Listening to French Music

And writing you poetry in my head.

It has been a long time since I have felt the prompt to write my blog.

Of course you came up with a solution.

One so simple and elegant that I felt momentarily abashed to not have thought of it myself.

Use a Word Document, write the blog, then cut and paste the Word document to your blog.

Smacks self on head.

I still had some push-back, I like the way it feels to be in the blog space.

Aside.

I know using the terminology, “blog” is anachronistic.

But so it goes.

I am a heavily tattooed, anti-conformist who is polite to a point, sets an alarm to get up, thanks the crossing guard at the crosswalk, still sends out thank you cards and birthday cards in the mail.

And holiday cards.

And buys stamps.

And yeah, so blog, blog, blog, not essay, not article, not whatever else is the new slangy vernacular out there.

End aside.

I am writing.

When I had the push-back it went something like, well, I like the format, I understand the feel, it elicits a kind of experience that I don’t have when I am in Word.

Yet.

Here I am.

And yes.

It is not quite the same. But it is not too different.

Using the Word Doc also gives me the experience that I have been struggling with in WordPress.

There is a glitch in the format which does not let me type fast, or backspace to delete.

The longer the blog, the slower it gets, until I am typing at a glacial pace.

I type almost as fast as I think.

What you, dear reader, are getting, is nearly a stream of conscious experience when I write.

Sure.

I go back and I edit a touch, but not that much.

I like how it feels, like I am having a conversation with you in real time and just letting the thoughts drop onto the page.

The reason I have been wanting to blog more is to refresh my writing chops.

I am working on putting together a book from my dissertation.

I am working on letting go of the judgment that two years after the oral defense I have not written the book.

Oh.

There have been iterations and ideas and I have sketched things out, had conversations with my best friends, journaled, thought, paced, even cried in frustration.

Before, not so gently, resigning that I either had nothing to write, it wasn’t the right time, circumstance, idea.

Then finding my way back in, feeling inspired, feeling heat, feeling like, oh! I’ve got this, here it is! Compelling myself with projects and incentives and dancing around the project like a manic Maypole dancer in spring intoxicated with the first soft white bell lilies of the valley flowering in the grass.

Big sigh.

And then I would stop.

And sit.

And perseverate.

And step slowly and quietly back into a state of judgment.

Funny thing this.

I forget, thank you to my therapist, that the art is sometimes, oft times, a process.

And I needed, desperately, to rest, to recoup, to heal.

For six and a half years I worked full time and carried anywhere from one to four, to five jobs and did graduate school full time.

I did not have days off.

I did not have good rest.

I was locked and bound into a kind of relentless frame that had nothing but work and school and occasional recovery meetings interspersed.

I was grinding.

I cried a lot.

I stuffed a lot of feelings and just pushed, pushed, pushed through.

Oh.

And there was that pandemic thing that happened too.

Good grief.

I just needed to rest.

I also started my own business.

I also did extraordinary, and painful, therapy work of my own, aside from being a therapist.

Art takes time.

And practice.

And I have been plotting my return.

Once I was gentle to myself, acknowledged that I had to rebuild the reserves, find the space, sit in the sun, read fiction (oh fiction, you balm to the soul), hang with friends, open myself up to actually being available to a loving romantic relationship and then sit in the sun some more, did it quietly come forward.

I am a writer.

I have always been a writer.

I will always be a writer.

And I have never stopped writing.

I just stopped posting.

Graduate school, work, teaching, the pandemic, my own therapy work (which continues apace, I am not done), transitions, so many things, all the things, they were not holding me back, but they crowded the playing field.

I feel that it has cleared a bit.

I feel rested, even when I am deep in the therapeutic space and holding a strong container for my clients, the grief of the world, the pain writ on the global stage.

I can still come home to fresh flowers in a vase.

Hot soup in a bowl.

French music on the speaker in my kitchen.

I can light candles.

Pet my cats.

Sit on the couch and resource.

My book project is coming.

In fact.

Many book projects are coming.

Poetry.

A collection of blogs, ahem, “essays”.

Heh.

Restructuring my memoir.

I am thinking of fictionalizing it a bit and self-publishing.

I am not sure if admitting to fictionalizing it on this platform is actually being transparent or silly, but whatever.

I do try very hard to be aware of my impact in the world, on my family, on my friends, on my people, on my person.

Sometimes.

I think.

I worry too much of what others will think.

Then I get angry and say, fuck that, this is my space.

My head, my heart, my words, my process.

Messy.

Beautiful.

At times artless pain.

But I know when it feels right and good and this it does.

Even when it’s not quite the frame that I want it to be.

This gets me back to the page and damn.

It feels real good.

Real, real, real.

Good.

I will take it.

And the poem that I was noodling with is not quite ready to be birthed here, but it is here.

In my heart.

A line of words, like a bright cloud underlit by the setting sun.

Waiting to come forward into the world.

Like the aftermath of love.

Mayhem and reckoning.

A bright augury.

Star burst from a crucible of torture that I walked through to get from here.

To there.

Come now.

Follow me, dear heart.

We are back in it.

Yes.

We are.

Come, give me your hand.

We have places to go.

If you will let me take you with, I will not let you down.

Promise.

Back at it!

After nearly four weeks off, I went back to work today.

I started out this morning by guest lecturing (remotely via Zoom) at CIIS in the Clinical Relationship class on erotic countertransference in the clinical dyad.

That was fun.

I did that for about an hour then transitioned to my first client of the day.

Fortunately for me, a phone session.

Followed by another phone session.

Followed by a video session.

Then a break.

Phew.

Break much needed and yes, yes I did, I took my first unaccompanied walk!

It was just a block, don’t freak out.

And I went super duper slow.

Like.

Ridiculously slow.

I walked to the mailbox and mailed my rent check for December.

It felt great to be outside.

Though intense, and I walked back much slower than I had walked to the mailbox.

Then I had lunch in bed.

Now.

I will say that was my only meal in bed and for that I feel pretty happy.

I had breakfast at my “desk”, aka, my kitchen table and tonight I had dinner in my living room sitting in my reading chair.

Normally I like to sit on my pink velvet couch and enjoy the view of the night sky out the window framed in soft yellow string bulb lights.

However.

My couch is too low to sit on comfortably and get back up from.

By the end of my sessions tonight I was definitely feeling stiff and I had gotten a bit swollen up, but I really didn’t want to eat dinner in bed.

Although, I will say that I did not force myself to write this blog at my desk.

I’m writing from bed, propped up on pillows, three behind my back, two underneath my knees.

I can push myself a little, but I’m not a masochist.

And I know that going too hard back into things is not good for my healing.

Gratefully I am in a profession that is not too active.

Granted prior to my surgery I have a times found this challenging–being so sedentary.

Before becoming a psychotherapist I was a nanny, in fact, I nannied a good way into being a therapist–nothing says good times like juggling full time work with full time school and getting my hours to become a therapist.

In a sense, until very, very, very recently, I was working six to seven days a week.

So this down time I’ve had recovering from the surgery has also been surreal.

Lying in bed watching a lot of videos.

I did some reading too, but mostly I think I just slept and watched videos and tried to not be in self-pity when the weather was screaming gorgeous out.

I literally missed the best weather of the year indoors for three and a half weeks recuperating.

That being said.

Once I am fully healed up I will be outside and moving and doing all the things.

My next post-op appointment is December 10th.

At which point my surgeon will let me know when I can start exercising again–more than just walking.

I sense it will still be a slow journey towards being as active again as I was prior.

I cannot wait to get back into the swimming pool.

Or!

To go out dancing.

My, oh my.

I have missed dancing.

I mean, pandemic quashed that in a major way, though I definitely had a lot of private dance parties by myself in my kitchen.

Then I had a burst appendix in February, followed by my first surgery, the brachioplasty, followed by the belt lipectomy.

My dance moves have been severely restrained.

I have a friend who is all about the dancing and keeps sending me invites and I’ve had to turn them all down.

I had a teensy narrow window of opportunity when I was feeling better resourced after the brachioplasty and able to move my arms without feeling like they were going to rip apart, and I had just defended my dissertation, that I could have possibly gone out.

But.

My friend was out of town and I spent that weekend getting my household prepped for the next surgery.

Considering how slow the healing process takes, it will likely be March, April, May of next year before I’m really able to hit a dance floor again.

But it’s there, just on the horizon.

And today gave me just a tiny glimpse of hope for that.

In a sense, I had a full eight hour work day.

I lectured for an hour, then had three sessions, had a break and then did four more sessions.

That was a pretty big day to start back in.

I’m tired.

And also.

Just a smidgeon exhilerated.

It was so good to see my clients again!

I missed them.

And I missed my morning routine.

It felt really nice to make my breakfast this morning, make a coffee, sit at my desk, read my emails, eat, drink my latte, write my morning pages in my journal. Rather than get up, make breakfast, bring it back to bed and crawl back into bed for the majority of the day.

Sure.

I was stiff sitting at my desk and had to keep my core still, but fuck, it felt so damn good to be back to a semblance of my normal routine.

I am also grateful that I have a late start tomorrow morning.

I will let myself sleep in and I will take it very slow in the morning.

I also normally have a late session on Mondays, but not today, and that helped.

I checked in with my person at lunch too and let him know how my day was going and said out loud that if I felt like it was too much I would cancel on my evening sessions.

I did not have to do that.

I did have to be careful to sit still and be really gentle getting up and out of my chair in between sessions and taking bathroom breaks.

And I did it.

Such a relief!

I got through my first day back.

Such simple joy in getting back to my routine.

Grateful.

Seriously fucking grateful.

I’m back in the saddle again.

11 Months Ago

Today.

You kissed me in the door way to my heart.

The threshold was crossed.

I have been altered.

Changed.

Irrevocably.

Fast forward.

Today.

Your face.

This morning.

When I said.

“Happy eleven months.”

I had no idea why.

It just.

It just.

It just popped out.

It’s not been a happy eleven months.

Has it baby?

At least not the last few months.

It’s been roller coaster months.

Up and down and side ways.

Kisses in the dark corners of my heart.

Tussles in the sand dunes of my soul.

Tears on my pillow.

Tears on your shoulder.

Tears in my car.

How I have gotten home sometimes I still wonder.

Bleary eyed and heart sore.

Tender in places and spaces inside of me that I did not know existed.

You are so interwoven in me.

Sometimes there is comfort in this, closeness, interconnectedness.

Sometimes.

Pain.

The heart pulled and ripped and torn.

The love though.

The love.

Oh.

The love for you my sweet, sweetest, sweeting love.

So much.

I thought I knew every chamber and echo cavern in my heart.

Then you kiss me, again, here, there, and everywhere.

And.

There is more, there is more space, my rooms, more places.

You engulf me.

I am filled.

Your words in my ears.

Your love like a swaddling comfort to wrap myself in when I am tender.

Sore.

Tired.

“I sure love you,” you said to me, as I lay curled in your arms, adrift on the rise and swell of your breath in your chest.

You don’t remember saying it.

But I do.

Oh.

I do.

And it comforts me when you are not here.

My eyes.

Now.

Full of tears.

My throat choked with love.

Love that hasn’t gone anywhere.

Love that only seems to grow bigger.

Despite being boxed in, held tight, reined in.

Bounded in boundaries.

It slips past and swells into the sunlight.

Rises with faith and hope.

Rises like the uptick of your ribcage underneath my head.

Rises like the words from my mouth

As you drifted off to sleep.

That one night not so long ago.

“I sure love you too.”

 

Nice Little Day

Yoga.

Writing.

Loads of writing, just my morning pages, but the last week was super busy with early starts every day at work–I worked seven hours of overtime last week at my nanny job, so I didn’t get to my morning writing every day (skipped one day completely) or I got just a half page or maybe a page in.

Today I wrote four pages.

It felt so good.

Nice breakfast.

Leisurely latte.

Laundry.

Little bit of grocery shopping.

Group supervision.

Group today was really small, so I got to do a super long check in and do work around three clients, I don’t typically get that much time, my group is usually six of us and sometimes I get maybe fifteen minutes, twenty max, today, loads of time.

It was really good and it was also a sweet group to be in today.

Lots of support around my clients.

And.

Oh.

So nice.

I had a number of clients cancel this week and next.

Normally I wouldn’t be too happy about so many clients cancelling, but since my solo supervisor is on vacation for the next two weeks I was looking at having to get extra coverage.

As it turns out with all my cancellations next week I won’t have to at all.

Thank God.

It’s not a huge deal, but I get a lot more from my solo supervisor than the woman I go to if he’s not available.

Not to say she doesn’t have value, it’s just different and the rapport is not as strong and well, I get more from working with my supervisor.

And frankly, it’s nice to have some time off next week from clients.

I will only have two sessions next week.

One client Tuesday evening and one client on Thursday.

That’s going to be a short week for me.

And then a four-day weekend.

I will enjoy that quite a bit.

After supervision today I went into the fray.

Yes.

I went downtown on the Saturday before Christmas.

It was lit.

But.

I knew where I was going and I had a plan.

I even found parking that wasn’t metered.

I usually try to duck into the lot behind the Mint, it’s infrequently open, but once in a while you can score.

I wasn’t able to, but I went around the block and on a hunch I turned down Jessie Street and there it was, a spot, no meter, and only a block and a half from the Sprint store.

Yup.

I went and got a new SIM card for my new Iphone 8 and it’s working great.

It took a few minutes, but that’s all I had to do was stand around and wait, the tech guy in the shop did it and I didn’t have to pay for anything, which was really nice.

Then.

Heh.

I went even further into the crazy.

But it felt a little exhilarating because I had a single destination point and a gift card to Sephora burning a hole in my pocket.

I left the Sprint Store on Mission, slid through the back door of Bloomingdale’s and strode right through the makeup and perfume counters, zipped through the Westfield Mall and zig zagged through the masses of people on Market Street.

The line for the cable car was crazy.

I went into Sephora and I did a swoop.

I pretty much knew what I wanted and went to the exact make up aisles I wanted to grab products from.

I’m a total lip gloss junkie.

I picked up one of the Sephora brand lip glosses that I use on the regular and three different shades of Anastasia of Beverly Hills–one bubble gum pink with high glitter, called Girly, I know, I know, I was totally channeling my thirteen year old adolescent self (even though I never wore makeup when I was a teenager, making up hard for lost time) and then a pretty Vintage Rose gloss and a subtle glitter called St. Tropez.

Yeah.

I know “subtle” glitter.

But it sort of is.

Heh.

I had enough left over on my gift card that I splurged on a box of pretty highlight illuminating powders.

Super pretty.

I love makeup.

I love dressing up.

I love that I looked super chic and urban in my all black leotard and boho black skirt and leggings, my hair up in a high messy French bun, and my rose velvet pink Tretorns.

I had a total moment of “I have arrived.”

Which is funny.

But.

There it is.

I had that moment.

I felt happy and light and airy walking out of the crowded store.

I did not have any issue with the crowds, I got back to my car, had plenty of time to sneak in a quick pop over to Whole Foods and pick up a couple staples and fill up my gas tank before heading over to the NOPA to get right with God.

That was great.

I made dinner plans with a friend for next Saturday, I got connected, I participated and it felt lovely.

Home and a hot bowl of chicken soup with brown rice, veggies, and Andouille sausage and folding all the laundry I did earlier.

A super sweet, chill, lovely little day.

Tomorrow should be much the same, relaxed, restful, happy.

I’m going to go to yoga again in the morning, have the same leisurely sort of morning I had today, meet with ladybug and roast a chicken.

I’m thinking I’ll go to the Inner Sunset and treat myself to a mani/pedi and some eyebrow waxing, a hot cafe au lait and maybe a book from Green Apple Books, pop into the spot on 7th and Irving and get right with God and call it a day.

I’m not worried about it being Christmas Eve, it’s just a lovely Sunday that I get to relax.

And Christmas.

Well, that will be chill too.

I’m going to go over to the East Bay in the afternoon and see a girlfriend and go to a movie matinée and get Chinese food.

Super simple.

And that’s it.

No pressure.

No expectations.

I’ve been given so much this holiday season.

I have nothing to ask for.

It’s been intense.

But it’s been a really lovely Christmas.

Anything else is just more sprinkles.

(or glitter)

On top of the frosting.

Of some very lovely cake.

 

Hello Monday

You weren’t so bad.

Time went by quick.

When I thought it was going to drag.

There was plenty to fill the hours.

Supervision before work, work, a couple of clients.

Some sneaky grocery shopping in between work and supervision and again in between work and clients.

Sometimes I am amazed that I can get in as much as I do.

I am pretty efficient.

I just excused myself from a group conversation with my cohort along those same lines.

The thread of the conversation was in regards to using the pre-2021 regulations versus the post 2021 regulations for the BBS requirements to get licenced.

The lean of the conversation was that it was impossible to get all the hours in the amount of time listed.

I believe that I will get the hours in.

I have faith.

And if I don’t, well, fuck it, I will have at least tried.

I am sure that many in my cohort will scoff, but a few, well, they know me and when I set my sights on something I tend to get it.

There is much work to be done.

So much work.

But I feel that it will happen.

Or course.

I dream of coming into money so that I didn’t have to work while I’m trying to get my hours.

It would make such a huge difference if I didn’t have to work to support myself on top of doing my internship and gaining my hours.

But, for the moment, for today, it is what it is.

I have to work today.

Well.

I have to work tomorrow.

Although.

I have something exciting to do before hand.

I will be going to the Mission District to interview for People Who Don’t Usually Lecture.

I had lunch with my dear friend yesterday, it already seems years ago, and we talked quite a bit about the project and how he knows the producers and the people behind it and how my name came up.

It was really quite the story to hear and I was so struck by how serendipitous my life is.

Some may call it luck.

I call it grace.

Either way.

I am excited to be considered and I’m interested to see what they ask me and what they want to know.

I suspect that they have been on my blog.

I had a spike in readership the last couple of days and though I have no idea who reads the blog, it is unusual to get a lot of reads without there being something pretty specific behind it.

Unless some one was missing me and just wanted to catch up on my life, I think it was probably the people behind the project.

I have no idea what they may think of my little blog.

Sometimes, most times, I don’t know what to think of it, only that it fills me and feeds me and that I want to continue doing it for as long as I can.

I could do this all my life, it feels.

What a gift, that, the desire to write every day and the gift to myself to give myself the time to do so.

Sure.

I could read some homework, but this settles me, winds me down, helps me ease into the evening.

And as such is more proactively self-care than doing my homework.

Oh.

I’ll get my homework done, I always do, but it does feel nice to give myself a tiny bit of a break from it.

Tomorrow will also be a kind of break too.

It’s Halloween and since I’m doing the interview I won’t be doing therapy and I also don’t have clients tomorrow night, it’s a “short” day for me.

It should be pretty fun too.

My charges have begged me to dress up with them.

So.

Yeah.

I will be dressing up.

Albeit, not quite like what I did over the weekend.

But I will wear a fun dress and bring some flowers to stick in my hair and I’m going to bring my make up kit too.

So that after I do the interview, no way in hell am I going to the interview in super big makeup, I will go to work and do a little makeup.

I will also help my charges too.

The big guy is going as an astronaut and won’t really need any makeup.

But the little lady is going as a unicorn and well, I think some glitter make up might need to make an appearance.

I know she’ll be over the moon if I do that, so yeah, I’ll be happy to indulge their sweet whims.

The oldest was particularly concerned that I dress up.

I was not going to and I had an outfit picked out for tomorrow to do the interview, black skinny jeans, soft cashmere sweater in grey, from Paris, my black high-heeled Mary Jane Fluevogs, but well, I guess urban chic is not going to be the order of the day.

Instead.

I will be wearing one of my Hell Bunny dresses.

It’s super cute, and it’s so totally Halloween, I think my charges will be super happy that I am in it.

Here’s a shot of it.

It’s called the Idaho Dress.

Why?

Fuck if I know, but it’s hella cute.

It’s got Day of the Dead skulls on it just like the dress I wore over the weekend, it’s from the same company, but they are different colors and the style of the dress is slightly different.

I am super happy to wear it.

I think I will have a very fun time with my charges.

They will have a little Halloween parade at school and then it’s off to trick or treat.

Not exactly sure where we will be going, but I have been asked to accompany them and I can’t think of something sweeter than taking a child trick or treating on Halloween.

So grateful for my sweet little life.

And that the hours passed quickly today.

All the things my friends.

All the things.

Almost There

Almost to the weekend.

So close I can taste it.

I am ready.

I am so ready.

It’s been a long week, not horrible, just long.

I’ve seen my therapist, had a huge aha moment with her, felt some things get inwardly re-arranged and they’re still settling.

I saw my supervisor and we had an amazing session.

I have seen six clients this week.

I have two more to see tomorrow.

I have worked full days at work.

I have one more to go.

One more.

Then.

Saturday.

OH.

How I have been dreaming about you.

It just can’t get to me fast enough.

And the week has gone by pretty quick, for which I am grateful.

Sometimes anticipation of an event can make the time getting there super painful.

Exquisite pain.

“It’s almost Christmas!” My little girl charge said twirling around in her ballet leotard and tutu.

I hate to break it to you kiddo, but it’s the first week in October, it’s going to be a minute.

Despite, yes, ugh, seeing the first Christmas decorations up at Nordstrom’s Rack last weekend when I went to do some clothing shopping.

I mean, sure, they had some Halloween stuff up too, but really the bulk of it was Christmas stuff.

I was a touch horrified.

Let me enjoy the autumn please.

Let me have my Halloween.

“What are you going to be for Halloween?” My oldest boy charge asked me.

He was not satisfied with my response of “a nanny.”

“Come on!” He demanded.

“Um, a grad student?” I smiled.

“No!” He said, literally stomping his foot.

“What about a psychotherapist?” I added, trying not to chuckle too much at his expense, he was so serious.

“That’s not a costume!” He opened his eyes really big and huffed out air from his cheeks.

I don’t have a costume, although I could pull off a pin-up girl really easily, I have a couple of dresses that are retro pin-up.

But pin-up might be, um, well, a tad sexy for my nanny day job.

I might wear of Day of the Dead skull print dress.

It’s also a touch on the pin-up side, but I can down play the make up and hair, and make it cute instead of sexy.

Child appropriate.

I won’t see my therapist that day, she’ll be out of town, but I will have clients, at least I think I will have one, I have to double-check, it feels like one of them recently cancelled for that day, but I can’t remember off the top of my head.

So.

Whatever I do wear needs to translate to going in to my internship and seeing clients.

I get a head of myself.

It’s not Halloween yet.

Nor is it Christmas.

I am just anticipating my weekend.

And that’s enough.

I’m almost done with my antibiotics too.

Which is nice, they upset my tummy a bit.

I have one more day and then done with them.

I still have had intermittent tooth pain, but I’m dealing.

Just taking ibuprofen and trying to stay hydrated.

I feel like drinking more water is always helpful, no matter what.

I hope the pain passes.

I had it come on pretty bad yesterday at the end of the work day and it was distracting at my internship, then I woke up this morning and nothing.

A bit of pain in the late afternoon today, but end of day at work was doable.

It’s been not so hot over the past week.

I do hope it passes.

If it continues or gets worse I’m just going to suck it up and make another appointment and let my dentist poke around in there some more.

Not excited for that.

So.

Hey tooth fairy.

Cut this lady a little slack.

The dentist didn’t see any cavities, nothing showed up on the x-ray, so stop hounding me for a tooth, I ain’t got one to give.

Anyway.

Who cars about my teeth when the weekend is almost here.

I’m not excited, really, ha.

I have to also remember, in all the excitement to book my ticket for travel.

I need to book by October 15th.

Which means I should do it this weekend as next weekend, October 13th-15th, is a school weekend.

I am happy that I can still use the ticket and book flight.

It’s nice to look forward to travel.

Even if I won’t necessarily take it for a little while.

I will still get to take it and I won’t be throwing $435 down the drain.

I have wasted plenty of money on lesser things, but travel is sacred to me.

I love to get on a plane and go.

Oh.

I always want to come back home, but I do like to go somewhere new and explore it, sometimes I also want to go to somewhere I know.

I will always have a lech to travel to Paris, always.

It is familiar and still foreign enough and though I have been many times, there always is something new to see.

I almost found myself applying for a two month artist in residency for next year.

But then.

Haha.

I remember, um, you might be in school those two months.

Not going to happen.

It’s a prestigious fellowship.

It’s two months rent and $1,000 a month to support your time plus travel expenses.

Nothing to sneeze at.

I applied for it once, I think that’s why I got the notice in my e-mail today.

But I had to laugh after I took a minute to realize, of course I can’t go for two months to Paris in 2018 since I’m in school and have other really important obligations, but I laughed at the photo the fellowship was using as an enticement.

It was two people romantic and laughing in the sun on a bridge near Pont Neuf.

Which is a gorgeous and magical.

But the fellowship is for February and March.

Which are not sunny months at all.

AT ALL.

They are dark and cold and dreary and wet and rainy.

That photo definetly taken in summer or late spring.

Not way it was FEBRUARY.

Also it’s why, I bet, they do the fellowship at that time because it’s probably the least traveled time to go to Paris, thus cheaper, than any other time, maybe August, which is when the city basically shuts down in the heat and everybody leaves to go on vacation.

It was a lovely fantasy, though, to indulge in for a minute.

But really.

My time needs to be focused here.

Here is where it’s at.

All the things.

And Friday.

Hello weekend.

I have waited so long for you.

I can taste your nearness and it is maddening.

Seriously.

 

OUCHY

Ouch.

Damn it.

Fucking to all hell.

I have a tooth ache.

And.

Yes.

I suspect.

An infection.

Currently running a fever, experiencing some tenderness and swelling on the right side of my face.

The fever is recent.

Started about half hour, 45 minutes ago.

The swelling is also new.

But I suspect that the infection, because that’s what I think it is, started in the last day or two.

I have had some tooth pain, sharp, unexpected, piercing pain, on and off for a couple of weeks.

But nothing like this.

Nothing where I am gasping out loud when it hits.

I almost did so with a client tonight.

Thank God I only had one client.

Yesterday I was feeling pretty punked by the end of the day and I thought, though the tooth was hurting a bit, I just thought, I’m tired, it’s been a long week, I’m not feeling great, and I cancelled my 7:30p.m.

But today.

I woke up and everything was fine.

Until about 3:30p.m. maybe four p.m.

Then I started to feel weird and a couple of times on the walk up the hill on Chenery Street I had a quick, fast, stabbing, piercing, white hot siren of pain in my tooth.

When I got back to the house with my charges I took some ibuprofen and I called my dentist.

I had an appointment in early November, I think somewhere in the back of my head that I thought I could make it until then, grin and bear it so to speak, but after the walk up the hill and realizing that once again I felt exhausted and the idea of going to my friends birthday dinner and dance party made me want to cry, that something was seriously wrong.

My god.

I am fucking burning up.

Fevers are weird.

Anyway.

I called and the receptionist said they could see me on Wednesday at 2 p.m.

I took the appointment and when the mom got home I told her and when I was telling her I could feel tears, OUCH! OUCH! Oof, sorry, yikes, tooth said hello, in my eyes.

That is a huge sign for me.

I have learned that I am sick not necessarily from actually acknowledging the symptoms, but from being in enough pain that it solicits tears.

Then.

Well, then I know.

And that took me years to learn.

I got used to turning off the pain receptors, ignoring them, not letting myself feel the pain, emotional or physical, a long, long, long time ago.

It was not safe to express pain.

It was not safe to be vulnerable.

Not at all.

Never.

Never.

Never.

I got used to toughing it out without realizing I was toughing it out.

I recall being 17 years old and having gotten really sick, so sick that I was walking around the house in a nightgown hallucinating and in so much pain I could barely talk, the back of my throat was on fire and coated with white mucus and my tonsils were so big I could barely breathe.

I called my mom at work and she couldn’t come to get me, she couldn’t leave work.

I called in sick to my debate team, we had a meet that next morning.

It was the only one we lost that year and boy howdy did I never hear the freaking end of it, but hey, I was in the emergency room by that point, so whatever.

I don’t remember much of what happened.

Except that the doctor yelled, I mean, yelled, at my mom for not bringing me in sooner.

I overheard, “she could have died,” and drowned the rest of it out.

Severe tonsillitis and strep and yes, wait for it, MONO.

How the fuck I caught the kissing disease is beyond me, but I had the trifecta.

The doctors didn’t want to do a tonsillectomy because they felt I was too old, it was too risky.

They pumped me full of antibiotics and I think I slept a lot for a few days.

I was back at school Monday though, to hear all about how I had let down the team.

The funny thing.

I can remember a lot of, what to me were wonderful things, about that Saturday afternoon after we left the hospital.

My mom took us, to the Willy Street market and bought crab salad and croissants, they were a day old, but fuck, they were croissants.

And ice cream.

And she was really nice to me.

I remember the way that crab salad sandwich tasted and the bowl of ice cream, butter pecan, and falling asleep on the couch.

It was wonderful.

How crazy is that, that one of my fondest memories is of being terrifically sick.

Anyway.

I wasn’t allowed to feel sick or be sick or act sick, or sad or angry, or any emotions really.

Maybe happy was allowed.

I don’t recall.

So today I was pretty impressed with myself, even though, yes, it could be argued that I should have called in a few days ago.

Should, would, could.

Ways to beat myself up that right now I prefer to not do.

Instead.

I will celebrate the fact that I listened to someone admonish me to take care of myself and I heard my boss in my head saying, “call in the mornings, every morning and see if there are any cancellations.”

Because when I got off the phone with my best friend I felt the fever tick up a notch and I could feel an intense hotness in my cheek starting.

I called my dentist.

8:45 p.m. on a Friday.

Expecting to leave a message and hope that someone would cancel and they would call me in.

Except.

Holy shit!

Someone answered.

My dentist has an answering service!

After listening to what I said and pulling up my chart she said come in tomorrow at 9 a.m.

There’s already an appointment, but she’d make sure that the dentist would see me, it meant double booking and it means I might have to wait, but better to wait in the office and be ready to go than wait until Wednesday.

Because frankly.

I am not going to make it until Wednesday.

Super freaking grateful I know to take suggestions.

So grateful.

I won’t be going to yoga in the morning.

Nope.

I’m going to the dentist.

Wish me luck.

I am a little scared.

Just a little.

Ok.

A lot.

I am a lot scared.

And that’s ok.

I’m going anyway.

I will be taken care of.

I always am.

Three Quarters

And then some.

Through my second weekend of the school semester.

Third year of my program.

One day of classes tomorrow.

And it’s a short day, I’ll be out by noon.

Very happy for that.

I almost forgot that I won’t really have a day off until next Sunday since I’m in school all weekend, I saw a client yesterday, in addition to being in class, and today was a great big full day, 9a.m.-8p.m.

Sometimes I come out of it in a bit of a daze.

I didn’t so much tonight.

The fresh air helped.

The beautiful crescent moon in the sky lured me home and I had many thoughts and much dreaminess over take me.

And then I was home.

It was as though today was a dream.

Albeit a full one of learning.

The school weekends are not as difficult as they have been over the last two years, partially because I am in internship, I am seeing clients, I’m doing the therapy, I am a therapist.

So the school stuff seems almost, but not quite, irrelevant.

I am constantly learning more and I feel a softening in myself around a lot of it and a trusting, a much greater trusting, of my intuition than I have ever had.

This is a nice space to be in.

I remember how exhausted I was after my first weekend of school my first semester, first year, I was obliterated, I would get home in a daze and slowly shed the day and pack my lunch for the next day and fall the fuck out exhausted.

I remember how much my brain hurt.

I feel like I am still learning and the learning is richer, fuller, deeper, but it doesn’t quite wear me out as much as it did before.

I think my capacity for taking in new information as grown.

Or perhaps I have just assimilated it all in my brain.

Either way, yes, I am tired, but not blasted to smithereens.

I can see being up for a little while, I can see having a snack, I can see writing my blog and not feeling as though my brains are leaking out my ears.

And yes.

I am a little bummed that I don’t have tomorrow off, I mean, who really wants to be in school on a Sunday?

Especially with it being glorious Indian Summer in San Francisco.

But.

I am hopeful that I will get to have some enjoyment.

I’ll be done by noon and I was thinking I might hit up some fellows in the Mission around 12:15p.m., hang out, get right with God, and then have the rest of the day to I don’t know, do my nails, eat a nice lunch, and then all the maintenance stuff that needs to be done–grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, at home.

I don’t plan on making it a big crazy day, just some mellow self-care.

Which is always needed during school weekends.

I went out to lunch today with a couple of my friends in the cohort and got caught up.

I have invites to Miami and Nevada, to Paris.

I like these things.

My friend joked she knew how busy I am, but one day she was going to get me to come to her home in Nevada.

Maybe if I get that car I’ve been contemplating.

That could be a possibility.

And.

One of my other friend’s lives in Miami and she’s always telling me I have a spot to stay.

I haven’t been to Miami since I was 19.

And I was homeless.

Not really a trip that I want to replicate.

Or experience.

I would like to have a new relationship with Miami, see it through my friend’s eyes, check out the food, the art, the beaches.

And of course, Paris is often on my mind since my darling friend moved back.

I miss her so much at school sometimes, it’s hard.

I am thinking since I withdrew from doing the ALC ride that I might want to do a trip to celebrate my graduation from the Masters program in late May, Barcelona for a few days and Paris for a little bit.

Not sure yet what that might look like, but it’s definitely up there in my head.

Fuck.

God damn it.

That reminds me.

I have to call Sun Country and find out if I need to use that ticket that I have from my cancelled Christmas trip to Minneapolis last winter.

I vaguely remember that I either have to book travel by the time I bought it, I had a year to use it, and of course, I haven’t used it.

I just don’t recall if I have to use it, ie travel, by the time I bought the ticket, which I think was mid-October of last year, or if I just have to book the ticket to travel by that time.

I need to call and find out ASAP.

I mean.

It’s coming up on the last week of September.

I may only have three weeks to use that thing or be out the money.

I suspect I may be out the money.

Which I will live with.

I was sad that I had to cancel those travel plans last year add in a Thanksgiving with head lice–cancelled travel plans for that too, a birthday party where the venue failed to alert me they were going to be renting space out to a private corporate party (Free Gold Watch), so there was not a party, although there was a nice brunch with folks in Cole Valley, and a Christmas that I spent pretty much alone and sitting in a movie theater watching a movie on my own, well it was not the holidays I thought I was going to have.

Truth be told.

The holidays have been wonky for me for a while.

And I’m smart enough to know to not hang any kind of expectations on them.

I do want to find out about the ticket.

I mean.

I may just figure out a way to fly somewhere for a few days.

It’s not like I have vacation time to take at work.

I don’t know.

It’s probably a lost cause, but at least I need to look into it.

Anyway.

This rambling blog is showing me that perhaps I am a tiny bit tired after all.

One more day to go.

Almost there.

So close.

Good night.

Sweet dreams.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite!

Two Days Left

Just sayin’.

Before.

This blog is going to be going dark.

Well.

Sort of dark.

Just off social media.

I also realized, after talking with my therapist about it, she’s a huge advocate that I don’t stop writing and has in fact, encouraged me to submit to Psyched, that I have to pull as many blogs off my facecrack page as possible.

One could foreseeably go through my page and find the link to it.

So.

Periodically I am going to start removing them from my timeline.

I am not sure if I should delete them completely.

I mean.

I already have copies of them here on my blog, I can go into my archives at any time and access them.

But.

Would I miss the comments that some of my blogs drew?

I have had some really amazing feed back from people who follow my blog and sometimes that feed back has come from comments left on my Facecrack page.

Sometimes people comment directly on the blog, but most of the commentary has come from facecrook and a few from Twitter.

Once in a great while I have gotten a comment from elsewhere, one of my blogs a few years ago now got picked up by Buzzfeed and I got a bunch of comments from that.

That blog was about Burning Man.

Definitely something that Buzzfeed would have wanted to carry, most of my other blogs are interesting, but I’m biased, but not to the degree that one was.

I don’t even remember what the fuck I wrote about.

I could go back and read the blog I suppose, it still has the highest number of reads for a day, so stands out on my stats board.

I can read a lot between the line when I read my stats.

No, it doesn’t give me names of people, but it does give me locations.

And that is information.

And some blogs get hit more than others.

And some blogs may have gotten more hits from certain areas about certain topics.

It’s fun to read in between the lines.

Sometimes sad too.

I remember someone I was dating not dating a few years ago and he would read my blogs and sometimes I felt that I spoke more to him through my blogs then we did face to face and I broke my heart a lot trying to communicate and make things happen.

Of course nothing ever did.

But, man, the writing was good, sometimes being in pain elicits better art.

Or so I’ve been told.

There’s the break up blog with an ex-boyfriend that got a lot of play for about a week.

I am assuming it was the ex reading the blog.

And I wondered about that.

I also remember wishing that he had paid that much attention to actually talking to me than reading what I wrote.

It can be an easy out.

You can catch up on me here, have some ideas about what is happening in my life, make some assumptions and maybe sometimes those assumptions are right.

And maybe.

MAYBE.

They’re completely off base.

Suffice to say there have been times when I have written with a person in mind and another has made the mistake thinking it was about them.

I try not to use names.

But sometimes I steal images or words or ideas.

I am a thief, I admit it, if it looks pretty I’m going to steal it and put it in my bag of words.

Mine now, my sweetie thing.

Sometimes I want desperately that a person reads what I have to say and hears my voice.

My voice, specifically saying the words that are written here.

There was a blog I wrote recently and I read it out loud, as though I was speaking to the person whom I was thinking about, after I wrote it.

It helps sometimes in the editing.

To feel the words.

To feel how they sound coming out of my mouth.

I believe that I write very much like I speak, that you could be having a conversation with me.

Now.

This writing, let’s be frank, is more eloquent than my spoken words, there’s a bit of craft involved.

Sure.

I am writing at the speed of thought, but I go back after and I tweak here and there and blow up some images or sounds or I toss some glitter colored poetry into the mix and I think about.

 

His hands in my hair.

The sun through the window.

The flowers in a jar on my table.

The globe on its persimmon colored stand lit up, a nightlight of travel in my dreams, the ease and burden of being kissed so well that my heart shakes underneath my breast and my breath.

Shatters soft in my mouth.

 

Sure.

You know.

Moments like that when I want to whisper wanton woman poetry into the shell of another’s ear, so I read it out loud and there is a power there, a knowing of when I should end a sentence.

Pause.

I use a period.

I break the line, or sometimes, a comma, a hitch in the voice of the writing, a pause but not quite so firm.

When I may need firmness.

And then.

Short.

Quick.

Fast.

And it can be done, these subtle manipulations of language, the power of the word, the sword I split myself in half upon.

 

Like.

An apple you push your tongue into, eating me alive.

Devoured and sacrificed  on scriptures of play and the pleasure of prayer that is laugher.

Dimple song.

Torch song.

Flamed.

By.

The music of the spheres and the light of stars still echoing and crashing against the thrall of your collar bones.

And the soft, sweet dip of skin there, a sing-song of pulse and blood and the thrum of the rain of sunshine flooding through the back door.

Let me shelter you through the rain.

Let me be.

Your baby.

Baby.

Doll.

Baby.

Let me be your girl.

Cherries In A Bowl

My hair disheveled in the sunlight.

Sound of Chopin in the walls a susurration of hummingbird wings.

Flight of fancy.

Figurative.

Literal.

Light on the face of the moon.

Light in the eye of the blue storm.

Revery.

Summer grass.

Uncut, thick, lush, warm from sunlight.

Kisses like thunder building behind storm clouds.

July skies.

Pressing down.

Burdened with the knowledge of connection.

I sabotage myself.

Cherry flesh on my tongue.

Swallow the pit.

I always swallow the pit.

There in the spot of my stomach.

A fluttering.

And the light slanted down across the road and I am on his motorcycle.

A child.

Girl child.

Wild haired and windblown.

Sitting in front of my father on his motorcycle.

He steers with one arm wrapped around my waist and the other on the handlebar.

We fly like blown dander.

The flotsam and jetsam of cotton tree bloom thick in the air.

The slant of sun.

The press of sky.

The road unfurled underneath the wheels.

This moment.

Always.

Golden.

Memory like a savage at my throat.

Kissed me mercilessly.

Devouring every good intention.

Sentimental journey of devotion to the shrine of the past perfect father.

Welling sorrow on my face.

Heart, as per usual, on my sleeve.

Parting such sweet sorrow.

Abyss of longing.

Flying into that darknight.

The rush of falling only to be caught and pressed back and still and held.

There.

That undoing.

Stars flung out, scattershot like dust motes.

Freckled love on the bridge of my nose.

Asunder.

Lovelorn.

Forlorn.

Trampled by my own heart.

Fledgling girl.

Wet winged with love.

Fly away.

Into that sea of fireflies.

There, in the high grass.

Burgeoning.

Slender necks of snapdragon flowers.

Sweet coral pink and pale creamsicle throats.

The thumb of Eros pressed against the padded

Softness of my tender mouth.

Kisslet.

Kissling.

Kissed foundling.

Buried in the pillow of my cheek.

And.

Just.

There.

In tousled gold.

The sun spray on your face.

And.

The barely soft whispering word.

My longing to be heard.