know that I can date you, I mean, the music thing is deep for me,” he said.

Yeah, I know, when I like dance music, electronic, 4 on the floor house music and he likes punk rock, dirty, loud, mosh pit mania, I don’t stand a chance.

I have been to one punk rock show.

I had a crush on the guitarist and they opened for the Dwarves at Slim’s.

I remember quite well He Who Cannot be Named and his small flaccid junk waggling about in front of me and the Mexican wrestling mask and I thought, well, ok then, I guess I’ve seen that now.

When I was a gutter punk, I really wasn’t a gutter punk enough.

I was homeless, but that doesn’t make you punk rock either.

I think punk rock though, can be a state of mind, a way of being, I am a spiritual warrior, not that I write about that much, God freaks people out.


Frankly, God is pretty punk rock if you ask me.

I am different, although not unique, and I don’t classify easily, and that is ok too.

I’m just me.

Just Carmen.

Just kicking it around the block a little bit.

I wasn’t feeling particularly punk rock either after waffling around outside of the taqueria on Church and Market across from the SafeWay.

Go with my friends to the movie.


Go home.

I decided to go home.

Not punk rock either.

Going home.

Being responsible.

Going to bed a a reasonable hour so that I can do all the things and see all the people and show up for all the commitments I have on Saturdays.

So I can go to Decompression on Sunday and not be worried about having to make food for the week or grocery shopping or cleaning or doing laundry.

Decompression is definitely not punk rock.

It can be Steampunk at time, but those are slightly different too.

Actually, now that I am thinking about it, Gate and Perimeter teams are a bit punk rock, but the Decompression party itself, is really not very punk rock at all.

I’ve had some passing crushes on some punk rock guys.

But never enough to persuade me to go over to that side of the musical scene.

Currently listening too?

Maurice Chevalier.

Not punk rock.


But not punk rock.

Not that the French can’t be punk rock, they definitely can, and I have seen some fine examples therein, but I am not of that ilk either.

I know it was a compliment and I take all such interpretations of my personality as compliments, but when it boils down to it, I am pretty much a softie who is far more interested in sipping tea and listening to jazz piano then I am being anti-establishment.

Although there are some things about my way of life that are completely against the norm, I, for instance, don’t have a credit card.

I think that is really punk rock.

I mean most folks these days have a credit card or five.

I pay it forward in cash baby.

I also don’t have a lot of material possessions.

I think that is probably punk rock.

Either that or just poor.

Probably poor.

I like my things though and I like my life and I like that I can wear a lot of different hats and fit in with a lot of different folks.

I can go to a rap concert or a punk show.

I am happy at a rave as I am a flamenco show.

I have sat happily for hours practicing cello and have screamed lyrics at the top of my lungs at a NIN show while stomping it out in the mosh pit.

I like that I hold multitudes.

There is, of course, a core to me that tends toward certain flavors and styles, but I don’t have to narrow myself down to one certain category or anything.

I am not typical.

That’s what I am getting at.

I am a writer a poet, a lyricist, a lover, a lady, a child, a brat, I am stubborn, irritating, prideful, extravagant, boisterous, shy, extraverted and introverted all at the same time.  I am funny and boring, and sad and silly, I am older than I want to be in my joints and knees–I wish I could get my dance on better I do–and young in my soul.  I am gregarious and nurturing, strong, passionate, adventurous, scared, brave, goofy.

I am so many things.

But really, punk rock, not so much.

I smiled when I rode off on my bicycle, wearing my black hoodie sweatshirt, covering my many tattoos, my nose ring glinting in the wash of moon light that peeked out from a fog bank, I adjusted my messenger bag on my back and thought, it’s not a bad moniker for who I am and what I do.

I make my own way in the world.

I don’t follow norm.

I am brave and brash and brazen at times.

Maybe I could be punk rock.

Then my hair got stuck in my lip gloss and I laughed out loud as I brushed my pony tail out of my mouth.

Do punks do glitter?

%d bloggers like this: