Posts Tagged ‘Pride’

All The Beautiful

June 26, 2017

Babies.

Well.

Two of the beautiful babies.

I got to spend time with a very dear friend today and her 6 week old twins.

Oof.

Such goodness.

Beauties.

There was hours of catching up, I haven’t seen her in seven weeks, eight maybe?

We saw each other right before I left for Paris and had the twins while I was there.

I have missed her and it was so good to reconnect.

We talked and talked and it was wondrous to see her with her babies.

And.

Oh.

Yes.

I got to hold them too, one of them for a super long time, hours, literally, of having a small warm baby on my chest, snuggled in and cozy.

I brought her some homemade frittata I had made this morning–prosciutto and asparagus with parmesan and some nice chocolate and some flowers and the twins some gifts.

My standards–Jellycat bunny rabbits and my favorite children’s book–“I Am A Bunny” by Richard Scarry.

It was a gorgeous day and I managed to avoid most of the traffic for Pride.

I’m so grateful there are events like Pride, but I have to tell you, I don’t have much band width for those kinds of crowds anymore.

I was more than happy to be ensconced with my friend in her apartment catching up on all things life and school and love.

We had such a nice time together.

I will be spending more time with her in July when the family I nanny for is on vacation.

I will be surrounded by babies.

Even though I won’t be nannying for the three weeks the family is away.

I will also be picking up consultations at the internship, so even though I won’t necessarily be adding in clients at that time, I will be able to do consults, which is basically an initial assessment and counts towards my hours.

Which I am more than happy to pick some of that up when and where I can.

My friend though was quite happy to hear that I’ll have some time in July and she’ll be ready to get out of the house a bit more at that point and we can stroll around North Beach and be together and have coffee and cafe time and baby time.

“You can still have one!” She said to me, “look at you!”

Yes.

Every time I hold a baby, especially a newborn I do have a flashing moment of what would it be like, but I’m 44 I don’t expect that’s coming down the pipeline.

I have plenty on my plate as it is.

And I have gotten to have so many babies in my life, I am grateful, so grateful, for all the little ones I have gotten to take care of.

I laughed and smelled the little one in my arm and told her I was happy exactly as I am.

I am happy.

“You look amazing, so beautiful,” she said, and her husband concurred.

I have been given some really nice compliments lately.

It’s been nice.

It’s nice to have people see me and my happiness.

I am very happy.

Astounded with it at times and beyond grateful.

I really like who I am.

I like the shoes I wear, literally and figuratively, I got a new pair of “I’m a therapist” shoes to throw into the repertoire, Fluevog had a big huge sale and I couldn’t help it, I picked up one more pair.

They are investment shoes though, seriously, I will have them for years and years and years.

And some of my basic therapy clothes and wardrobe is starting to trickle in.

I just did a little bit of online ordering from GAP to fill out my therapist wardrobe.

I feel pretty damn grown up.

And loved and seen and happy and yeah, I don’t have complaints.

Sometimes I feel like there’s not enough time, but I have been squeezing in the time to be social and do my recovery and make work and take on clients and I have full days.

Super full.

They go fast and here it is the end of the weekend and it starts all over again.

I was invited to stay for dinner at my friend’s house, but I knew I needed to get back home, again managing to avoid the Pride traffic and super grateful for my scooter to zip through the avenues, I needed to take care of some things here and get myself ready for tomorrow and my supervision meeting before work and work and then being prepped for a new client tomorrow night after work.

I needed to get myself sorted.

I only have Sundays off now and so far it’s working, I do manage to be ultra creative about getting stuff done.

Finding pockets of time here and there.

Sometimes they are not big enough but I manage to sneak things in, a little grocery shopping here, an errand there, some time researching for clients, sometime writing for myself, cooking, laundry, you know, all the things.

The only thing suffering is my manicure.

I could use another two and a half hour block of time somewhere in my week.

It’s not going to happen until next weekend though.

And I also am in need of picking up my framed prints from Cheap Pete’s.

I thought I would do that today, but the twins were so dreamy, I stayed later than I had thought and it was super nice to help out my friends.

I will miss them so much when they move back to France.

Good thing I like going to France.

I know there will be visits.

Anyway.

I get far, far ahead of myself.

Right now.

Well.

It’s been a really good weekend and I am happy to wrap up the writing, tie up the loose ends and get ready for the week.

It’s sure to be busy.

It always is.

Ha.

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All The Gifts

June 26, 2016

The constellations in the sky.

The love in my heart.

The ocean, the waves this twilight, late afternoon walk to the beach, perfect curls and peals and no one there.

No one.

The whole city, and a few extra thousand folks, were all at Pride.

I didn’t have FOMO.

Fear.

Of.

Missing.

Out.

I thought I would, but truth is, I’m in the Mission and the Castro a lot and it felt like it was going to be like going to work and all the traffic and the drinking and sloppy, I just didn’t have it in me.

Although I did get dressed up for it, just in case I happened to change my mind.

I did the yoga and that was great.

Felt nice to be in the studio and stretch and get strong.

I had a nice breakfast at home then scootered up to the Inner Sunset and met my person and did the deal and connected and got perspective.

And fuck.

The gratitude.

Just whelmed me.

That I get to do all the things that I do.

That I get to go to New Orleans next weekend.

Next weekend!

I mean, it feels like I just got back from New York.

Heh.

I sort of did.

I mean.

There was a moment, and it was so brief, that I just waved it off, swatted it like a little gnat, I don’t have a date for Saturday night, oh boo hoo.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

You know.

The thing is, I do.

Me.

And I am damn fine company and not that there’s not interest.

There is.

I just have some rules about dating that I am pretty unbendable on, even if he is hella cute.

No touching.

Hands off.

That’s the policy, always has been, always will be, but it was sweet to get his messages and catch up, we’ve known each other for years and always stayed in touch.

We reconnected and that was nice.

Although, also a tiny bit disappointing to hear that there was a misadventure and a return to day counting.

Le sigh.

Oh well.

So it goes.

Although, it was sweet to hear the incredulity he had that I was still single.

I’m saving myself for Mike Doughty.

Ha.

Anyway.

I took myself down to the beach and I had me a me date and it was fantastic and I sat in the dunes and let the wind rumple my crinoline and sat with my face in the sun and let God blow love into my heart.

It was a good time.

I’m such a lucky girl.

Pink hair and all.

I think that this is going to be it for a while on the hair color too.

Time to go back to brown.

I’ll spend the summer pretty in pink, but yeah, I have been thinking it could be time to go back to my natural color.

I also thought about hacking it all off at the end of summer.

Go short again, cut off all the colored bits.

That’s on the table though, I do love my long, curly hair, I do.

But.

Yeah.

Maybe back to natural.

Who cares?

I am rambling.

Oh.

Ha.

And I could have had a date tonight too, now that I am reflecting.

I must have been putting it out there on my way back from the beach, I don’t know how the guy didn’t hit me, but I literally had a guy whip across the MUNI tracks and pull his car in front of me while I was crossing the street at Judah and 46th and ask me what I was doing tonight.

I was like.

What the fuck?

Do I really look like a prostitute?

Were you just hoping I would say, well, dear, I wasn’t doing anything, but since you zipped up in your brand new bright orange SUV mini Cooper (which is so not mini and so ugly), I’ve totally changed my mind.

Let me get in your car and give you a blow job.

What you say?

Fuck off.

I just walked around the car and kept going.

I’m not sure if he thought I was a working girl, I mean, I am sure there’s lots of extracurricular action going on this weekend, but come on.

I was walking home in my flip flops.

Of course, I am tall, maybe he didn’t see the beach wear.

Just the bright, hot pink, hella big, curly hair waving around my pink glitter lips.

I get it, but seriously, fuck off.

Besides, like I said, Mikey, I’ll be waiting for you, nice and cozy, down here by the sea in my little love shack.

hahahaha.

Oh.

I fucking amuse myself.

I do have a thought though to message him when he gets to San Francisco.

Then.

I heard “Don’t You Forget About Me,” and I heard Shadrach in my heart.

“Be the ball, Martines, be the ball.”

Yeah.

Like that.

Go where the water is warm.

Let myself be pursued.

I’m not real good at that, but I’m willing to try.

Flowers yo, courting, pursue me, damn it.

Ah.

Fuck.

I feel like I’m trying all sorts of things.

Although I have yet, and really don’t plan on doing so, returned to OkStupid.

I can’t bring myself to do it, after having a profile on that site for like six, seven years, time to move on, it didn’t work.

And.

Yet.

I still feel like I am hurtling, inexorably toward the man I am supposed to be with.

So.

So.

So.

Not worried.

I’m in love with me.

Yeah.

I know what that sounds like, you can fuck off, but it’s true.

I really do feel that way.

It only took like a few decades or so.

Heh.

And it may change tomorrow.

But right now.

Life is so fucking good.

It really is.

I have so many astounding gifts.

I am so grateful.

If life were fair.

I would be dead.

I am alive.

I am a light.

I am loved.

I am.

I am.

I am.

So.

Very.

Loved.

 

Sashay

June 25, 2016

Ooh.

The good timing.

“Are you dressed up for Pride?” My friend asked as she stopped in front of the cafe on Church Street that I was hanging out at doing the deal with another lady before going to Our Lady of Safeway and doing that thing I do on Friday nights at that spot where they do those things.

Wink.

Wink.

Nudge.

Nudge.

I mean.

I always knew I would be a part of a “secret society” but not this one.

Ha.

Oh.

I love it.

“How come you know so many people?” One of my charges asked when we were walking around the Mission and I ran into a friend.

I get around kid.

And I digress.

Back to the original conversation.

“Nope.” I replied to the young woman, herself a portrait of fierceness, “I’m just dressed for me.”

And I was.

And I will continue to be.

Even when I wonder what the fuck people will think, then, I remember, oh yeah.

It’s none of my fucking business what people think of me.

Only what I think of me.

And I like the way I dress.

Twirl girl.

Oh my gosh.

I got two new dresses in the mail today.

I had a feeling they would arrive and I was super happy to see the box in the hallway when I got home tonight.

I ordered them thinking about New Orleans and wanting to have a couple of cute dresses to sashay around the French Quarter in.

Or just, you know, be dolled up in to sit around on the veranda at the HISTORIC MANSION I’m staying in.

I showed my person a photo of the Air BnB and she was like, “you have to take a bath in that tub! You just have to.”

Oh my God.

Yes, yes, I do.

In fact, I was thinking about doing a photo shoot in it.

I have a photo of myself from a few years back, must be six now, in Texas, at a wedding in a mansion in the Hill Country, outside of Austin.

I was wearing this navy blue retro vintage dress with small white polka dots and coral colored espadrille wedges.

I had short hair that was a little retro flip and I was wearing a white head band with a big flower in it.

I looked fabulous.

And skinny.

Fuck.

What was I doing?

Oh!

I must have just come off the AidsLifeCycle ride, yup, my calves look crazy.

Heh.

A good reason to do some bicycle training again.

Fuck.

I also look so young.

It was only six years ago.

Damn.

Time, it does fly.

So.

Maybe I’ll do another photo shoot with me in a dress in a bathtub in a mansion.

I mean.

Why not?

I’ll have to get someone to come back to the room with me and help me out with that though, not really able to do a full bodied selfie.

Not that I wouldn’t try.

Especially considering the two new dresses I got.

They are hella cute.

The first is not going to work for me right away.

The color does not quite work with my hair.

It will, the color just needs to soften a tiny bit.

Right now it has too many magenta pinks going on, it will fade off a little and be the perfect pastel pink in about a week I think.

Then the kelley green dress will look gorgeous with my hair.

Ooh.

I can’t wait.

Until then, though, the other dress works perfectly with my hair color right now and I believe with any and all colors I may do with my hair in the future.

It’s white, has a square cut bodice, A-line skirt, and a large cobalt blue rose pattern that is feminine and fabulous and all that.

Totally on point.

I tried it on and twirled and sashayed down my little hallway.

I threw on a black crinoline underneath.

Fuck.

Even more fabulous.

Added a black cardigan and it looks incredible.

Very cute.

Very sexy.

Very femme.

My curves look good and I didn’t have any sort of upset about that, that I have curves, that I’m not some skinny little thing.

I have been thinner, smaller, but not by much, but I don’t know that I have ever felt quite this relaxed and at ease in my body.

I love my body.

Nope.

It’s not perfect.

And thank God for that.

I would be boring.

I like my flair.

“Your hair looks even better in person,” he said to me tonight, “and the pink flower, you put flair in your hair.”

Yes.

Yes, honey I did.

Later tonight when my friend gave me a hug goodnight he whispered in my ear, “you looked beautiful tonight.”

Aw.

Thanks darling.

It was a nice thing to hear.

I was wearing one of my favorite Modcloth numbers, a swing dress with heart shaped pockets, a heart shaped bodice, and behind the neck halter tie top, my hair, the mountainous pink of it, up off my neck, curls falling all over the place, bright pink rose clip and a sequined star in there too, and I felt really good.

I love being glamourous.

I love wearing makeup and being fabulous.

Sometimes it takes me a minute to get there.

But get there I do.

And I love that I don’t do it for anyone else.

Just myself.

I’m not doing it for Pride, although, I am more than happy to be thought of in that way, I’m doing it for myself.

I’m not dressing for a man.

Although, should I attract one, I’m not going to be upset with that.

As the case may be, tonight I thought I would probably have a date, and it didn’t happen.

But considering I was on three this past week, really not too upset about that, and the weekend is young and I have time.

Especially since the podcast canceled.

And I have a fabulous new dress to wear out and about.

Sashay.

Work, turn to the left / Work, now turn to the right / Work, sashay, shante / Work, turn to the left…

Happy Pride family.

I love you no matter what day of the year it is.

I mean.

Seriously.

xoxoxo

Darling Little Day

June 18, 2016

Even though it started rough.

Wow.

Sometimes it’s a wonder I get out of bed.

The head games that happen before I have even swung my legs out of the bed, they can be a little, well, crazy.

I got up though, and once I got moving I knew I was going to be fine.

Even not knowing what I was going to exactly do today.

It was going to be fine.

So I did the things that help me get to that place of being completely ok with what is happening, fresh sheets on the bed, laundry in the wash, kneeling down, taking some minutes, asking for guidance and direction, reading some stuff, saying some stuff, and a nice mellow, relaxed breakfast.

Since I had no where to be other than the noon yoga class I signed up for.

I did a lot of writing.

That always helps.

I don’t even recall exactly what I wrote of, not that I normally keep track of it.

It’s rather like empty a drawer of junk and being open for what God wants to put into my day rather than trying to organize any sort of relevant thoughts or plans.

Plans.

When I make them.

Foiled.

All the time.

What then usually happens, especially if I’m on the beam, is the reality of my day is much better than what I had planned.

Yoga was like pulling teeth.

To get me to.

However, when I was there, it was amaze balls.

Like the best class I have ever had.

I did ALL the poses, I was in my body, I could feel a shift that’s probably been building for a while, but I felt so on and in the groove and just there.

It’s been four months and I am so happy I have stuck it out and kept going.

It’s hard getting there, my head will start telling me stories about how I don’t need to go.

Funny that.

How my head likes to tell me to do things that don’t serve, even when I know, with some other mysterious part of my being, that doing the very things I don’t want to do will actually make me feel better.

Take the contrary action, Carmen, it really works.

All the fucking time.

There is a solution.

Thank God.

And it is almost always the opposite of what the brain says to do.

Don’t go, you don’t need to, you’re tired, there’s other stuff happening that’s more important, yada, yada, yada.

Ad fucking nauseam.

Anyway.

I went.

And it was spectacular and my teacher told me that she wished she had taken a photo of when I first started, “you are so much more flexible, it is amazing, it’s the best part of my practice, getting to see people when they first start and then, if they are consistent, how they change.”

I really did feel good.

So good that I don’t want to go tomorrow.

Ha.

I know.

Right?

Like.

I worked so hard today, I don’t have to do it tomorrow.

But I do.

Maybe not yoga, per se, but I have certain things that I just need to do and I’m cool with that, it let’s me do all the fun stuff.

Which today, was really chill stuff, the laundry, the balancing the checkbook, the yoga, some grocery shopping, a nice hot shower, some pleasure reading, cleaning out my closet a little, I sold some stuff to Crossroads–things that were nice, but just never brought me happiness when I wore them, and then took myself out to a little dinner at Red Jade in the Castro.

Went and hung out with my people and did the deal.

Then I actually hung out afterward.

I went and fucking fellowshipped.

I haven’t done that in a while.

It was good.

I mean.

Really good.

Just to get reconnected to some friends and catch up and been seen and see fellows.

So lovely.

We went to Chow.

And I haven’t been to Chow in awhile and I love Chow.

I didn’t eat as I had already had my dinner, but to sit with a pot of tea and laugh and tell jokes and swap stories and be fun and just alive.

God damn.

I am so lucky to be alive.

It is just astounding, all things considered.

And tomorrow?

More yoga, even though I don’t want to go.

Heh.

Then.

Yes.

The pink hair.

After that a date.

I’m actually rather tepid about the date and have come inches from canceling.

However, I remind myself it’s just an exploration, see if there’s chemistry, have a cup of coffee, meet another person, let go of the results.

Show up and see what happens.

Like I said, if I don’t want to do something, I probably should.

Even if the date doesn’t go well I’ll have done something outside of my comfort zone and that is always a good thing.

It’s a late afternoon/early evening date.

So coffee could roll over to dinner, but it doesn’t have to.

I may have the evening free.

I may not.

I will probably want to show off my hair like the hussy I am, but that’s normal.

And I’m quietly pleased that my hair will be pink for Pride.

I’m not even a pinch hitter for my team, I’m rather fond of the opposite sex, but I love, adore, respect and have great admiration for the men and women and all the in between shades of humanity, after all that’s happened, I will be with the city at Pride this year.

I haven’t gone in a few years, it can be overwhelming, but I feel like the joy of being unified will outweigh the negatives of being in a big old crowd.

Plus.

I’ll be on that side of town doing the podcast up in Noe Valley.

Anyway.

I get ahead of myself.

I usually do.

Right now.

Right here.

It’s all right.

It’s all good.

In fact.

It’s pretty fucking spectacular.

Seriously.

Do You Have A Swim Suit?

June 30, 2014

Pack it.

Already packed.

My friend’s text arrived via a flurry of getting the kids ready for bath, bed, and beyond, and what do you want to do?

Duluth?

Minneapolis?

Stockholm, Wisconsin?

Kayak.

Canoe.

Swim.

ARGH.

I want to do it all and I want to be wearing my sassy sandals.

Which have been banished to the corner of my closet as I was so tempted to pack them anyway, they are so cute, when am I going to have a week of sandal wearing goodness in San Francisco?

Never.

And I certainly won’t be wearing these beautiful shoes to Burning Man.

Oh well.

I knew it was too much to put my ankle through, so in the closet they stay.

I am otherwise just about packed.

I wanted to be proactive partially because I feel better having it all ready and partially, well, the lady moves slow like still.

I am getting around a bit better and last night for the first time I took some tentative and slow steps from the bed to the bathroom.

Woohoo!

Ten steps indoors without the walking boot on.

Huzzah.

Sigh.

I could probably swim, but I will most likely just float.

I won’t be doing some nice steady, smooth, strong kicking, not yet.  I don’t want to move it around that much.  But I can probably still do a crawl stroke, I’ll just let my legs go dead behind, sort of like when we used pull buoys on swim team.

The buoys were held between the legs for, yes, you guessed it, buoyancy, and one did not kick ones feet while swimming laps.  They were to help perfect your crawl stroke.

I would like to say that I will be doing lots of active things on my summer vacation.

But perhaps it will be the inactive ones that I get to enjoy the most.

There’s a possibility of going out on a pontoon boat.

PONTOON!

I can’t remember the last time I was on a pontoon boat.  Maybe when I was ten, twelve?

I recall a summer Lake Wisconsin pontoon trip outside of Okee.

Okee is a teeny tiny town outside of Lodi, itself pretty small (2,500 pop.), on Lake Wisconsin.

If you were headed to the ferry driving towards Devil’s Lake State Park or Baraboo, you would bypass Okee.

It was on the wrong side of the Lake Wisconsin for the ferry.

But it was where an aunt of mine lived for a while and briefly, if memory serves, my mom and sister and I stayed with her too.

I remember the hammock in her back yard.

I also remember that the part of the lake she lived on was shallow.  I could wade out thirty, forty, fifty yards, and the water would only come up to my thighs, my eight year old thighs, so it was super shallow.

I got tall, but well after eight.

I don’t know what the occasion for the pontoon was, but it was definitely a party, it’s pretty much an excuse to drift slow and lazy on the river or lake and drink a lot of beer.

Hell, any gathering of my family in Wisconsin seemed to be a ocassion to sit by a lake and drink a lot of beer.

I don’t think my family is anything special in regards to this.

Pontoons are great for picnicking on too.

They just move so slow.

It’s sort of like being on a parade float, except it’s in the water.

Speaking of parade.

Pride was today and the hooligans were out early.

I had an errand to run up to 7th and Irving and the packs of champagne swilling, mimosa monkeys in rainbow colors flying their freak flags high were huge.

One particular group of teenagers, twelve, thirteen of them, on the back part of the N-Judah at 11:20 a.m. had the bottles of champagne going round, the Gatroade bottles going round, the flasks of cheap vodka already having been dumped into the sport drink bottles.

Nothing says good times like smell of purple Gatorade and vodka in the morning.

Blech.

They were having a great time and all of them had on body paint and net shirts and rainbow striped headbands and wristbands and of the entourage, one guy was gay.

The Pride part of the party was underscored by the “party” part of Pride.

San Franciscans don’t need much excuse to bring out a bottle and some bright neon net t-shirt action, be it Bay to Breakers or Pride, or Tuesday afternoon for that matter.

It was quite amusing to watch the faces of a few tourists who didn’t know what Pride was and were out at the beach and heading in to the city to go do tourist type things.

I was not going anywhere past 7th and Irving.

I had a moment of desire to hop further up and drop into Cole and Carl–grab my nanny clogs from the house I work out of for my trip, but the amount of people already on the train was just too much for me.

That is a side effect of this whole thing that has surprised me a little.

I have gotten a bit overwhelmed by crowds on recent excursions.

I suppose that it’s a bit of being extra cautious about my ankle and also having spent a lot of time by myself over these last few weeks.

This trip to Wisconsin will be a nice easing back into the human world.

It’s a little slower in Wisconsin anyhow and slow is great for me at the moment.

I will sit on the porch with my friend and drink coffee in the morning and look out towards the lake and perhaps see an eagle fishing for breakfast.

I will sit in the car and happily go on mini-car trips to the wilds of the North woods of Wisconsin.

Or perhaps I shall meander along with her through down town Hudson and procure an iced coffee at a cafe.

I will enjoy whatever happens, I’ll be with my best friend, even if I can’t keep up with her three boys, I will bask in their energy and be happy to be a guest in their home.

Off now to finish the packing.

And try to get to bed a tiny bit early.

The alarm is set for 4 a.m.

My flight out of SFO is at 7:30 a.m.

Eesh.

Grateful for the travel pillow.

And with that.

I shall see you tomorrow from the bustling metropolis of Hudson, Wisconsin.

 

 

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.

Get Messy

January 5, 2014

She told me today.

Stop trying to be perfect.

Work on acceptance, read this one story here.

Write about what I want other people to think of me.

What?

No.

I don’t want to write about that.

Then write about what I want to get from them, what I want them to do, how do I want to look and what is my idea of who I am.

I tell you what, none of these are my idea of fun.

Fuck me.

However, I am ever willing to do the work.

Even when it means re-applying the eye make up and getting vulnerable.

Even when it means showing up to get hurt.

I am going to fail, you are going to fail me, no one is perfect, which means I don’t have to be perfect and if I want to be in an intimate relationship there’s going to be pain.

“I am willing to get hurt,” I said, and something shifted.

Holy shit.

I am willing to get hurt.

I mean I get hurt all the time, I go through pain, things happen, life shows up, people are not who I think they should be, I get expectations, and then something completely weird happens.

I just don’t know that I have been in a place before in my life or my recovery where I was able to vocalize that, I am willing to get hurt.

Most of the time I am working pretty hard to not get hurt, to not connect, to stay safe by playing it safe.

I say I want intimacy, then I run the other way, I get a little, A LOT, scared, then I don’t want to deal with it.

Today, for whatever reason I was able to say it and mean it and it went from head to heart to gut.

Now to get messy.

Not quite certain how that looks, but I feel like it means living and trying and making mistakes and yup doing things differently.

Maybe it’s time to try a new direction with my writing.

For instance.

Get me out of my shell a little.

Writing on one hand connects me with myself, a creative force, and with others, especially when I blog.

Yet, I am completely by myself when I am doing it.

I am alone.

Aside–pet peeve–“Yeah, I know, I read your blog.”

I am not my blog.

It has my voice and there is loads of me here, but I am more than the sum of these words and there are some things I don’t write about, or can’t write about, or frankly don’t care to write about.

I am more than this summation of ideas and images.

Oh, it’s all me, but it’s not all of me.

Social media creates a false idea of connectedness wherein we are all in our rooms peering into the well crafted lives of others on facebook and okcupid and tumbler and twitter and linkedin and whatever else that we do tweeting and poking and posting and liking and commenting.

However, despite knowing what you posted last night on your facebook feed, nice pix of your cat, FYI, I haven’t actually seen you since before I left for Paris, which was over a year ago, and you don’t actually know what’s going on in my life.

Nor I in yours.

Oh, I get a little peek, but I don’t get you and you don’t get me.

What was suggested to me was to check out The Moth, a storytelling event that arose out of New York and is now happening here in San Francisco, where basically you tell true stories out of your life.

I like the idea.

The next event is going to be held at the Rickshaw Stop on January 13th.

Which has some special meaning to me as an important anniversary in my life.

However, I will be in Florida celebrating with family, not in San Francisco.

The events are slams.

I have done slams and I like them.

True, they are nerve-wracking, but I seemed to do well and I believe I am a decent performer and maybe that I could try a little something outside my comfort zone.

Ie my blog.

Which I am not about to give up.

It was also suggested a writers group and or a class on performing.

Had not thought of doing that last one, but why not?

Things that I can do and be a part of a creative community, not just where I am sitting by myself in my room writing.

I am pretty good at sitting by myself in my room writing.

Things to do to get me out there, rather than in here.

Here being my head, my ideas about where, who, what, when, the list of all my shortcomings and I am not enough.

Because I am enough and I am willing to do the work.

I am shocked sometimes at those who are not and devastated to watch what happens when people drift away.

I cannot afford to drift.

I know where I will drift to and it is not a pretty place.

Softening to this way of life, easing into it, allowing myself to be hurt, risking the mess to get to be beautiful, accepting that I am exactly where I am, that I don’t have a good idea of what’s best for me and that it really is ok to accept that people love me and care for me and respect me and what I do.

Who I am.

That I can acknowledge and accept that as well.

Let in the love, so to speak.

So much to keep learning.

And re-learning.

Not even judging that this blog is drifting into self-affirmation, Stuart Smalley land.

So what?

I can be alright with that as well.

Tomorrow I get messy.

I make mistakes.

And I allow the light in.

I will write a story to tell the Moth and go to the website and record my bit.

I will try to do something new and let myself not be good at it.

And be perfect and happy in my silly self willing to get hurt to get love.

The love is the better for the pain.

Richer, deeper, fuller, sweeter.

All things I wish for in my life.

So get ready for messy.

Doing the Work

July 1, 2013

Getting the rewards.

I woke up this morning from a fantastic dream.

I haven’t woken up in the middle of a REM session in some time.

It was a disturbing dream as well as it was quite realistic and for a moment I had thought it had actually happened.  I dreamed that I sleep walked to the neighbor’s house and made out with a boy.

MMMMmmm yummy.

I know it did not happen but it was a delight to wake up to.

I also woke up to a renewed resolve to take care of myself and really do the work that is necessary to get myself back on track.

I did my morning routine, made bed, said some words, asked for some guidance.

But instead of going right into the make breakfast and do some writing, I got fully dressed, tossed the bedding through the wash and went grocery shopping, for real sustainable food.

Not ice cream.

Not cookies.

Not popcorn.

Nope.

I got oatmeal and apples, bananas, low-fat cottage cheese, wild tuna, organic brown eggs, unsweetened vanilla almond milk, organic sweet 100 cherry tomatoes, baby carrots, home-made humus, good food, real food, nothing processed or dipped in sugar.

Then I came back and made oatmeal with banana and Frog Hollow apricots.

I made a pot of French press.

I said thank you for this food and I sat and ate it with mindful intention.

I savored it.

Then I wrote.

I felt cleaned out and hollowed from the pain of willful check out and ready to start over fresh.

Then I meditated and what do you know!

I got some direction that was unexpected and wonderful and I took the directions.

I went on an Artist Date!

I have not done one in some time.

One could argue that my six months in Paris was one long extended artist date, but it was also hard, heart breaking, heart wrenching work.

An Artist Date is light and easy and fun and just for the little girl in me.

I took myself out a walking on Haight Street, I was headed to Mendel’s.

Mendel’s is an awesome arts, crafts, paper, fabric, costume, DIY store.

They have a little bit of everything for everyone.

They also have the best sticker collections I have seen in a long time.  I am a whore for stickers.  I have said it before and I say it again.  I am also a picky whore.  I don’t like all stickers and I often will go into a shop that has them and leave disappointed.

Not today.

I got decorative butterfly stickers, classic movie poster stickers, Tiffany stained glass art stickers, Redoute rose stickers, and collage art mermaid stickers.

Divine.

The little girl in me clapped with glee.

I also got supplies to make myself a hair clip.

Oh, not just any hair clip, but a HAIR CLIP.

Ok, if you’re a dude, you can stop reading for the moment as I girl gush.

I got fabric glue, recommended by the clerk, three kinds of ribbon, an oversized vintage wooden bicycle button, a bare clip to glue everything too, pink ostrich feathers, burlap fabric (to give it a sort of rustic steam-punk edge), sea-foam netting, and a fabric bird clip.

Put a bird on it!

I am making an oversized, over the top, over done just enough, hair fascinator for the playa.

Why?

Because the ones I see in the store are a lot of money and I haven’t found one yet that combines all the elements of whimsy that I want them to have.

Plus, I have thought for years of doing it and after trolling Etsy the other day for some ideas I just decided I would make one for myself.

I got a lot of ideas.

I saw a lot of fun material.

The clerk that was helping me out and making suggestions like the direction I was taking it and said, “when you’re done send us a photograph and we’ll put it up on our site.”

Will do.

I also scored a black straw hat at the Good Will and I have some plans for that as well.

I got glue baby.

After my delightful artist date I confirmed that I will be house sitting for friends in the city this weekend.

Not the friends who had reached out to me either.

Turns out they could not afford my ask.

Turns out I was fine with that and I made not judgements and had no qualms and felt really good for asking for what I needed without first saying yes to the commitment.

I would have said yes, gotten there, realized they thought they were helping me out and when I wanted to get paid there would not have been recompense.

Or perhaps there would have been, but it would not have been worth my while.

I officially ask for what will actually cover my costs to house sit.

If I am going to do it I need to make a certain amount.

I had another set of friends hop on the house sitting gig train minutes thereafter, literally, they ask me what I needed, I responded, they said GREAT we can do that, that’s normal rates, you’re in kid.

I have sat for them before, so it’s a nice gig and I will get to be in the Castro, fortunately after the melee of Pride weekend and out of the melee of Fourth of July in East  Oakland.

This is also good as I picked up a commitment to be somewhere on Sundays and to take care of being humble enough to ask for help with my food issues.

The relief I got asking for help was huge.

I don’t want to do the work, I just want the reward.

But it does not work like that and I realize if I just got the reward it wouldn’t mean as much, it would be trivial.

I did not trivialize myself or my experience today and I had a really good day.

Basic and service oriented.

With a few stickers and feathers thrown in for fun.

Itchy Scratchy

June 28, 2013

I am feeling like I could just crawl right out of my skin.

Part of it is the weather, which I am not used to, it’s cool, I mean, it’s not cool, it’s hot and muggy and sweaty and sticky and although I did not think I was overdressed, I was a little.

I am debating taking a cool shower tonight before settling in.

I can’t remember the last time I took a shower to cool off.

San Francisco is usually cool this time of year.

I wonder if the Bay will actually have a warm and sunny Pride weekend?

It certainly deserves one.

I recall, out of all the Prides I have been a witness to, at some point the pink triangle that gets spray painted on Twin Peaks for the event always blurred out by the fog.

Always.

I sort of think that it won’t this year.

Apropos.

I am feeling itchy and scratchy too as I am about to embark on a house sit and although I did ask for everything I need I do know that it can easily become a way for me to isolate.

“I feel really uncomfortable I said to my friend tonight,” as I unlocked my bike, “I feel neither here nor there.  Like what’s the point of getting known here when I’m just going back to San Francisco.”

“I know,” she said, “and it’s too funny that we just bought a house here.”

It is.

But wonderful too, especially when there was a moment when I thought she and her husband would be moving out of the Bay area completely.

She works in the City too, so I will still get to see lots of her.

Lots might be an exaggeration, she’s a doctor, a very, very, very busy doctor.

I don’t get to see a lot of her in general, but when I do, it is good.

My tongue felt stuck tonight though and I felt teary, and hot, and I declined an invitation to go out to dinner, I wanted to get back to my side of the crazy before it got really crazy.

Next thing I am uncomfortable with and I know it’s just going to get worse before it gets better is the fireworks are starting to go off.

Firecrackers, M-80s, little guys, big guys.

It makes an already uncomfortable ride home even more so.

I am debating not doing the commute for a few days.

And I just realized that I will be in the city for the weekend starting tomorrow night, so that will help.  Although I come back to Graceland Tuesday evening.  And the Fourth is Thursday night.

I have an odd work schedule due to the holiday and I don’t know exactly what is going to be happening with next week, but I will work Monday and Tuesday, possibly, although not 100% Wednesday, have Thursday off, and possibly work Friday.

Oh!

And my uncle Boy is coming to town!

I am super excited to see him, generally I just see him at Burning Man.

Yes, that’s right, my uncle goes to Burning Man, you thought the crazy was just with me?

I remember the first time that I saw him at the event, it sort of blew me away, mostly because I was flummoxed as to what my boss was trying to express.

“Your Uncle Marty came to see you,” she said, “he left a note on your tent.”

I stared at her.

“Uh, I don’t have an uncle Marty,” I said, “is that somebody’s weird playa name?”

“Are you sure?” My boss said, “he really looks like you.”

Then he came around the corner of the trailer and I saw him, “Uncle Boy!”  I shouted, “what are you doing here?”

What he was doing was the same thing I was doing, having our second burns on playa.  It turns out he had come the year before to grieve, as too did I.  He became so enamored with the event that he’s been coming back every year.

He has an art car he made, he started volunteering at Gate and with DPW (now this is my father’s older brother, Boy is the name the family moniker for the oldest son, I believe it is a Polynesian tradition, which means my father who just turned 64, would make Uncle Boy 66 or 67.  Yeah, that’s how my family rolls.) and a couple of years ago he bought an old 33 foot Blue Bird school bus and renovated it out to be his trailer.

This year he added a deck to the top.

He is a retired welder, so he knows what he is doing.

One day, I dream a little dream, I will get a Bambi Airstream and I want him to weld some things to it, make it into a flaming heart, and fingers crossed keep it stored at his place, of course I get way a head of myself.

Burning Man has a way of doing that to me.

Sidebar!  I finally, after six burns, invested in a utility belt and I ordered a new pair of boots on-line today, my two “splurges”.  I got a great deal on the belt, significantly cheaper than the majority of the ones I see being sold to the public–it’s made out of recycled bicycle tires!  And the boots, on sale too!  So, not a huge investment, but one that will make my life that much easier to deal with on playa.

Uncle Boy is also a Vietnam Veteran.

I just realized I have been proud of the fact for a long time, he did three tours, and he was a helicopter pilot.

Don’t mess with me, I’ll sic my uncle on you!

I should tell him that, he’s coming into San Francisco next week for a helicopter veteran convention and we are going to have lunch.

The last time we had lunch together it was at Burning Man in the commissary the day of the Man burn.

Funny, I don’t feel so itchy and scratchy anymore.

Looking forward to a nice weekend, a proud weekend, a Pride weekend, and the opportunity to tell one of my family members how much I love them.

All good things.


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