Posts Tagged ‘Public Works’

Get Out With Your Girls

February 7, 2015

Ok then.

I did it.

I went and hung out with some ladies.

Jesus fuck.

I had no idea how much I needed to just hang out with some ladies and kick it at Burger Meister.

I didn’t even eat, I had gotten to do that already tonight at work, work, which was intense, long day, two sick boys, extra hours, thank god I made it through the week.

And let myself take a Uber into work this morning.

The gale winds did not speak well for traveling by bicycle and I knew the rain was close behind, I could smell it this morning when I opened the back door to my studio and heard the surf crashing on the beach.

I took a car.

That feels all luxurious and shit, which, let me tell you was not, despite it being Uber which I like a little more than Lyft, I tried the new Uber service, Pool, which was ok, although, the driver did the cardinal sin of waiting too long for the second passenger, they are only supposed to wait two minutes when picking up a shared ride, I came rather close to being late for work.

And I couldn’t tell if it was the passenger that was already in the car, or the driver, but the bad breath was foul.

Bad, bad, bad.

I got good and grateful though, to not be riding my bicycle in the weather and though it meant being trapped inside for the majority of the day, I got through.

And although I found myself meandering through the Mission in weird weather after work killing time, I took care of myself by doing a lot of contrary actions.

I had some thoughts about where I would go this evening after work, I had some choices, I could have flagged another car and headed toward the Inner Sunset, seen some folks over at 7th and Irving, but I had a feeling the ex would be there, and that was the allure to going there.

Oh.

No reason to engage, you know, just cause myself, some unnecessary pain, feel uncomfortable, and rub some salt in a  wound that is rapidly healing.

Don’t pick at it.

It’s still a relatively new tattoo, but I have found my hand drifting toward it, stroking the edges where the skin is still rough and pulling, healing.

Leave it be.

I reprimand myself.

But a few times I have found myself doing it without even thinking.

And that was what was tonight.

Sneaky, slithery, slippery thoughts, sniping their way into my brain, little ear worms of irritation, I knew better than to entertain them and I knew to take the opposite action of what I wanted to do.

So I ended up wandering around the Mission for about an hour before I needed to be where I knew I needed to be.

I window shopped.

I grabbed a tea at Church St. Cafe.

I read my book for a little while.

The desire to pick at the scab left me.

I went where I was supposed to be.

I saw who I was supposed to see.

And I was invited to hang out with a trio of lovely ladies at ye olde Burger Meister.

I took my own suggestion and fellowshipped.

I also talked up dancing next Saturday.

It’s going to be a long week-end for me, I’ll have Monday off for the holiday, so I thought, to hell with it being Valentines Day, I am my own best date, let me take me dancing.

I’ll have an extra day of recuperation if I blow out my knees.

Or my ankle.

Let me not dance too hard, now that I am thinking about it, I don’t want to do either and I can.

I just want to have some fun and work  it out.

And there it is.

I just wrote that and realized, what the hell is holding me back, go buy a ticket.

Good thing I did, the event is about to sell out.

All the early bird tickets are gone, so I had to shell out another five, but it’s worth it, the Basement Jaxx are one of my favorites, I’ve never seen them live and David Harness is also playing–I’ve seen David plenty and like his stuff–I’m going to dance myself out.

Public Works, next Saturday, Valentine’s Day, I’ll be giving myself the gift that I always want a gentleman to give me, the gift of going dancing.

“I’ll learn to dance, I’ll take lessons, I swear, really, this time, I will,” my ex of five years pleading with me on bended knee in the house on Gilman Street in Madison, the late afternoon sunlight fading into the gloom of a grey dusk in January, the frost patterns on the window catching the last glints of light on his face.

I gave into being in that relationship another week, maybe ten days, I don’t remember, but he didn’t go out dancing with me.

I learned to do it on my own.

I’m not the worlds best dancer, but I like to cut a rug and though I sincerely wish my body was in better shape, my feet are flat, my knees are creaky, I apparently have weak ass ankles, I can still get out there and let the music wash over me and get carried away and dance like there’s no tomorrow.

The music is love for me and I intend to drown myself in it.

I’ll be my own best date.

Speaking of dating.

That was something discussed by the quartet of females in Burger Meister this evening.

And yes.

I have been convinced to hop back into the online dating weirdness.

Although I didn’t care for the slightly smug message from OkStupid, “welcoming me back.”

I uploaded a new photo, checked my stats, scrolled through the matches, looks about the same, and said, ok, here’s to taking an action and letting go the results.

I also was given the suggestion, which I have had before and think I did, but I honestly don’t remember, of making a list of ten guys I would ask out and then, well, actually going and asking them out.

I’m ready and willing to give it another go.

The break up is done.

Three weeks ago tonight.

The relationship was short, intense, but short, and three weeks feels right.

This lady is back on the market.

You can check out my profile, or just get back to me here, or facecrack.

Or maybe, you might see me, smiling my head off, next Saturday at Public Works.

Doing that thing that I do so well, getting lost in the music.

Being utterly in my body and present.

Dancing.

Come on, you know you want to.

He Walks Away

January 18, 2015

The sun goes down.

He takes the day.

But I am grown.

My tears dry on their own.

And like that.

I am single again.

The man and I ended it last night.

Nine weeks to the day of our first date.

It felt longer.

I dare say because I was so present for so much of it.

Oh.

There were things, issues, stuff, the stuff of life, the things that happen, the shut down, me, I can shut down.  I can get silent, I can step away and my heart can break even when I know that there is no going backwards only forwards into that deep unknown of intimacy.

Into me you see.

Yes.

That.

When I am not being my self than I am not allowing for intimacy and boy have I learned a lot about myself over these past few months.

Again, really, it was just two months.

Jam packed months, my father’s accident, the trip to Anchorage and back, my birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, my sobriety anniversary.

I knew on my anniversary that it was over.

I knew last Friday that it was probably over after we had our get right with God conversation about what we both wanted from the relationship.

I am not going to focus on what he said to me, because that is not for your eyes, just for my heart and the confidence of a few close friends and mentors.

And thank God I made plans to be out dancing and celebrating my anniversary.

I was surrounded by people who love and care for me and told me how much they did and I was deeply moved, to tears, a number of times by the outpouring of love from my friends.

I am so lucky to have these relationships in my life.

I cannot help grieve that which is passing, I’m on the verge of crying right now, the grief it is very much there, sitting on top of my throat, heavy on my heart, but I know that I can walk through it and come out strong, more valuable and tempered, like steel in fire.

I have become that much more realized.

For having realized what I need in a romantic relationship.

Hell.

In all my relationships.

And that relationships, romantic or otherwise, take work.

Gobs and gobs and gobs of work.

It is easier to be single, I found out.

To do what I want, when I want, regardless of anyone else, to have my own agenda, to be safe, to be in a cocoon, to rest and take my leisure.

I want, however, to be in a relationship and I am going to keep dating.

I am not putting my heart up on a shelf to grow old and dusty and insensate with time.

Nope.

I mean, I’m not going to go re-open my OkCupid profile and I’m not going to Tinder and I am not going to go scroll through Face Book and find that special someone tonight.

My heart, she is sweet and needs to have a moment or two to let the man go.

Move aside and let the man go through, let the man go through.

To let go of the fantasy too.

He’s a perfect man.

I am a perfect woman.

And the relationship was exactly what it was supposed to be.

I can still have grief around it and sorrow and have feelings.

But I don’t want to wallow.

I don’t want to not put it right back out to the Universe.

Hey God, who do you want me to date, please show me and help me to move toward the man who you want me to be with.

A-fucking-men.

I didn’t know if I was going to write about it tonight after getting my dancing on with my friends at Public Works, which, in case you were wondering, was fantastic.

It started a little slow, but the groove was great and the Fleetwood Mac remixes and disco beat with a little Northern Stomp and Detroit four on the floor, was a delight to get my hips moving.

I needed that.

I needed that bad.

Sometimes a girl has to dance.

Sometimes a girl has to cry.

I’ll do that too.

I did a bit today, it would come and go in waves.

The sun on my face as I sat and ate lunch at an open table in the cafe and suddenly my eyes start leaking.

Or when I showed up to see my girlfriends at Firewood Cafe.

I dreaded going.

I dreaded walking up the hill in the Castro to the restaurant, I did not want to tell them, although I had already told my three best girls, that the relationship was over.

Done.

Kaput.

No more.

Although he wants to be friends.

And that’s a possibility, a good likelihood, not now, I don’t think now is the time, we both need space.

In fact we agreed to no contact for 90 days.

Which is actually longer than we dated, but felt right when we were discussing it.

And as I mentioned, the conversation, that’s private, but the actions taken, the sincerity of the speech, the honesty, the showing the fuck up and wo (man’ing) up, the being brave and walking through, not doing it over the phone or in a text, but person to person and with integrity.

That was an amazing experience.

Painful?

Fuck yes.

Jesus.

Please.

Bring me the box of tissue ok.

But honest, sincere, right-minded, real, I am blown away by how we both walked through it with the best of intentions and the most honesty that I have ever had in a break up.

I am extraordinarily grateful for that.

I sort of wanted to pat my teary self on the back for doing it and being open and allowing myself to be exactly there and me.

Well.

There was some self-deprecating humor on my part on one point, but really the levity was there and we parted ways clean.

It all feels very grown up and real.

Tiring too.

I am going to sleep better tonight I think; I hope.

It was hard to go to sleep last night and harder to stay in bed, I just got up and got moving.

I suspect I am going to have to sit in some feelings and not check out.

Just sit and feel them.

Let them pass through me and over me.

And when they go I will turn, stronger, face forward, and walk on.

Toward the man I am supposed to be with.

And when I meet him.

I will be ready.

Act Like You Are Single

January 8, 2015

What would you do?

I asked myself this question when trying to decide on a course of action involving planning for an upcoming anniversary.

I am throwing myself a little sobriety party.

Yeah baby.

Dancing.

I will be here.

Disco party at Public Works on Saturday, January 17th, around 10 p.m. or so, it would be lovely to see you and I will be shaking my geriatric ass.

Well, I’m not that old and I have been told a lot recently that I look younger than my age.

Thank you.

“You had a natal birthday recently, didn’t you,” she said to me in her lilting British accent.

“I mean, I had no idea.” She paused.

Had no idea about what, I thought.

“Oh!”

I laughed, you mean that I am 42?

Yes.

That.

See, it’s called good clean living.

Almost a decade of not drinking or using, not imbibing extra dirty vodka martini’s on the rocks with Sierra Nevada Pale Ale PINTS as my beer back (that was my regular at the end, that and a couple of grams, oh who am I lying to, double the couple of grams, of cocaine and a pack and a half of cigarettes), plus five, mostly, with a three-week relapse into the insanity of consuming sugar (for me, not many folks have an issue with the cookies, but just keep ’em away from me, ‘k?), of not eating sugar or flour, on top of riding my bicycle all over the city, and yeah, I look pretty good.

I also have good genetics, let me not belabor that.

But I chalk it up to the not ingesting the naughty stuff as the primary reason for my general attractive looks.

I am a lucky girl.

I am also having a little tea party for those folks not able to make a late night on the dance floor, at the Samovar Tea Lounge in the Castro.

I am quite excited for both events.

I really had to ask myself, though, what it is that I wanted.

Not what my friends wanted or what my boyfriend might want, but what I wanted.

I kept getting the run around from the staff at Samovar about booking a private event for ten people

That was the original invite, ten folks, some ladies that mean a lot to me, and my boyfriend, and one gay “uncle”.

But the lounge wouldn’t break me off the room for under a certain amount of money and I figured, man, I just want to have some tea and a nice salad after getting my new tattoo.

Oh yeah.

I like to celebrate significant anniversaries by getting inked.

I will be adding a piece to compliment the 9 stars I have on the left side of my neck.

I will be getting one larger star on the right side of my neck, 10 stars, ten years, but since it feels a bit more significant, double digits and all that, I am getting a larger star on the right side.

Plus it will be a slightly different design than the ones on the left.

I am going to keep the colors, baby blues and soft pinks, and I am going to keep the style of the star the same, but the interior will be a replication or interpretation of Van Gough’s Starry Night.

I want a star with swirls of stars within it.

I will also be celebrating my ten years by making sure that  I have me application to CIIS completed and turned in.

I have two folks lined up to write letters of recommendation and I have my transcripts ordered.

I wrote a six page, 1800 word autobiographical essay as the writing requirement.

I have a one page statement of intent to write and then the $65 processing fee.

I want to have that all tied up before or on my anniversary.

Which is not next Saturday, but Tuesday of this upcoming week.

Tuesday, January 13th.

It still boggles my mind when I think about it.

So, here’s to not thinking.

Here’s to just being.

And continuing to learn that I have to take care of myself.

I mean, I have some practice and all that, but I have noticed a pattern of waiting to see what the boyfriend is up to before making plans and that was not on the menu today.

When I realized that I knew exactly what I wanted to do, I had to do it.

I also realized that I would be imminently more desirable and datable to my boyfriend if I am doing the things that make me happy.

Like writing my blog or my morning pages.

Or making a tea party reservation.

I did laugh when I realized that he would be the only straight man there, but I figured he’s going to be able to hang just fine.

Or that I wanted to go dancing.

That I sort of need to go dancing, and then I saw that Public Works was having a Fleetwood Mac Disco dance and that was it.

I bought a couple of tickets and set up the event.

I invited 175 people.

I have thousands of “friends” on Facebook.

I suspect about ten people will show.

I don’t care if no ones comes.

Well, maybe a little, but I am over the moon that I advocated a little dance party for me.

It’s important for me to be available to my guy to do things, but it is also important for me to be available to myself and my friends too.

I was asked out by a girlfriend this Saturday for a little lady time dinner action and catch up and I said yes, it’s been too long.  I need to continue to cultivate my friendships with the women in my life.

I am happier for it.

And I suspect that the happier I allow myself to be, the better I will be in this relationship, heck, in all my relationships.

So, just for today, “pretending” to be single is the way for me.

It’s a good thing I have had a little practice with it.

Ha!

 

I Like It Hard and Fast

March 22, 2014

I explained to her as we stood in the swirling lights of the club.

My music, that is.

Bahahahahaha.

I was asked if I do escatic dance and I said I had gone once and had it recommended to me a number of times but that I did not like the music much the time I went, way too slow and low-key and ambient.

I like it hard and fast.

I like trance and side trance and electro house and French House and classic Detroit dirty four on the floor grind it out and drop it hard.

I like to boogie.

I got some boogie on tonight and my legs are a little boogied out.

I also got a ride home from a friend with a truck who tossed my two-wheel steed in the back and graciously dropped me at the house.

I feel lucky.

And though I did not feel much like writing my blog, I knew I was going to and I realized as I started typing that I would still be riding my bicycle home and not even be writing yet, let alone boiling a pot of water for tea.

“Can you believe I am just going to go home and chill out and maybe watch a bit of a show,” an older man said to me as I was hustling my bike across the street to my friends pick up.

“I’m going to go home and have tea” I said.

He shook his head, “you’re too young for tea.”

Ah.

I love that.

“You should be going out and hitting the after party,” he nodded, “that’s what pretty girls should do.”

Nope, not this pretty girl.

This pretty girl was already up past her bedtime.

Earlier in the evening my darling friend Bonne yawned and I yawned and we both laughed, long week at work, extra hours, what are we doing going out dancing, I think had either one of us not bought the tickets it would have been a done deal, both of us would have gone home to bed.

But we went dancing instead.

And it was good, it was good to get out, it was good to move, although I think I might take an ibuprofen or two here in a minute, I am sore from all the bike riding over the last few weeks, the end of a full nanny week, and yes, dancing pretty solid for three hours.

10p.m.-1a.m.

Not too bad for a 41-year-old lady with cruddy knees.

“You’re older than me?” My friend said incredulously as we were handing over our ids to the bouncer.

I had seen him walking up as I was locking my bicycle to the rack outside the club and we went in together talking this and that, turns out he had been there all day helping the Flaming Lotus Girls get their stuff set up for the benefit.

It was nice to see him and I was not expecting to also get a ride home, which as I said, super grateful for as it winds toward the 3 a.m. hour.

I ran into a few other folks as well, a photographer from the PinHole Photography project who has been bugging me to go play frisbee golf forever and we may finally get out to the course in Golden Gate Park, I should even if he and I don’t hook up.

I haven’t played frisbee golf in over a decade.

It would be fun to get back into it, its great exercise and fun and really cheap.

Like free.

The only cost is a driver and a putter.

You can have a lot more discs in your bag than that, I certainly did when I was playing, but ultimately that’s all you need to start.  There are no “greens fees” and the course is maintained by the parks department.

I have never even walked through the entirety of it.

I did do a piece on it for KQED when I was interning there and it ended up getting air way back, must be five years ago now.

I also ran into an artist whose work I really admired on playa at Burning Man and got to thank her face to face, never having officially met her at the event, and I got to dance.

Dancing being the main draw of it.

The Space Cowboys threw a great show and I was thrilled, although the first set did start out sort of slow, the second slayed it and the third put me over the top.

I was not so enamoured with the fourth set and wandered off to grab some water, get my messenger bag screen printed (the Flaming Lotus Girls were screen printing for donations), take some silly photographs with Bonne and then the text came with the offer for the ride home and that was all she wrote.

I do like it hard and fast, but I can’t do it all night long like I used to.

The knees are just too old and they don’t like that it.

I wish I could.

But there’s nothing wrong with dancing a little less maniacally and coming home to have tea instead of coming home to host an after party and wonder when it’s appropriate to kick the strange guy out of my bed.

“I used up all my drink tickets,” I told the man as I waited for the light to change at 13th and Mission, “I like going home to drink tea.”

Getting to go out and play for a while and then come home and take care of myself is the best of both worlds and I certainly wake up feeling much better than I used to.

And I get to sleep in tomorrow, which I was not expecting, I had a commitment to meet someone in the morning at Tart to Tart and they called in sick.

So I have no plans for tomorrow until I am due in Noe Valley at 7p.m.

I can sleep in all day.

Not that I will, but it’s nice knowledge to have.

And with that, this lady is heading to bed.

Where I shall fall asleep.

Hard and fast.

Profoundly Happy

March 16, 2014

“We absolutely insist on enjoying life,” she told me adamantly today from across the table at Tart to Tart.

I am.

I swear.

“That’s your principle today, happiness.”

Enough said.

I am down with the getting happy.

I had a happy day.

I was, I realized, as I was riding my bicycle, slowly, obeying all traffic laws, ahem, through the Irving Street melee of Saturday afternoon parking, shopping, pedestrians, and drunken Irish revelers in green beads and sequined foam green top hats, that I was profoundly, deeply happy.

Part of it is a sense memory from being a child.

I grew up out here, remember, until I was just about five years old, so my earliest memories are of the area, most specifically what I seem to remember the most is the sun, the sky, the smell of ocean.

I was  sailing my bicycle down Irving, once I was through the crazy of 19th to 25th, Irving gets really quiet and it’s such a pretty, straight shot, right to the ocean, the sun was warm on my skin, my hair blowing off my face, the wind cool, and there, just there, a swelling of memory like a song of joy in my body.

This warmth, this sun, this wind, some of my earliest feelings of contentment and joy.

I felt a vast yearning to call my mom and say, thank you for having me in California.  Thank you for not birthing me in Wisconsin, thank you for planting the California seed deep in my heart.

I am glad for my Mid-Western upbringing, I like manners, I like hearing the sound of Mason jars popping when I canned my soup this afternoon, I like that I know how to cook soup and make jam and pie crusts from hand, I like that I know what the sound of snow falling on snow sounds like and the smell of wood burning sharp on a cold night in January.

However, the deep sensual feel of sunshine and wind on my skin that blows in from the ocean is one of my most cherished sensory memories and I was so softened with the emotion of being in the moment with the sun and the wind and the vast, deep indigo expanse of the ocean unfurling in front of me.

I wanted to stop all time, because all time had become right now, right with God, right in my body, right with happy and joyous and free.

Nothing says happy, joyous free, like riding a bicycle down the middle of the road with no traffic, in a new dress, with my hair blowing out behind me and the sun smothering me in warmth and light.

I felt like I was a song.

Just a bicycle ride you know, but something lovely and sweet and powerful in that.

I laughed earlier today as I had gotten up and showered, written, meditated, read,  ate breakfast, drank coffee, did trash and recycling, chatted with the housemate, tidied up and realized I had more than enough time to go grocery shopping too, and I rode my bicycle along the path that runs parallel to Ocean Beach on my way to the store.

How many folks can say that they ride their bicycles to the grocery store to buy laundry detergent while the Pacific Ocean keeps them company?

Not many I say.

Some, yes, but not many.

And I get to have this experience.

I suppose the novelty will eventually wear off and then I will be just going to the SafeWay on Fulton and it will be a chore, but right now, I revel in the going to SafeWay.

Not something I have ever, ever said before.

Most of the time I despise Safeway.

But, I have to say, this one is not so bad, oh, I still have to do my real shopping thereafter, I almost never get what I really need there, but I do get some staples–paper towels, a few toiletries, today it was for laundry detergent.  I think it’s partially because it’s not one of the newer remodeled ones with the weird lighting.

I got my stuff, headed back to the house, unloaded and went right back out in the opposite direction and got organic apples at the Noriega Produce Market, and then jetted it up to 7th and Irving, managing to also send off my niece’s birthday card and present at the post office.

Not bad actions to be taking all before noon.

On my return to the homestead I made soup.

Yup.

Food prep done for the week.

Chicken soup with kidney beans, cannelli beans, corn, carrots, celery, onions, and garlic, big pot of brown rice.  I canned it all up and set aside some in the freezer and boom.

Done for the week.

Toss it in the bag, grab a couple of carrot sticks and an apple and I am set.

So nice to have it out-of-the-way.

Then.

Relax.

Read.

Sit and sip some tea and enjoy the view of the blue sky flecked with the passing raven or three winging through the air over the back yard.

I read for an hour, did some laundry, then headed back out the door around 4p.m. to run up to Noe Valley where I had an evening commitment, but not until after I went and got a spa manicure and pedicure.

I splurged a little and went to the nicer place.

I realize that part of being profoundly happy is allowing for small splurges like this (besides the manicure lasts days longer then when I go to a cheap place) and letting in the happy.

I also allowed myself to buy tickets to go dancing next Friday, there’s a benefit at Public Works for the Flaming Lotus Girls–The Space Cowboy Collective will be playing along with Distrikt and the crew from Opulent Temple–great dance music and girlfriends.

I randomly saw a post on facecrack that a friend was contemplating going and I just decided to say yes and I bought a ticket, then Bonne said she got one and then Jesse got one and Beth got one and Tami got one and holy shit, I got a posse of girls to go dancing with next Friday.

And if that doesn’t make a girl profoundly happy.

I don’t know what does.

 

Open The Door To Opportunity

January 23, 2014

“I mean,” she said, with a pause and a knowing look, “you could meet people in your studio, but the odds are pretty slim.”

Ugh.

She’s right, but sometimes it is hard to get out of a routine to find ways to open that door and walk through it, to try something different, to make space for a new interest, be it person or thing.

“Why don’t you try the Moth.” She added, then, paused, “you know about the Moth don’t you?”

I do now.

I have been looking at the format on and off for a few weeks since she made that suggestion.

It’s a storytelling affair.

Started in New York, and has meandered its way across the USA to San Francisco.

Oh, I simplify, honestly, I don’t know jack about it.

However, I just signed up to go to the one that is at Public Works this upcoming Tuesday, January 28th.

There was a slam recently, the 13th of this month, at The Rickshaw Stop, but apparently it is no longer being hosted there.

I was just on Public Works website to find out what the deal was.

I really should go back to the site and buy a ticket as well.

I just signed up to go, I didn’t actually purchase the ticket.

Suddenly shy.

Suddenly at a loss for stories.

I have a million stories.

Jesus.

When did I get nerves?

If I can do spoken word in Paris I can show the hell up and tell a five-minute story at Public Works.

Excuse me, what?

They are not selling tickets for it on Public Works website, so I am uncertain if I just show up and throw my hat in the ring or what.

But I will find out.

I am actually going to Public Works on Friday evening.

A dear friend had a birthday a little while back and was unable to celebrate as she was down for the count with the awful flu that made its vicious rounds recently throughout the city.

She is making up for it by going dancing on Friday.

Plus, it’s a Heart Deco event, and I love me some Heart Deco–Burning Man–dancing.  There will be loads of friendly faces there and good music and I will get my groove the fuck on.

I will also find out what the deal is with the Moth.

I booked it into my calendar and although it’s on a school night, I figure, come on, you have to do it.

I have to continue expanding my creative base.

Not because I expect to get anything from it either.

I just want to the experience of doing it.

I also feel like I am a good story-teller.

Not the greatest, but not too bad, and I think I can handle my own for five minutes.

What I like about the format, although it makes a girl nervous, is that you don’t get any props, no notes, no cues, just you and a microphone.

And it has to be a true story and it has to be about you.

The theme for this show is “Beginnings”.

I have no clue what I will tell a story about.

I searched my blog archives with that term and turned up a few, all about Paris, and I suppose I could come up with something to tell about that.

I have until Tuesday to figure it out and practice.

I suppose I may even write a new piece.

I certainly would have to re-draft a blog if I used one, the blogs are not really written from the standpoint of being told as a story, although the narrative is all my, and only mine, I don’t write with the idea of performing my blog.

I am a performance all on my fucking own.

“Marco!”  I hollered out to a friend I saw standing on the corner of La Playa and Judah.

“Polo!” Some wise ass called out, as my friend looked around bewildered.

“Marco!”  I yelled and waved.

“Polo!” Three more people chimed in.

Oh, I give up, as my friend turned confused on his phone trying to pinpoint where I was hailing from.

It reminded me of being outside a cafe in Noe Valley with my friend Shadrach on the phone and he kept asking my email, which is my full name and thus sometimes a bit of a nuisance getting it to folks over the phone who tend to misspell my last name, and shouting, I mean shouting at the top of my lungs, my name.

“What was that, say it slower,” he chuckled abruptly.

“You fucker!” I said, turning bright red.

I had been shouting my full name, middle and all, for over three minutes in front of Martha’s Coffee and had many a person turn and stare at me.

“Gotcha.”

Yeah.

I can make a scene without even meaning to.

I can tell a story.

I can stand up in front of a room full of people and tell my story.

I have done that quite a few times.

Although, only infrequently in five minutes.

Though, I have done that as well.

I could wing the whole god damn thing too.

I just got an idea.

Oh.

I don’t know if I want to do it, but I do have an idea of a beginning.

Shit, I should, I just celebrate the 9th year of that said beginning.

I wonder how I could craft that into something without blowing my.

Well.

I can’t say, now can I?

Ha.

Anyway.

There’s fodder there.

There’s fodder everywhere.

“I don’t usually enjoy stream of conscious writing,” an old acquaintance said to me today as we met for coffee (hey, look at me, doing something outside of my schedule!  See I can take suggestions, pardon me while I preen over here), “but there’s something about the way you write, it’s really unaffected.”

Yup.

It’s just me.

And a lot of the time I just open up the blank page and go for it.

There it is too.

Every time I blog.

A new beginning.

A new way of shaping myself and my story.

A new way of seeing.

I guess I just gave myself something to work on while I stand in line at 850 Bryant on Friday waiting to contest my “traffic” infraction.

Maybe I will practise on the judge.

Baha.


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