Posts Tagged ‘senses’

Sometimes

September 7, 2017

Music makes me sigh.

Releases some unknown tension and I can relax.

I put on Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach Cello Preludes and it was like I was melting.

I heaved a big sigh and just sank into my chair.

My body hurts today.

My shoulder is a nuisance.

Apparently I pushed too hard in yoga on Monday or maybe it was carrying the baby as much as I did today, but ouch.

Ugh.

Getting old.

I’m sure I will look back at being 44 and laugh at myself thinking that I am old.

The fact is.

I don’t feel my age.

Oh.

I suppose my knees feel twice my age and my shoulder feels like a baseball pitcher being put out to pasture.

But.

Feeling my age?

No.

I don’t think I feel any certain age.

Although I do recall a time when I realized that all people below a certain age annoyed the shit out of me, I don’t subscribe to any particular feeling when I think, “I feel this old.”

The little girl I watch is four.

She likes to ask me about my age, “I’m 44 honey, eleven times older than you.”

And that is intense to contemplate.

I remember being four.

Pivotal things happened.

Then again.

I don’t remember a lot of being four either.

Um.

Pivotal things happened.

For the most part, however, I have an extraordinary memory and I’m good at replaying scenes as I have taken them in.

If I can hone in on a detail I am suddenly filling all the spaces with colors and sounds and emotional movement and music, with narrative, and it is as though I am watching a movie.

As I have gotten older some memories stick more than others.

Certain scenes, images, smells.

Oh.

A smell can carry so much weight in it.

Or a taste of something.

Tomatoes with salt from my grandfather’s garden.

Raspberries and milk with sugar in a green plastic bowl, raspberries I picked with my grandmother.

Apple cider.

The top sweetest part of the 2 gallon milk jug that we would pour the homemade apple cider into after running it through the press.

My grandfather unearthed an old apple press and rigged it to a lawn mower motor and we made cider using that press for years.

The house in Windsor that I moved to in 7th grade had an apple orchard, 4 Red Delicious trees (to this day I always wonder why the fuck they planted such boring ass apples, fodder for the press, all of them, we never ate them they were just such plain Jane apples) and 8 Courtland trees, plus four pear trees and one Golden Delicious–the animals and birds ate most of the Golden Delicious before they could even ripen, they were such amazingly sweet apples, almost translucent with sugar, you could see through the skin in the sunlight.

My mom would pour the cider into milk jugs and then freeze them in a giant freezer we had in the basement of the house.

The sweetest part of the cider would float to the top when it thawed and my mom tried valiantly to not let us drink any of the cider until it defrosted completely, but my sister and I often foiled her.

The cold, achingly sweet, syrupy juice taste will always stick in my memory.

Sometimes it is the smell of strawberries in the morning, reminding me of a very late night that became an early morning and it was warm and summer time in Madison and I was walking home from closing the bar and the after bar and I stopped by a vendor at the farmers market and bought a basket of strawberries and sat in the grass, kicking off my shoes and luxuriating in the feel of the soft, warm, dewy grass.

Sometimes it is a way a certain person smells.

Euphoria.

And I am smote with longing and love and desire.

Or the way someone’s skin feels against mine.

I think too, sensory, I’m going for the senses here, of a warm night, not many of them in San Francisco, a few years ago, when I walked down to the beach and the sand was still warm and the beach was deserted and the smell of bonfires wracked my memories.

And I was suddenly four-years old again, at a beach bonfire, with my mom and sister, who was already asleep, and my mom’s boyfriend, and there was the smell of driftwood fire and sea and that smell is some embossed on me, that to this day it really is one of my fondest smells.

Smell and memory are very tied to each other.

Riding my scooter to work this morning I passed a tavern on Lincoln that must have a popcorn machine, the smell was enticing and it was real popcorn, cooked in that oil that old-fashioned machines use and real butter smell.

I was suddenly in a movie theater, the old 99 cent movie theater on the far East side of Madison, that was probably actually the suburb of Middleton, that only had one screen and I was watching Woody Allen’s The Purple Rose of Cairo.

Which I didn’t get at all, but the movie was 99 cents and that’s why we were there and the popcorn was cheap and plentiful and I sat in that air-conditioned movie house and happily ate popcorn and watched a movie that I was too young to understand, but I remember the feel of the back of the movie seat in front of me on the bottoms of my feet and how I would press my feet hard into the seat to stretch and then curl back up into a ball and eat more popcorn.

Sometimes smells startle me too.

One day not too long ago I was riding up 7th and I smelled the smell of a tree, a tangerine tree in my mind, although I have no idea if it was tangerine or not, but my mom’s boyfriend had an apartment that had a tangerine tree outside of it and I would pick them and peel them sitting on the back cement steps while they got high smoking pot.

I was suddenly a little girl in a sundress with sticky fingers and bare feet and I could see all the tangerines in the tree and felt satiated with the ones I had eaten and sleepy from the sunshine.

Oh.

All the memories.

The best part of getting old, accruing all these luscious things that I get to stock pile in my brain.

In my heart.

In my soul.

All the amazing things.

There are so very many.

And I am grateful for them all.

Yes.

Yes.

I am.

Grateful beyond words.

Faster, Faster, Go, Go

October 21, 2016

Get it all done.

I was replacing the light bulbs in my overhead lamp and juggling laundry, messaging with a friend, peeling carrots for lunch tomorrow, packing my school bag and putting away the groceries.

Jesus H. Christ on a raft.

I’m a little busy.

I got up early today and wrote a paper before I went to work.

I also wrote my morning pages, because that’s where so much of the mind gets sorted out and it’s helpful to clean that out before I do my other stuff.

It really does help to set me straight.

I’m a bit bent.

I’m a bit crooked.

I need a little help.

From my friends.

My friends, pen and paper.

I picked up some of my favorite pens today at Walgreens, along with said light bulbs that I was just juggling in my hands, multi-task much Martines?

They always remind me of being in Paris and how devastated I was to not be able to have them when I was running low.

The funny thing is, they are just generic, cheap pens, but I’ve been using them for years and they just have the nicest flow to the ink.

Lovely, luscious, scrawls right out onto the page, easy, loose, and that is important to me, as I write a lot long hand and I want the pen to just be an extension of my hand.

I don’t scrimp on paper though.

Oh!

That is something I just realized!

I will be buying myself Claire Fontaine notebooks when I go to Paris.

I always buy a bunch.

There is a website, I suppose I could always order them, I am still stocked up at the moment, I’ll probably need to replenish sometime between Christmas and May, but I might make it.

Anyway.

That paper, so good, so dreamy, slick and cool and silky under my hand when I write.

I am such a sensory little beast.

I love how things feel, I’m all about the tactile.

The wind on my skin, the warmth of the sun, the touch of something soft.

And smells.

Flowers, my perfume.

“You smell like roses,” she exclaimed to me, “I couldn’t figure out who smelled so good Friday night, and it was you!”

I smiled.

Yes, that’s me.

“But not old lady roses, what is it?” She asked.

Rose Flash baby.

My new perfume.

Well.

I suppose it’s not so new at this point, I started wearing it back in March I think, after I broke my favorite bottle of scent in the bathroom sink, the scent that I have worn with a few exceptions (the Issey Miyake Feu D’Issey years before it went off the market, fuck I would kill for one more bottle of that) Egoiste Pour Homme, by Chanel.

Yes.

I know.

That’s a men’s scent.

But it works so fucking well with my chemistry.

I can only get it at Chanel down on Maiden Lane or when I travel.

Ooh.

I could get another bottle in Paris.

Of course I will.

How could I not?

French perfume, God, I love perfume.

So much.

And scented candles, I’m such a sucker for the good smells.

Wood smoke.

Nectarines.

Salt.

I put on my perfume before I go to bed because I like to smell it in my hair as I fall asleep.

I like clean, soft sheets and perfume.

I light up my candles when I get home.

I like my cozy.

I like my sensory things, I’m a little gluttonous when it comes to those things, but when I think about all the things I don’t imbibe in, well, fuck, bring on the perfume.

Hello, please.

I am pretty happy with the Rose Flash though, I get it at Tiger Lily a little perfumerie on Valencia Street in the Mission, I don’t know if it’s my forever scent, I vacillate about going back to the Egoiste, but it is such a lovely perfume, and I do feel special wearing it.

I want to turn heads.

What girl doesn’t?

I’ve had people stop me when I’ve worn it, as well as follow me to ask what it was.

“You smell so good,” he said to me, and kissed my neck when he stopped by Wednesday before I was heading into work.

Thanks I said and handed over his boots.

Bye bye boots.

Those boots were made for walking right out of my house and I don’t think they’ll be coming back, I didn’t invite the boot owner in and I don’t think I will be again.

But that’s another story.

Senses.

Sound.

Oh yes.

Music.

Right now I’m listening to the Spotify play list my dear French friend put together for me.

I get to see her tomorrow and I’m really happy about that.

In fact, I’m super happy to see a bunch of my cohort.

I have missed them.

I didn’t get it all done, all my homework, I didn’t manage to get all my reading done, but all the papers I have due, four, are finished.

And I’m not going to sweat the reading, I did enough.

I am enough.

And I don’t have to be perfect.

I do need to write my little blog, because it feels so good to write it, all the frustrations and thoughts, it takes away my pain.

Not that I’m saying I’ve been in excruciating pain.

Just a little agony.

You know, no biggie.

Agony.

Ha.

Where was I with my senses?

Oh taste.

Salt.

Cinnamon.

Nutmeg.

The taste of an apple with the above spices liberally sprinkled on them.

Fizzy water in black cherry.

Persimmons!

And oh are they in season, it looks like a persimmon orchard on my kitchen counter.

Sight.

Let me not forget you, and I am scantily covering these senses, there is so much more that I haven’t even had the opportunity to share, write about, ponder.

I don’t have that much time tonight, I’m already up past my bedtime considering that I need to get up and go to school tomorrow.

But.

Let me finish.

I love pretty things, color, my home is full of light and every where I look,  a piece of art, a photograph, something to rest my eyes on, some sort of beauty to see.

Art.

I want to live my life as an artist.

I might even call myself one once in a while.

Writers are artists, no?

Not that I believe tonight’s blog is art, it’s just a scattering of words on a page, a nest of luminous possibility, the thoughts that tumble, the words that I do not write, the ones still trapped in between the skin my heart and the skein of my soul.

But that too.

Is another blog.

And this lady still needs to finish her laundry.

Good night love.

Sweet dreams.

For tomorrow beckons with all its busy.

Rest now.

Rest my heart.

Rest.

 

 

 

Gratitude Does Not Even Begin

August 3, 2015

To express the wide range of emotions I have had this weekend.

But as a word, it will have to suffice.

I was so overwhelmed with it at so many points in the weekend that I just felt my heart over full with joy and gladness.

There was no need to look on the sunny side of life.

It was there at all times, surrounding me, welcoming me, showing me the beauty and the awe of the world that I get to live in.

I mean.

Seriously.

Yosemite.

Who am I to say there is no God?

What hand, then made this?

I am not going to get into a theological discussion, I will just say that my love and reverence for the God in my life just continues to grow deeper and stronger and I get to see so much more and see how far my life has taken me and how much more I just have to experience.

I mean.

I need more camping in my life.

Hello.

Of course, as I look at the stack, and the stack is getting bigger–there was another book waiting for me in the hallway to the house when I got back from Yosemite today–I know I have a lot of work, and that the work is only just beginning, but that I will need to have time away from the work to be able to do it strong and well.

I have to fill the well.

The well of images and love and senses.

“That good, eh?” My friend teased me tonight as we sat eating sushi up at Raw on Traval and Sunset.

I had my happy sushi face on.

It was good.

“I’m a sensory person,” I said, and rubbed my belly.

“I’ve noticed,” he smiled and patted my hand.

It’s true.

I like the sensory side of life.

The senses were quite pleased this weekend.

The moving forward, riding in the car, traveling under the light of the high bright blue sky, the pines sloughing in the wind, the smell of pitch, the sound of a hawk keening, the cicadas in the trees last night–how soon I forget the sounds of nature at night–how loud they were in the trees, the sight of the moon rising behind the low-lying clouds in Yosemite and the push of light through the darkened pines, the redwoods and the smell of evergreen needles drying in the sun, the warmth of being by a fire at night, the smell of wood burning, the sounds of a teenage group of kids getting their Saturday night party on in the woods.

So many things to hear and touch and see and smell.

So many things to feel.

The wind on my face as I stood on top of a rock at Glacier Point in Yosemite, 7, 214 feet above sea level, my arms outspread, the tears drying on my face from the sun and the vast expanse of the southern end of the valley rolling majestically before me.

I felt so alive and free and joyous.

It was overwhelming and I was so full of awe and wonder.

Still am.

I got to see Yosemite falls and Half Dome, Clouds Rest, which really, literally looked like clouds were resting on it.

I got to drive into the park through the tunnel on the southern side and was so blown open by seeing the valley from a different perspective than the one I had just witnessed, to get to get out of the car and stand again and the door step to Gods kingdom and marvel at the handiwork.

Of myself I am nothing, the father doeth the works.

I could not ever have imagined.

When I was getting teary in the car and excited and my friends were being silly and giddy and saying, just you wait, this ain’t nothing, just you wait, I couldn’t have imagined the grand spectacle of it all.

I had no comprehension of the size and scope.

I also have no desire to go back at this time of year again.

Although go back I will.

It was super touristy.

In fact, we were able, quite be coincidence and chance, is it odd or is it God, to get around some of the crowds because one of my friends happened to work at Yosemite when he was younger and because my other friend was a super savvy driver and knew how to navigate us around.

But I did get overwhelmed with the people and had a moment of panic.

It reminded me of why I have never actually seen the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, although I have been there three times.

The crowds of tourists threatened to engulf me.

When my friend drove to the look out point just after the tunnel descending down toward the valley floor my other friend, said, “pull over, she needs to look.”

And we got out and went to the vista point.

We got there seconds, it would seem, before a couple of tour buses pulled up and disgorged an inordinate amount of tourists onto the point.

I was sitting on the ledge and my friend was taking a photograph of me and all I could see was this tsunami of tourists rushing to the wall.

I was literally engulfed in an enormous wave of humanity.

I got up and dashed madly away, deserting my friends at the wall and walking through the parking area as rapidly as I could to get away from it.

I am not always the best with crowds and tourists, even when I am one of them too, it can overwhelm the hell out of me.

But.

It was just another part of the experience.

Granted one that made me very cognizant of wanting to come back in May, early May, while school is still in, or mid to late September, when the tourists go home to every corner of the globe and the park is not so overrun.

I will be going back.

I will be going forward, I should say, forward with many dreams of camping under the stars, of wood smoke, and the sound of wind in the trees and the trails ahead of me.

My path and journey I do not always know, but I know I need more of what I got this weekend and I am grateful.

Oh so grateful for this, yet another life affirming, experience.

For love.

For my friends.

For joy.

And for the sense to say yes when the gift was offered.

May I always be so graced to allow myself to accept these gifts.

May I always know this depth of love and gratitude.

Thank you friend.

Thank you for an experience I did not even know that I was missing.

And now this full and thank full heart is ready for bed.

And that too is something to be grateful for.

A home to come home to.

An anchor point to my travels and my life.

My life.

It really is.

Well.

Spectacular.


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