Posts Tagged ‘sonnets’

Just Another Day

January 21, 2016

Just another blog.

And I also tried what I preached last night and started a poem today.

I did not quite get as far as I wanted.

I did not finish the sonnet.

But I wasn’t even going to write one this morning, then I thought, why wait until I have to?

Just get going.

I will have to open up that syllabus soon, in fact, all of my syllabi need to be looked at.

It’s three days after my first weekend of classes and it’s time to get started back in on the reading and the paper writing.

Because, yes, I do have papers to write.

That’s a big part of my program and I just need to, er, let me rephrase that, I get to, do the work.

It’s pretty amazing when I think about it.

I am in graduate school, I work close to full time, I am in involved with my community, I am living a full, well rounded, meaningful life.

Today there was nothing wrong.

So much nothing wrong that I thought at one point, something’s up.

But that’s just silly.

What’s up is serenity and balance and feeling like I am in a comfortable groove with life in general.

I don’t have any drama, although my head can manufacture some I am sure, I am doing well at work, I worked extra this week and I will work extra next week, little extra cash for my upcoming hair geographic.

Looking forward to that, even though it is with some nervousness, it’s mostly excitement.

I ran into a litter mate of mine, totally unexpected, in fact, I just realized the last time I saw her I had just turned ten.

Really good to catch up.

Another friend on the East Coast also just hit eleven.

It’s really astounding and I am constantly, perpetually grateful.

I got a message from my friend who I used to live in Paris with wishing me a happy anniversary and another message from a student in my cohort thanking me for my experience and light and color and presence in the classes.

Both unexpected and lovely messages.

I am seen.

I am.

It’s nice to be seen.

I forget that sometimes.

I was crossing the street today on my way to grab my bike from the shop on a brief break at work and someone going through the intersection hollered out my name.

I have no idea who it was, but it felt nice to be called out to.

I love that I am a part of the cityscape.

It’s lovely to be involved in so many diverse communities.

School, work, recovery.

Burning Man.

A friend asked today what my intentions were.

I intend to go.

How?

Who knows.

But it is funny.

I just started writing down what I wanted in regards to the event a couple of days ago.

There are some things in my morning pages that I always write an affirmation for, that I have done so for years and will continue to do so as they are things that I wish to continually have in my life.

Then there are the things that I will write down and they happen, trips, travel, experiences, and so I write something else down in their place and Burning Man is back in the mix.

It replaced the I am going to New York in Spring manifestation.

I am still super stoked about that.

The Guggenheim, the Whitney, the MOMA.

Oh my.

New York in Spring.

I hope it’s warm.

I want to wear sundresses and crinolines and have my hair swept up on my head and walk through the park and walk around Brooklyn and of course, walk through all those lovely museums.

I have a place to stay, I have the plane tickets, I have the time cleared at work.

I can officially take it off my list.

It is not the exact trip I was thinking I would be going on, but that’s ok, I’m going.

The Burning Man event popped up pretty fast in my writing I feel because this year is an anniversary too for me, it will make ten years of going, ten consecutive years.

I can’t not go.

The event this year is August 28th-September 5th.

The dates for my second week long retreat for the second year graduate school program are not up yet, it will happen in August, but I believe it will be similar to the dates this past year and it will occur before the burn.

I should be clear to go.

Granted.

I won’t have it paid time off if I take it, I will have used up my vacation days at work with the second year school retreat and my trip to New York.

No matter.

It somehow worked out last year.

It will work out again this year.

I am willing to work it to get in and I will put out feelers to that end.

But.

It first starts with the affirmation.

The writing.

It starts by putting it out into the Universe what I want.

And what’s always funny, sometimes it is in hindsight, but I can see, quite clearly, how I get what I write for.

Not often how I picture it or without having to do some work.

But it almost always happens.

Put the intention out there and let the Universe come to me.

I realize that I don’t have to struggle to get what I want.

I just really need to show up and be honest about what I want.

To love and be loved.

To be a poet.

To be a therapist.

To see a lot of art.

To stay sober and abstinent.

To be serene, emotionally sober, you could say.

Travel.

Burning Man.

More art.

Let’s put kissing in there soon, but no rush, you know.

I don’t have to get what I want.

God usually gives me better.

I just have to let God know that I want to be happy and I will show up to the necessary work to get there.

Letting go.

Surrendering the results and seeing what shows up.

Burning Man.

It’s early.

But, there you go, you’re on my mind.

Let’s see what we can put together.

Meanwhile.

Back to the books.

And forward into the next phase of my development.

Open to being flexible.

Open to not knowing how it will happen.

Showing up anyway.

And always.

With love.

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Ne Me Quitte Pas

December 14, 2015

Mon cherie.

I miss you so.

And I come up for air.

A hot bowl of soup on a cold night.

A warm face to say to, happy I am today, how are you?

Love fills my heart and it stills my face and then I sit and stare at the walls and wish that the light was still there.

But it is the dark.

The night of winter.

The cold laying frost.

The dormant.

Before the growth.

That is what I believe.

And there is so much love, so much grace, so much more than you can ever imagine, than I can ever imagine and I sing poetry under my breath wishing to encapsulate it all.

I cannot though.

There is a fullness, a fire, a heat, a warmth, a softness, a softening, an astounding, a tenderness, and it aches with all that it does.

I just wrote “id.”

Freudian slip.

Excuse me.

Where was I?

I digress.

She’ll break her own heart.

A beautiful death, that.

And a poem for you that I wrote, aching and full and saddened in the seeping twilight sky that bled rain through the ragged grey clouds outside the window of my class Thursday morning.

I am Going to Go Now

The unwinding inevitable, the snowflake dredged with grime

A kissing time, a hand print fingered dove grey

Soot smeared and dusted with transitory crimes–

Passion pushed, outlined darkling cashmere fey.

Smudged with the meaning of God, gold patterned

Euthanasia, impacted without you, focused after life

Fabled and unique.  This too is true.  Maneuvered

Polite, we dance the waltz of unspoken strife

Rife with lusted desire.  Pagan with practice

Patience and archetypal, the sparked pointed Southern

Crossing resurrected, convicted by love, the chalice

Over full, the wetness on my lips, the flight, a turn,

Rebirth, the exodus of uncertainty belies my certainty

Of you and our luminous connecting, a mastered calamity.

I am grateful for passing time, even when it pains in the passing.

I have felt achey and full and wide open and perhaps that has something, everything, to being in school these last three days.  Not a night in three that I got more than five hours sleep, not a day that didn’t go by where there weren’t tears.

I am in school to be a therapist.

The tears, they do happen.

They happen sometimes in class, sometimes after, sometimes, more times this past week than I really wanted to, when I went to bed, the slip of tears on my face.

Potentially lonely/perpetually human/suspended and/open/open.

OPEN.

So wide open.

So painfully, wide open.

It feels like my heart is on a plate, not silver, not a platter, but a plate, bone china, the cusp of the new moon gilding the edge.

It’s a good place to be.

This teetering on the cusp.

It sounds painful.

And.

Yes.

It is.

And yet, so alive.

So exquisite.

So enlivened.

So playful, when I don’t feel shattered in the leavings of my old idea and the imprinting of the new upon that smote landscape of love and loss and longing.

Smote.

That is how it feels.

Searing.

The grief rolls through, over, and plunges me down and there, a stillness, a pearlescent shell, a spiral, the nautilus, the tiny chambers of soul lit phosphorescent and gilt.

I climb in and float away.

This embedded moment brought to you by listening to too much Regina Spektor (but oh, there is no such thing as too much, not really not ever) and the sad sweetness of end times and new beginnings.

I had my last class today of the semester.

I had a long day, a long week, a big weekend and now, it’s back to work.

With a brief moment of respite in the evening with a friend over soup and Thai food over in the hood.

I have had so much happen over this past six months and it astounds and I look about and I realize I have almost made it and there is still so much more to go, so more to be realized.

So much more of me to be realized.

And so.

And so.

So.

I don’t understand/if I kiss you where it’s sharp/if I kiss you were it’s sore/will you feel better?/better/better/will you feel anything at all.

ANYTHING AT ALL.

Oh.

I will.

I assure you, I will feel all the feels.

Little fuckers.

I am feeling all of them.

Grateful that tonight I will get a full night’s sleep, and yes, there could be more tears on the pillow, tears aren’t such a bad thing, my small dulcet downfall, the shallow sip of sea salt on my cheeks, the flush of my face against the sheet pulled up by my head, the crush of the weight of love and the foolish tender softness of dreams that push themselves into the wet lashes resting on the tops of my cheeks.

The stars, that old light, the seeps in between the cracks.

The liminality of love.

The threshold to the moon.

I watched the sky today while I sat in the student kitchen, the bright, high blue, the push of scudded white bounded clouds, the flight of a seagull in between the buildings.

I ate an apple with sea salt sprinkled over it.

I thought about eating apples, walking the streets of Paris, cold and scared and alive and undone and all done back up again.

I go back in a week.

I thought about Paris.

I thought about the paintings.

Kandinsky, Accent en Rose, at the Pompidou.

Kandisky-Accent in Rose

Kandisky-Accent in Rose

I thought about the alone.

I thought about the aliveness in me.

I felt the lonely and the alive and the love and let it wash over me, the soar of the gull in the sky, the press of the blue, the powder of the clouds, the clock over the counter winding down the minutes to my last class of the day.

That much closer.

Still so far away.

A reckoning on the horizon.

Love in the streets, the cobblestones smothered in shine and light from the lamp posts, the impossible sparkle of the Eiffel Tower.

Dazzle

Dazzle

And my heart a glow.

A small spot, a spiral of ember over the ocean, the rushing sea, the Christmas tree burning on the edge of the water, the beach a bonfire of holiness and the beckoning of the North Star.

I know not into what I walk.

But I walk ever forward.

Joy smeared and sacred with the smut of my own carnal life, the living.

It is good.

Don’t let me fool you.

It is all good.

So good.

So overwhelmingly painfully.

Wonderfully.

Good.

It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

It does.

I am still the love smitten fool.

Who would I be?

If I weren’t wearing my heart on my sleeve.

At least it goes well with my clothes for Paris.

Transparent authenticity usually does.

DSCF6688.JPG

And perfect attire for riding to the top of the ferris wheel.

I’ll blow you kisses from the pinnacle.

I promise.

They may be burnished bittersweet.

But.

They will.

Be.

All.

Mine.

While I Waited.

November 29, 2015

I wrote some poetry.

That was unexpected.

I was sitting in the window seat of the Starbucks in Noe Valley waiting for my person and I was reading my Psychodynamics reader.

I am just a few pages shy of finishing it, however, I discovered that there were readings missing in the reader and I will have to go online and find them.

Which would explain some of my confusion with the class, there is a system that the school uses called Canvas, and when my professor was referring to articles online, well, I thought she meant this platform.

Nope.

She literally meant online.

But online is where I can’t get to right now.

My internet is woefully slow.

I am not certain that I am going to be able to get onto my blog tonight.

I am going to try.

I have been trying for a while now.

That being said, I don’t necessarily have to write my blog on the wordpress site.

It is my preference.

But as so many things in life, my preference is not always what happens.

I would have preferred it if my professor had put all the articles together in one spot, I like having them all printed out in the reader, it helps me organize and I like to underline and take notes.

Hard to do that when I am reading an article online.

I also find it more difficult to read anything online.

It just works better for me to be off the page than on a screen.

I am old fashioned.

I am quite alright with that old-fashionedness as well.

I like writing sonnets.

Who writes sonnets anymore?

I like writing in notebooks with a pen.

Of course.

I also love writing my blog and I love how fast my fingers fly over the key board when the words are coming out of my head and they just seem to pop right onto the page in front of me, the wordcount rolling ever higher.

There is a distinct pleasure in the use of the keyboard as well.

No denying it.

But there is the writing and the reading and the old way of doing it that pleases me just as much if not a tiny bit more.

While I was waiting for my person and reading my reader I had something pop out at me and I re-read it and thought of the conversation I had my with my friend in his office while we were discussing poetry and architecture, and art, and life, burning man, shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, and whilst he and I were in the middle of a conversation he said the most astounding thing and in a flash I grabbed my bag of pens and fished out a notebook and wrote it down.

It happened to be my Psychodynamics notebook.

The very same notebook I had in my lap while I was reading about Transitional objects and play and post-Freudian theory.

There were words in the article that resonated with the conversation from yesterday and there was something in the music playing in the café and the mania of a homeless man who kept coming in and out of the door.

At one point he smacked his palms on the glass in front of my face to get my attention.

I got lost in the moment, picked up my notebook, found the line of conversation that I had wrote down yesterday, and then intermixed with thoughts of a love I began writing a poem.

And I thought all my poetry was gone.

As though I was a fraud, a one shot, a one trick pony.

The only thing standing in between me and my fraudulence yet another sonnet.

The muse has not left the building.

Sometimes the muse is a homeless man demanding attention.

And I have to pick up the pen.

It is a compulsion and a thickening in my blood, a swirl, a cataclysm of thought and power and shadow and love.

Always the love.

So here.

For you this Saturday eve.

A new sonnet.

The Place Where We Live

The real thing is the thing that is not there.

I mean the thing you put in between

The reality of the love and the shadow of fear.

The soft bellied swallow a hush mark, a skein

Of feathers, a brush of your hand through my hair.

And the kiss of your mouth upon my neck.

I think these things underneath the fair

Stream of light. A caustic cushion, the feck-

Lessness of your bravado. A wash of scent

I wallow through, a marsh of hazard and light,

Star light, the pitter pat of manic hands, the bent

Minded man, a harrowing, a heart broken with blight.

Transitional objects bereft with casual longings.

And then you, here, not there, my darling, my belonging.

And then I reflected.

Really reflected on my life in this last year.

Where I was a year ago to where I am now is astounding.

I was in the front dining room of The Beach Chalet having a late dinner with my ex-boyfriend.  We were talking about an incident that had happened the night before and how it had stirred up some old child hood traumas.

I remember looking out the plate glass window of the second story of the Beach chalet the back lit restaruant and empty tables reflected in the window, the press of the dark night, the heaviness of the ocean, the lowering sky, and how was I ever going to navigate through it all.

There was no there there.

There was no place to call home.

Even in the attempt to communicate with the person sitting next to me, arm against arm, body to body, there were only the words stilted, shamed, guilty, driven, soft, remorse, the belly of a newt tender and spotted, I wriggled in helplessness and despair I could not accurately name or own or speak to.

I had lost my voice in the relationship even as the relationship was developing.

It fell apart to soon thereafter.

But I learned.

I grew.

I walked through a lot of pain for it was in the remonstrances of my past that came floating back to settle on my skin again and teach me what I had to repair and where I needed to go further and what needed to be healed.

No surprise that not many weeks later I was in the epicenter of it all.

Alaska.

Anchorage.

My father in a coma the stench of alcohol still on his skin, the delierium tremens that would happen and shake his body like palsy in a doll, the bruises on his hands and knees, the short hospital gown that would rise and reveal his genitals in the writhing, the nurses, in and out, the beeping, the admonitions to hold his hands, talk to him, all the emotions and falling.

The loneliness of that room in the quarters for the family adjacent to the urgent care facility of the hospital.

The snow on the ground.

The late sunrise and the early sunset.

So many things.

All the things.

All the things that broke my heart.

Broke it open wide and left it there, a rose of bloodletting, then forgiving, then letting go.

The last kiss on his cheek days later, surprised by the warmth of his skin, the stubble on my lips as I pressed my mouth to his face.

I choked inside.

Grabbed my luggage and rolled it out the door holding back the sobs until I could get into the empty waiting room and crumple against the check in desk where no one manned the reception except a quiet God and the soft voice inside me to forgive and move on, to get into the elevator and go home.

Back here.

Back home.

Back to a man that wasn’t to be with me much longer but from whom I learned where I needed to work on myself next.

And oh.

The work.

I did it though.

And when I met with my person and acknowledged all those things from here to there.

And the love.

Oh there is so much love.

Love I cannot talk about yet, here, in a way that makes any sense, just love.

Suffice to say.

Love.

Like a crescendo of light petals from star flowers.

A shattering.

I am smote.

Yet.

I rise up in this love and I am seen.

I.

Am

Known.

You Are The Embodiment Of The Poet

October 30, 2015

My heart burst reading that line.

I was in the upstairs bathroom at work wrangling monkeys, brushing teeth.

Brosse/brosse/brosse/

Les dents/

Brosse les tres souvents/

Tous les jours/

Tous les jours/

Tous les jours/

A les belle est dentes.

Brush/brush/brush

Your teeth/

Brush them every day/

Every day/

Every day/

Every day/

Ah.

The pretty teeth.

(sung to row, row, row your boat)

Yay!

“Spit,” I said, running the water.

I had to put down my phone, I could not finish reading the sweet e-mail I had received from my patron, my eyes kept tearing up reading it and I had to manage the two boys.

I’m just going to call him that, he’s my patron.

Anyone who sends me a check for $1,000 for some poems is my patron.

Anyway.

I had sent him an effusive e-mail thanking him for the check and how I was honored and seen and just over the moon.

That moon.

Did you see her tonight?

Sometimes in the waning I feel there is more power, more poesie, more haunting and longing.

The wandering back into the self, the darkening lunar landscape, the eery rise in the night sky and the glow as it rose over the trees in Golden Gate Park, the nipping wind chill on my neck and my arms, reminder to up the sweatshirt ante here soon.

The Indian summer is passing and the autumn cold is coming.

But that luscious moon.

Yes.

Over the moon.

He sent me back another sweet missive and the above quote amongst them.

To be the embodiment of the poet, that means so much.

The validation has been powerful.

It’s hard to acknowledge and yet, I know I absolutely have to, its false modesty to not acknowledge it and the sorrow for all the time I didn’t let myself create, the doubt, the fear, the negotiating my own way through the world, poetic voice or no poetic voice, being an artist, yet denying myself entrée into the club.

No.

Really.

I don’t belong here.

No.

That table couldn’t possibly be for me.

No.

I know you say I have a reservation to be here, but there’s been a mistake.

The maitre d leads me to the table and seats me despite my own fuss.

“When I heard you reciting them,” my person said to me in front of the Church St. Cafe as we sat and drank tea and caught up, “I thought to myself, oh these are lovely, who’s are they?”

He continued, looking at me with his sparkling blue eyes, that matched exactly the corn flower blue cashmere sweater wrapped over his shoulders, “I didn’t know you wrote them, it took me a minute to catch on!”

We talked about the story behind the poems and I told him how I got there to the creative process and how I did a nonce and what that was like and it was me running away at the mouth.

“Girl, I knew you could write, but I had no idea about this part of you,” he said and smiled, with his eyes and mouth and heart, and squeezed my hands.

“You are an artist and you are curious and you let yourself go there and you have experiences, this other artist saw that in you and you connected and you let yourself do that,” he smiled more.

My heart squeezed itself in my chest and tears rose in my eyes.

“I feel like I may have cheated myself a little though,” I told him.

“How so?” He asked, curious himself.

“Well, I cashed the check and immediately, like within minutes I had transferred the entire thing into my savings account, there was no celebration, there was just a straight transfer, I feel like I should be celebrating and doing something with it, although I am doing something with it, I’m going to get a Vespa, a new one, which is what I wanted to do all along before I got bamboozled last year with the knock off I bought.”

“Girl, you are celebrating, you are telling me the story of the poems,” he looked at me, “it’s good that you put that money right into your savings.”

He’s right.

I don’t have to go out and spend the money frivolously to prove some sort of point.

In fact.

I transferred the entire $1,000 and another $150 of my own into savings.

I really want to get a scooter.

And I really want a Vespa.

So.

Just a little closer to my new ride then I was the day before yesterday.

The acknowledgement, the accolades, the poems themselves, the being a poet, letting myself be seen, that is the celebration.

Plus.

All the love from my friends who have always seen this side of me and applauded it when I did not or was not able to.

Sitting here.

Doing my blog.

Being happy.

Knowing that I made another artist happy with my work.

That is celebration.

I revel in that.

I also revel in the almost weekend of it all and my staid Halloween plans.

Which include going to 7th and Irving to get right with God, meet my person at Tart to Tart, maybe get the nails done, then lunch with a friend, and afterward, borrowing said friends couch to sit and read all day long on and maybe, just maybe, let myself take a nap.

Yup.

Those are my mad, crazy Halloween plans.

That and sitting down tomorrow to write-up another sonnet.

I have an idea I want to submit to the Bastille and I need to get it out to them ASAP, the deadline is the 31st.

Plus.

I have decided that the compensation for the sonnet series being what it is I am not, cannot with any integrity, submit it for further publication or award.

I have been amply compensated.

That being said.

I am still submitting to the Nemerov Award.

I am going to send in a sonnet that was supposed to be part of the sequence, but I messed up the rhyme scheme and the principle was out-of-order, so I tossed it.

I tried to re-work it but, it just didn’t fit.

I let it go and wrote a fresh one that fit the schematic I had set up.

But I really liked the sonnet.

And.

This means, I have an extra sonnet with all the flavor of the sequence, that I did not submit to my collaborator and patron.

Thus.

I will rework it and tighten it up and send that off instead.

I love that I have ideas falling out of my head.

I still have lots of work to do for school.

Another paper to write for Human Development.

More reading to do.

Etc, etc, ad infinitum.

But I will find the balance with the poetry.

And move forward into the generous flow of language that is out there just waiting for me to cast my net upon it’s worded sea of stars and images.

I’ll push out my boat into that ether and gather wide the nets into my arms aching and full.

Heavy with the heavenly catch that lies awaiting me.

All the things.

All the love.

All the pretty.

Pretty.

Poetry.

One Take

October 28, 2015

Damn it.

I had the whole thing, ten whole sonnets, in one smooth, seamless, gorgeous take.

Except.

Fuck me.

I thought I had my voice recording rolling on my phone.

As it turns out.

I did not.

Damn it.

Ugh.

I recited ten freaking sonnets, all my vigor, all heart, my voice nicely warmed up and lush, ready to go.

I had already read them once through, catching the places that didn’t roll off the tongue, practicing the words that are a little tricky to pronounce, getting it down.

Then.

I read them.

God damn, I was pleased.

Until I looked at the time on the recording and it said seven seconds.

Fuck.

I don’t have the energy to do that again.

The gentleman that asked me to do the collaboration with him wants me to read them to him, but his schedule and my schedule have not synced up yet.

And he’s leaving for Japan on November 1st.

So, not like there’s a lot of time.

Maybe a snippet tomorrow, a slice of minutes where we might be able to connect.

I had never used the voice recorder app on my phone, had no clue it was there, frankly, I’m not into recording myself, although I do like the sound of my voice, but we had to record for our role play on Sunday in Therapeutic Communications class, so I learned how to use the app.

It is super easy.

I should have been able to record the reading, but I did not.

I will try again.

I would love to perform the poems for the gentleman, I like the idea of that, the poems do take on a different feeling when I am reading them, I know that well.

There is still time.

And I could probably also just read them to him over the phone.

Perhaps I will try one more time tonight to record them.

I suppose I could also ask for help.

Ahhahaha.

God.

I amuse myself.

My first thought, literally, the one that just leapt into my brain, “who the hell is going to want to listen to me recite poetry?”

Ugh.

Martines.

Stop being your own worst critic.

I have been told many times that I have a nice voice, I am sure that there are people who would like to hear me recite them and if not, at least have the patience to sit and record them for me while I recite them.

Maybe I will ask the dj I collaborated with, Sunshine Jones, to do a recording of them with me.

I would like that.

It was fun to record “While You Were Sleeping” with him.

That reminds me too.

I need to figure out BMI.

I have a song writing credit on the track as well as vocal attribution for that album.

I could have money sitting there and I don’t even know it.

Time to reach out to a friend who said they could assist with that.

I put a little pinch of money in savings today and I am close to having what I need for the scooter, what if there was some money lying about that I could put claim to, I could get the scooter sooner!

I need to address that.

I need to address many things.

Reading for class.

Writing papers for class.

Time management.

Transcribing my therapy session for Therapeutic Communications.

All the stuff.

All the things.

There’s a full moon tonight and what I would rather do than read or write or work on papers or record myself again, damn it, is go down to the beach and watch the moon set, but it’s cloudy and overcast and a drop of rain fell on my face as I turned onto 46th Avenue from Lincoln on my bicycle.

There is not moon to be seen in the sky.

Anything to distract me from the work.

Although, I found, wonderfully, that I was able to reel myself in a little bit today when I was having anxiety about getting enough reading done this weekend, that I recognized I was living in the future, afraid that I wasn’t going to have enough time and it was distracting, and unnecessary.

I called a girl friend.

I got some perspective.

I called my person and got more.

I can catastrophize to make myself feel like I am being pro-active.

I am used to responding to emergency and feeling hectic about getting things done creates an unreal drama in my head, an urgency when there is no urgency.

That if somehow I manage it all better, control it all better, I will feel better.

Instead of knowing that what I am doing, steady, slow, sure, progress, reading a little everyday before work and as much as I can on weekends, is getting me by.

Not quite as on par as the syllabus, but I haven’t yet turned in a paper late and I know quite a few of my cohort are struggling with getting all the work in and done.

I am ok.

And my voice is warm.

I can feel it in my chest.

The hot tea I am drinking is not hurting.

I may try to give the recording another go here in a minute and see if I can actually do it.

It also doesn’t have to be perfect.

I am performing for a one man audience.

A person I don’t even really know.

Although I feel a connection to.

And a deep appreciation for.

I feel like I have a patron.

Jesus.

That just gave me goosebumps.

It is something special to be asked to collaborate and to be sought after for my words, it is a huge compliment and although I know I will write for myself no matter what, I am not unaffected by having an audience.

It is an honor to be seen.

And.

Heard.

So with that thought in my heart, I go forth again to record the sonnets.

Fingers crossed!

Luminous

October 26, 2015

Don’t put your light under a bushel!

I wanted to grab the woman across from me and give her a hug.

I did later.

But.

In that moment.

I nodded my head, I used a small furthering word, I repeated back what she said.

I used her words.

I heard her.

I really heard her.

I used feeling words and listened.

And.

It was amazing.

“You’re doing it kid!”

I was so excited and present and there.

The classroom fell away, I didn’t hear what was happening with the other dyads that were spread around the room, I didn’t notice anything but the woman across from me, the feelings registering on her face, the words she was saying, the situation she was describing.

The vulnerability.

I could swoon with the honor of bearing witness.

I had my first taped, as in recorded, role-playing session where I was a therapist and my client was herself, ie, not a made up character taken from one of our texts, which is what we have been doing until today.

I will have to transcribe it and I am eager to hear it and loath to as well.

Hearing my own voice recorded is not my favorite thing in the world, although I like my voice, I like reading out loud, I like reciting my poems, I like reading stories to the boys at work.

Speaking of reading.

The artist I collaborated with from Burning Man got back to me and he is very happy with the sonnets.

I reiterate.

I am very happy with the sonnets.

In fact, I think I may rework them a tiny bit and submit them to the Howard Nemerov Sonnet award.

The Formalist is accepting applications to the award until November 15th.

I am going to submit the entire ten as a sequence.

Only one sonnet will win the award, but as a poet I can submit up to twelve sonnets.

I have never submitted more than one that I can think of, at a time.

I have submitted I believe four times.

There were times when I thought, I will just keep submitting until they give me the damn award.

Now.

Well.

Sure.

I want the award, but I think, just as much, I want them to be published.

Even one of them.

They just do make me happy.

Of course, technically, I have published them, here on my blog.

Quick” is the title of the blog.

Anyway, I digress a touch.

Where I was going with this is that the collaborator wants me to meet with him and read him the works.

I am excited to do that, to read them, just as much as to have them printed off.

There is something really visceral about reading them to someone.

They become more than the words on the page.

Oh.

I want you to see the words on the page too, they are some clever words, and some tidy word play and some great rhymes, but really, I want to perform them for you, read them for you, have my heart in my mouth and my soul bare before you, so that you receive the full song of the sonnets.

The epic.

Well.

Ten sonnets in a row, is not necessarily an epic, but all linked together by the words of another poem, using formal verse, my, my, my, Carmen, I think you made up another nonce.

I’ll take it, thank you very much.

I love poetry.

Not that you can tell.

Ha.

And I love the sound of my own voice and I am not humble at all.

But I have some modicum, every, once in a while, of humility.

That humbles me, that leveling of my ego, the evening out of my pride, that being teachable.

I am teachable.

I am learning.

I feel like I am an ever emerging young adult in the world, open eyes, dancing over the sewer grates of the down town rough and tumble asphalt, innocent, perhaps not, but open, fresh, awakened, alive, a light, a lit, in love with my life.

“You are my light.”

And you mine.

I smile and sink into my heart space and feel surrounded and held and the words float out like holograms.

She used the word again!

Luminous, luminosity.

The depth of seeing that she has for herself that she is not even aware of having, and how she does not want to hide her light and yet feels compelled to dim it down.

Shine brighter love!

Be brighter.

Be your own light.

Be the beacon, the unsheathed light of love.

Let is shine.

Shine darling.

Light up the sky.

I kept my mouth shut.

I let her do the work, which in of itself is a lot of work, a lot of knowing to just listen, to sit back, or forward a little, leaning into the words and cadences of her phrases, seeing how her body would get small, then big, then open and the emotions chasing themselves fleet foot and dancing over the planes of her face, the rich brown eyes deep and doe like, soft with tears.

I’m learning!

I wanted to shout.

I wanted to dance in my chair.

I don’t know that I was exactly articulating that in my head, it was just a nice buzz of knowing of connecting, of being in the moment and being there for that person and knowing, in my heart, deep and true that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing, my gratitude.

It knows no bounds.

It leaps about the room.

It rolls across my bed and giggles.

It kisses my neck and drops me dizzy and divine, my hair fanned out behind me.

Lush.

Luminous.

Light.

Lit up.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

Liminal, dancing there, on the threshold.

Lined in love.

Lightened like feathers, swan down, cushions of softness and swathed in light.

All the light.

I wanted to reach across the way, to touch the back of her hand with mine, so I reached with my heart.

I believe it was felt.

I looked with my eyes.

I did not touch with my hands.

Sometimes when I look at you, I am touching you with my hands.

Stroking the soft crown of your head, tracing the bones of your face, holding it dear, sweet, delirious in its humanity in between my cool fingertips, scrolling down the tender nape of your neck, holding you, darling, close to me.

Sometimes I see you so bright and lit and full of love.

It astounds me and I fall aghast with love, adorned with love.

A glow.

And I know.

I know.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Spot lit by love.

Done And Done

October 19, 2015

And done.

But.

Not done in.

So thankful to have had this day of working on all that is love and home and work and homework and heart work and everything that life entails and encapsulates.

I had a full day.

One that I wasn’t exactly sure how it was going to go off.

I insisted on letting myself sleep in an hour longer than I normally would.

Well.

I don’t know if insist is the right word, it felt almost like work, just lie here and let yourself go back to sleep.

The machine in my brain wanted me up and about and get on it girl, there are things to do, people to meet with, breakfast to cook, writing to be done, you have papers to write and so much reading, do you have any idea how much reading you have to do?

Not as much as I did this morning, but I get a head of myself.

I was able to combat the thoughts by acknowledging them and saying, might have been mumbled into my pillow as I turned over in my bed, my delicious, delightful, pinch me I’m so happy I get to sleep on it, bed, “thanks for sharing,” and go back to sleep.

It worked for a little while, I got another 45 minutes in.

Of course the next time I woke up, I was up and going.

And really.

I haven’t stopped since.

Although there have been reprieves and moments of down time today, moments when I look about me with such gratitude that I am overcome by what I have and the abundance, nay, the super abundance, of love in my life.

I have been all around the world and I have this home that has become such a home to me that I am in literal awe of what I have.

There is art and beauty everywhere.

The last piece finally coming together as a friend came over this morning to help me hang the Diebenkorn he gave me months ago.

When I look at that piece, the way it sings on the wall, the heralding of love, the colors replete and yes, matching, complimenting, extending around my room, I am reminded in subtle, and not so subtle ways, of the journey of the last few months.

Had someone said, you are going to cry this much, and feel this much pain, and yes, laugh this much, so much that you think you might pee your pants or vomit out sushi, or good forbid snort (all of which have happened in one degree or another) or that I might feel so much joy that I felt I was to burst, that I was going to see so much art, have access to it, get to bring it home and make my home even more my home, well, I would not have believed it.

Which is funny.

Since I have big feelings and the above sentence does not seem at all irrational to me when I re-read it.

Of course I changed.

My home becoming my unexpected crucible and I am replete with happiness, content in a way that I had not thought possible, though knew, really knew, was out there for me.

I have everything I need.

I have so much that I want, that the wanting is almost supplemental.

But I will tell you a secret.

Shhhh.

I am thinking again about a scooter.

I have been saving.

And I have not touched the financial aid disbursement that I have received for school.

I have gotten help, I won’t say that I haven’t, I have been gifted generously and taken care of and that has allowed me to throw a little more in my savings than I typically do.

I am feeling it out again, the scooter topic, as my knees also bugged me a bunch today and over the last week.

They buckled a little trying to help lift my bed out-of-the-way to hang the Diebenkorn and I found myself bursting into tears.

Although I valiantly tried to hide them, my friend looked at me in alarm and told me to sit down.

I was humbled.

My body, a token of constant humility.

I can dress her up, but sometimes I can’t get her to walk from here to there.

Anyway.

The scooter has been on my mind again and part of that, I won’t lie, is for efficiency as well.

How much more reading could I get in if I weren’t riding my bike to and from work and school?

What places I would be able to go to, doing the deal especially can be hard some days and I feel that a mode of transportation at night that is faster than my bicycle will be helpful.

I am hoping the little Buddy Italia in cream and avocado is still at Scooter Centre.

If it’s not.

It wasn’t meant to be.

If it is.

Heh.

Maybe I can get a better price on it than the one he offered me when I looked at it a few months ago.

Plus.

I am expecting a bonus at the holidays.

If I can hold off on spending the loan money and get a nice bonus, I maybe riding a scooter into the new year.

This is all speculation and pulls me away from the moment and the further acknowledgement that I need to give, to myself, really, I just want to acknowledge how much work I put into those sonnets–the ones from last nights blog.

I sent them off just before logging on here to write my blog.

I went through them three more times today and edited them, read them out loud, tightened them up, and then sat and dreamed on them while I wrote my Psychoanalytic Paper on Freud’s theories of Mourning and Melancholia.

Ayup.

And I used them in my paper.

Which was fantastic and outside the box and I was hesitant, but my friend said go for it, and when I consider how much work I did on them it didn’t feel like I was cheating to include them in my paper.  If anything, it felt like an acknowledgement to the professor of how much the Freudian work actually found its way into the sonnets as I was writing them against the back drop of analysis and dreamscapes.

I re-titled the work, tightened it up, and sent it out.

The collaborator poet has officially sent her poems out into the world for the photographer artist to use.

Part of me hopes he likes it.

The majority of me doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass.

I did a damn good job.

I love them.

They brought me joy.

I spent a lot more time with them then I thought I would, but I received so much in return, including a lot of insight that I extrapolated later in my paper when I wrote it.

That was my day: poetry, reading, writing, repeat.

Take small breaks, meet with ladybug, cook food for the week, do laundry, go with friends over the bridge to do the deal in Mill Valley, hang out, catch up with folks, then come home and finish all my Freud reading for class on Friday.

Thank God.

It’s done.

Oh.

Hahaha.

Don’t worry, I still have reading to do before Friday, but I don’t have any more papers due.

A reprieve.

I’m done for now.

Just now.

And with that.

Time to put up my feet.

Curl up in my bed.

Sip a cup of tea and look in astonishment at the prosperity and abundance in my life.

I am a very lucky girl.

I am.

So.

Very.

Very.

Lucky.

Quick

October 18, 2015

FAST.

Before the god damn internet goes down again.

I hate spending precious minutes trying to stand on my head in one corner of my studio to get online.

But.

Here we are and I am going to make this short.

Because they deserve to stand on their own.

Voila!

The Ten Principles

 

I.

While you were sleeping—love came and went, dancing

A triple toe trapeze tango of adoration. Spinning fast

Her heart swinging on a curled pink ribbon of gewgaws, prancing

Feet tip toeing through the cold dust float flashing past

My arms. Aching to cradle you against sugar tit breasts,

I breathe deep into the mask of Universality, while the glowing

Moon eclipses the mountains, all calico decked slumbering beast

Pushing through purpled velvet haze—God, not crowning

Michelangelo, but breathing soft the hairs of strawberries, bent

Underneath the thumb pad of kissing desires, all the plump,

Soft, smooth, cooling wonder of marble, the pursed lips, immediacy

In this plush madness of moment and soul lifting exuberance.

II.

Through the rooms filled with snow, her name went, Mathilde,

Participatory departed, like soft dusky punk pink roses on flushed

Cheeks. She chased the soul shadows like imagined butterflies, mild

With stupor across the lamplight of your lunar lit interior, hushed

To enwrap your sleep chilled fingers beneath warm curves.

She reached for you. Come with me, she whispered shivered lush,

Low, a mewling cry of desire complacent under groves

Of moon tinted shadow snow dunes painted grey blue, a thrush

Back, beneath the dewy breathe of my craving. While

I watch, wallflower like, the bent beat of my heart, harsh

Crying like wild geese at midnight flying the last mile

Blinded by the mechanic bleeding colors of erotic ash

Necrotic fallings from the sky, the embers of comets, blooming

Fireworks, which scatter, and sigh on the hot winds gloaming.

III.

And she waltzed. Mathilda and her girls twirled past,

Leaving no trace of footprints, of fingerprints, on lost patterned

Hair ribbons in the shadowy fall of mourning. The last

Lowing calls of the mysterious night, a low howling of stranded

Knowing only too well, how you would awaken in this morn,

Love lost, stricken, wicked with unfulfilled longings. Dreams

Unremitted like dead stars still shedding old light. Mourn

With me this loss as well as the supple light streams

Sleeping. I scrolled my fingers along the nape of

Lion light emanating from your slumbering soul, hesitant

To lie next to you on that rumpled golden scruff—

I curl rather, at the edge of dawn, dredging determinant,

Retiring, restrained, stopped by the wry edge of self

My strivings and reachings pulling you down off the high shelf.

IV.

Wearing heaviest brocade skirts and rabbit fur muffs,

Civic responsibility for the bestowal of the velveteen jackalope kiss.

Betwixt crimson cantina of lust and the mixture of heat, the cuffs

Fall from my heart and I dance, bewildered and remiss—

Lost, forgetful, done in, brushing the butterfly pollen from

My closed eyes, like so much sleep crust, glitter sparkled

Down from above, the father of time, and the mother grim

The lost shoe in the dust. I blow freckled kisses, speckled

Across your neck, then collecting the very essence of you, a fragrant

Flower of night blooming remonstrance, all the wishes

Candles blown out and re-kindled, the fire a figment,

This small symbol dancing on the angels delicious

Bowed head—a corona, a sunburst, a nova flung

Forward. The Universe keens and I fall, wet, wrung.

V.

They pirouetted on ice skates built of elk bone and mouse hair—

Communal effort of wilding animals, crawling from the horizon on tender bellies

Toward that dusty Bethlehem of Eros. Where the, delicate, the fair,

The chaste, the virginal, line up, nay, flounce up, to be lie

Your fingers. And like so much powdered sugar spun flung

From warm beignets, they scatter across the vast lakebeds

Flash frozen underneath the high heartless moon, they sprung,

Unlike Athena from the forehead of Zeus, out of caravans, their heads

Fragments of you, a scent bouquet I would later

Find hidden in my pockets, a sachet, a filament of you—

Relics, sacraments, the ghosting hand of help greater

Then the reality of nothingness in front of me. Dew

Shimmer, a mirage of mighty, mighty love that dissipates

On shrieking winds growling down upon lost participants.

VI.

Chuckling hot chocolate fogged breaths at your snuffling snores,

The radical self-expression of Freudian dream analysis travels

Across the night time playa in search of golden s’mores

To sandwich itself greedily with. Dusted cinnamon time unravels

From powdered doughnut holes. While you were

Wandering, lost, looped, kiting high on rings of smoke,

Tattered shreds of flowing embers flew up into the ether—

Plumes, signs, signets, signals of unconscious drives and love broke,

Intoxicated self with, when I walked this world

Alone. Reaching always. Searching always. Forgotten mementos,

Rings flashing over fingers, always grasping, only to then whirl

Towards dust devils which flicker through the ethos

Of conscious ego states. I am here. I am there.

I am nowhere. Time, oh time, precious, spills soft as heather.

VII.

Drunk on Frenet and ginger ale backs, while you were sleeping,

The radical self-reliance of ravens swooping through the air

High above the choke dust gathering, the digestive reaping

No benefit from the over consumption. I spit out fear and I care

Dream you into being. While you were sleeping I

Gathered my skirts high, hands balled into hard fists, tight

With the longings of bees heavy headed with pollen. Fly

Me to the flower of that moon. Take swift the night—

Drink your pomegranate wine and I will eat your honeyed

Self—a glance of lusted swooning infatuation, Psyche

To your Cupid, frustrated no longer, less the moneyed

Love of convenience. Moving together, bound on the aching

Heartstrings irrevocably tied to each other, a tangled

Tight rope of carnival carnality, a bloodied heart mangled.

VIII.

I came and went, dressed in love’s trappings, cantaloupe

Colored decommodification, a dress built on the shimmering

Heat billowing below the desert mirage. An antelope

Gallops a head of me like a grey hound whippet, a glimmering

Song, the forest alive, to shelter you from the suns

Heart and the minds wanderings. I lean into this wind,

Surrendering again, let go, I whisper, the moisture falls

From my eyes, sea salt sorrow melts me. I am blind.

Black Mission figs for which I so hungered, yet I thirsted

First, always, only, for you. Unable to slack this need

I search endlessly, ceaselessly, across the white flats, bested

Only by ardent sensibilities, I watch you, this greed,

My unrepentant neediness, I cannot bear to sustain, yet always

I do. I shoulder you; ever beneath the binding suns rays.

IX.

Moon beams, raindrop garters, a shift I built on the

Gifting’s of iterant wanderers, silks, and sateen’s, cotton fine

As gossamer, the ghosted kisses of love, the lunar moth

Against the palm o my hand, the silvery star shimmer line—

Rays and the moon’s philandering’s. While you were

Walking with me, beside me, hand in hand, long legs flashing

Forward, covering vast ground, I had always walked, bare,

Alone, lifted on sparrow wings fragile looking, yet lasting.

For darling, while you were sleeping, I went a hunting,

A chasing, a twirling, a spinning, with my divining rod heart,

My palmistry set in my pack, my soul tucked in bunting

Baby rabbit skin, to find a place to nestle in, part

Dreamboat, part rowboat out at sea, likes a seedpod

Flouted from cattails, the dander of fairies, and the kisses of God.

X.

Backward migrations of monarch wings, I opened wide

My arms, ardent with radical inclusion. I accept all

Your love. I prosper, now, underneath the dark side

Of the lunar landscape, I dance, ecstatic, and then fall

Sleeping, as the women came and went speaking not of

Dusty spires of ashen truths fallen along the way

Side, strewn in the ditches, lost like the tattered clothes

Of crumpled doll dresses. No. This day, my heart allay

To find a bunting to wrap my baby in. Fur

Languished with laughter, swaths of parachute skins

Colored bright as sugar spun sunsets over mountains. Stir,

Me, shake me, toss me, I float, my arms laden with sin

Full, replete, taken within, to the abandonment of loving

You. My gifted wild trumpeting, my Jericho blowing.

Fin.

Today’s Password Is

October 16, 2015

Love.

Yesterday’s was “tool.”

But that was yesterday.

“Password!  Password!” My little guy shouted from the steps.

I was laden down with grocery bags and diaper bags and my own bag, his younger brother, and it was time to get inside for dinner.

“Tool!” I shouted.

“That was yesterday’s!” He replied and grinned.

“Big guy, I need your help, I have too much stuff, you have to give me a hint today,” I said juggling all the things on the steps and reaching for my keys while balancing his three year old brother and his brothers hat and stuffed cat on his head, that is the cat was on his head, not his hat, which was falling into the bushes and the dog was inside snuffling with joy to come out and greet us and it was 5:15p.m. and I had to pee.

“Guess!”

Oh my God kid you’re killing me.

“Spaghetti, apple, banana, milk, market, JP, Dave Hale (the two favorite vendors at the Farmer’s Market that we go to on Thursdays, ie tomorrow, note to self get out the market bags), pumpkin patch!”

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

“Kiddo, I…..

I was getting angry and took a deep breath.

“Love,” he said soft, sweet, his big brown eyes luminous in his face, my little angel, my sweet boy pie, then he kissed my hand and swung open the gate.

I do live in a fairy tale.

Love.

FYI.

Was my spiritual principle to practice today.

I have no idea where the kid came up with it, just that it was all around me.

Has been all day.

All night.

I just got back from a kick assery shopping extravagance at SafeWay.

My friend gave me a ride over after doing the deal.

Grocery shopping.

Not that much of a big deal.

But.

A.

HUGE deal.

I am a bike rider.

I don’t have a car.

I have to grocery shop all the time to keep a pace with the fact that I make almost 95% of my food.

I rarely eat out, unless treated, and my restaurant budget for the month is typically $50.

Lunch out once a week is my MO.

My grocery shopping spending plan, though, is close to $500 or for this month $550, since it has an extra week in it.

That may feel like a lot for a single lady.

But.

I am a single lady in the city and when you compare that to eating out, even one meal a day, I save a lot of money on cooking my own food.

Plus.

I am a person who abstains from sugar and flour.

Aside.

You should have seen my friend and I shopping.

Hilarious.

He eats like a growing high school boy.

I couldn’t tell you what exactly was all in the cart but the highlights were an uncountable number of 2 liters of soda, Chili Cheese Fritos, raw cookie dough, and um, other stuff.

My stuff was fruit and organic veggies, edamame, organic free range chicken breasts, unsweetened vanilla almond milk, turkey bacon (my secret ingredient in my brown “fried” rice that I make big batches of and have for dinners and lunches all throughout the week), apples, persimmons, organic avocados.

I think my friend got some Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal too.

I can’t be sure though.

It may have been buried under a pile of 2 Liter sodas.

Not to say I am better than.

Just different.

If I could eat like he does and get a way with it.

Well fuck yes, hello, I so would.

SERIOUSLY.

I can’t however and that’s cool.

I love that I have such a kind and generous friend.

I am lucky.

Blessed.

Graced.

If you will.

By the amazing people in my life.

Love indeed.

I was feeling the love this morning as I put on my safety orange cord pants.

What?

You don’t have any?

You so need a pair.

I matched them up with, yes, this actually worked, a pink tank top, layered with a grey tank top that I got from Lightening in a Bottle two years ago with a white rabbit on it with colored swirls of pink, turquoise and safety orange.

I also wore a big glittery flower concoction in my hair and glitter on my eyelids.

And.

Yes.

A sparkly blue heart glitter necklace.

It sounds fucking atrocious.

Like a raver candy tripping on molly and LSD with a side of cocaine to take make it all some how disco sexy.

But.

If you do it right, and I did, I promise, it can be pulled off.

“That’s right, Wednesday, get your sparkle on,” I laughed as I looked in the mirror.

Sometimes I forget that one of the ways I have fun is to let myself dress up.

Speaking of.

I’m trying to figure out what to wear for tomorrow nights show.

I will be going straight from work.

But I am getting a ride into work, so I could wear a cute dress, something that I don’t wear too often.

Certainly not for work.

But.

Why not?

It may be time to break out a crinoline.

I dare say my principle tomorrow will be “happy” if I wear a crinoline.

I mean.

How could it not?

Life is good and full of love.

You know what else is lovely.

Aside from the idea of getting my dancing shoes on.

Poetry.

Oh that’s right.

I finished the sonnets!

I am over the moon.

I haven’t written the artist with whom I am collaborating on yet as I have not yet gotten them cleaned up and into my computer, but they are done.

I have the rough drafts of ten sonnets.

Ten.

In fact, I actually have thirteen, but I fucked up the rhyme scheme badly in one and had to toss the whole thing when I realized I had done the embedded poem wrong for that specific piece, and the other two pieces were written before I had the inspiration that led to the ten that I have written.

I used my poem “While You Were Sleeping” as a frame work to work the all the sonnets around.

I also embedded a principle, this time one of the Ten Principles, from Burning Man, into each poem.

Love is not one of them.

Decommodification is though.

Let me just say, I am going to give myself some props here, the fact that I worked decommodification into a sonnet should be noted as some sort of literary achievement, I mean, not like the Pen Faulkner award, or anything, but maybe the Nemerov, the Howard Nemerov Sonnet prize (which I have secretly coveted for over two decades).

Just sayin’.

Anywho.

I will let him know that I have the roughs and I figure I will have them all typed up in my computer by Saturday or Sunday.

Then e-mail them out and I’m way ahead of schedule and if he doesn’t like them.

Well.

He still has time to collaborate with another artist for his project.

And.

I don’t care.

I love them.

I love that I am a writer, a poet, a blogger.

A.

As a darling friend likes to tease me.

“A woman of the world.”

Indeed.

A very loved.

Woman of the world.

Trop Contente Ma Poule

October 10, 2015

Translation please.

“So happy my girl.”

I loved getting this text.

Even though I put myself in a place to make myself a tiny bit more hectic when I really didn’t think I could squeeze another thing into my over full schedule.

But.

When a dear, darling, yes, French, girl friend of mine texted me this evening when I had the boys in the bath asking if I would like to go see Franz Ferdinand next Thursday, “I have an extra ticket,” well, I had to say yes.

Mais, oui!

But of course.

I so want to.

I am going to have a full day that Thursday.

I had to double-check, than triple check, that the date was not a school weekend, no way I can go out to Oakland on a school weekend.

Hell.

I got invited to a dance party tonight in Oakland and I won’t say that I didn’t contemplate it, I did, but I have too much on my plate for tomorrow.

If it all goes as planned, haha, I will be meeting my person at noon, speaking at a thing at 1 p.m., taking myself out to lunch by 2:30 p.m., getting my nails done by three p.m. and fingers fucking crossed back to my place by 4p.m. so I can work on my Human Development paper before my date, which I am assuming is happening at 7:15p.m. as we have dinner reservations in the Mission at 8 p.m.

Whew.

So.

Sure.

Throw another thing in my schedule.

Oh.

Wait.

Hahahaha.

I already did do that today.

Next Thursday I also have an appointment downtown before work to renew my Healthy San Francisco health care.

I did some research last night, in between looking at dresses on ModCloth, because god only knows when I will actually have the time to go into a proper clothing store and actually buy new clothes, into my available health insurance options.

I readily discovered that it would be better fiscally for me to continue with Healthy SF.

I made the appointment for next Thursday, two days before my plan expires.

Yeah.

I know.

But it’s getting done and I don’t have to take a sick day from work.

My only other option was to go in at 9 a.m. on Monday morning and since the boys have off for the holiday, Columbus Day in case you need to make some big plans, I will be going into work at 10 a.m.

It felt like I was trying to make it work too hard.

And.

Tuesday I work even earlier, 9:30a.m.

But.

It’s ok.

I’m flexible like that.

Most of the time.

And I wanted to be flexible when my friend texted me.

I have turned down hanging out with some of my fellows in my cohort and I don’t want to continue to do that, even though it means squashing another thing into my life, so grateful I have such a full life, that I had to say yes.

Besides I really quite like the quartet from Glasgow, the Franz Ferdinand boys, and it should be a really good show.

I haven’t been to a show in a long time.

Unless you count Burning Man.

Which certainly is a circus of a show if there ever was one.

Speaking of which.

I realized yesterday, I won’t be going to Decompression.

Which is a new one for me.

I always go to Decompression.

Even though I always feel a bit let down by it.

It just is not the same, though it tries real hard.

It should be called, “Depression.”

Although I do like running into friends there and usually there’s some good dancing, some photographs and some hanging out that does me good, I do feel a little sad to be missing it, but I have plans to be working on school work.

I don’t know that I am going to get my paper written tomorrow, but I did go through all my notes this morning as well as pulling out a stack of post-it notes and marking all the places in the reader and in the gigantic text-book that I want to address in my paper.

In a sense, the knowing what I am going to write on makes the actually writing really not too bad.

If the paper goes like the last one did, and truth be told, I am better prepared with this one, I have done all the readings–finished them yesterday, and I have a good grasp on the material, it should not take longer than two, three hours tops to write.

“How’s grad school going?” My friend asked me tonight after doing the deal over at Our Lady of SafeWay.

I wasn’t expecting to be there tonight, I had a cancellation after work and I snuck in a little get right with God.

So exceptional, how I get what I need when I need it.

“It’s good, hard, full, some of it is super easy, the reading and the writing isn’t that hard, I’m used to writing, it’s more time management, that’s the hardest.” I told my friend and he gave me a big hug.

“You got this.”

I do.

He’s right.

I just also get a little caught up in the busy of it all.

But grateful, so much so, that I am finding the balance.

I also am finding myself inspired.

I wrote another sonnet out for the Burning Man collaboration with the photographer/architect/artist I met at Burning Man standing in line for the Mike Garlington chapel.

I have now written six.

I am going to write ten.

I have the frame-work done for all ten.

I have the six written in full and they make me happy.

Oh so happy.

Trop contente.

Indeed.

I figure I will write another tomorrow, and by Tuesday, I will have all ten written.

Then.

I will transcribe them into my laptop, they are all in my notebook, my Human Development notebook at that–it was the notebook I grabbed from my bag when I got inspired and started writing, although there are no Human Development references, I did find myself working some Freudian dream analysis into the last poem.

I don’t know that the poems are going to make sense to any one but me.

But.

I am very happy with the language.

It is lush and yes.

Poetic.

God.

I am lucky.

Music on my stereo.

Art on my walls.

Words at my fingertips.

And she shall make music wherever she goes.

Love in my life.

Friends who want to take me to Franz Ferdinand.

French in my vocabulary.

Burning Man in my heart.

Graduate school on my brain.

And a two-day reprieve from work.

Life.

It’s pretty fucking good.

No?


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