Posts Tagged ‘soul’

And Then There Was This

January 24, 2018

January 22, 2018

To:

I am writing to strongly recommend Carmen Martines for your doctoral program. I work with Carmen at the _________________ in San Francisco where I serve as the Director and one of the Clinical Supervisors. Carmen is a masters level psychotherapy intern here, providing psychotherapy services in our non-profit community mental health center.

As a counselor here, Carmen is able to help a large number of clients to grow and heal. I can not over emphasize the valuable and unique set of experiences, drive, compassion, and intelligence that Carmen brought to her work here and is capable of offering to the world.

Carmen has overcome tremendous obstacles in order to now be in a position to increase her knowledge and skills. She has an innate drive and professionalism that I believe will be a good match for your program.

I myself am a graduate of _________, where I received a Ph.D. in East-West Psychology. I understand well the intellectual, academic, and practical aspects of the work involved and feel that Carmen has all the skills, natural abilities, and resources to excel as a doctoral student.

In short, the current and future potential of Carmen to be a gifted force in the community is undeniable. Her education in your program and subsequent contributions will surely increase that potential. Please consider her to be an exceptionally strong candidate.

If you have any questions or concerns please do not hesitate to contact me.

 

That is from my supervisor at my internship.

I found it in my file tonight in office.

I was thrilled to say the least.

I was expecting a good letter of recommendation, but this letter really hit my heart and made me realize, I am really going to do this.

REALLY.

It still fills a little strange and as I was sharing with a friend today whilst scurrying from one place to another, I already feel behind for this semester, that I am going to apply to a PhD program.

But.

Yes.

Indeed I am.

It was a nice letter to get.

It was affirming and it was just another soft layer of nice on top of a day that has been surprisingly less painful than the past week has been.

I have been in such excruciating emotional pain that I cannot even believe I made it through the week, then to add the getting a crown shoved in my mouth to the whole deal and navigating my way through my first weekend back in class, well, fuck, it’s been a tough week.

Let me also add I haven’t had a day off in I forget now how many days, but ten?

And I’m on track to work overtime this week at work.

I got a message from the mom asking me to come in early tomorrow, one of my charges is sick.

Sigh.

I said sure.

I could use the money frankly.

The unexpected out lay of $1300 for the dental procedure rather stripped me down on my reserve.

Plus.

I am getting a tattoo on Saturday.

Two pieces actually, and I’m not sure how much that’s going to be, although I have a ballpark feel for it.

So sure, I’ll come in two hours early tomorrow.

Sigh.

I feel like I can do it though as I actually got some sleep last night.

It was the first night in a week, longer? That I didn’t fall asleep crying.

There’s been a lot of nights falling asleep crying, but this last week it wasn’t just slippery tears and sadness, it was all out weeping and consternation so deep it felt like I was being torn in two.

Emotionally shredded.

I haven’t been able to write my blog for a few days, there was so much emotionally happening for me, I can’t even begin to know how I got through the week.

But it started to ease last night.

Thank you God.

I got some sleep.

I didn’t wake up crying.

Oh yeah, crying, like that’s what it was.

It was more like.

Falling on the floor and sobbing.

I went to bed weeping every night and by the time I hit my knees to do my morning prayers I was crying again.

Now.

I won’t lie.

I had therapy today, so there was crying there too, but not the deep gut wrenching, heart-sick, soul rending crying that I had been doing all week.

It was more of a processing cry.

The session went by fast.

I had so much happen this past week it still rather astounds me.

I grew a lot.

Inevitable that, when I go through a lot of pain I either grow or I wither.

I was forced, it felt, in a way, to grow and grow in ways I never even imagined I could or would.

But fuck me.

I certainly did.

I suspect the growth is still going to happen, I don’t know how it can’t, but I feel that I am through some of the hardest parts of it.

I sincerely fucking hope so.

That kind of pain is just not sustainable.

I don’t know that I could have taken much more of it.

I ran into an acquaintance tonight who remarked on how different I looked, saying how obvious it was the amount of pain I was in on Saturday.

Of course, he thought it was all about the tooth pain, and truth be told when I saw him at the spot, it was painful.

 

 

 

 

 

And oh.

There.

Look.

Pain.

Again.

And again and again and again.

Hey, surprise.

You don’t get off the hook that easy.

Thought you were going to make it through the day didn’t you?

Fuck.

I’m just going to go now.

I’ve lost all ability to string a cogent sentence together.

I’ve been crying for the last hour.

I don’t know why I even bothered to try to write.

Good night.

Sweet dreams.

May god bless you and keep you and hold you tight, warm and safe and secure in the knowledge of all the love I have for you.

I can’t express all the love there is for you.

I can only go and cry my heart out some more over you.

Cry and cry and cry.

And.

Fucking cry.

 

           

 

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Listening To Johnny Thunders

January 21, 2018

Great big kiss and trying.

Fuck.

I am trying to not cry.

I just feel floored right now.

I don’t know how to talk, how to discourse, how the fuck to write.

I am in so much pain I cannot breathe.

And when I do it is just to cry some more.

Great big ugly cries.

Stupid in public in the school cafeteria crying at lunch with my best girlfriend.

What is this?

Highschool?

Can’t be.

Despite the high color emotions I never would have been able to born this pain.

It feels like something has been ripped out of my body.

As though some piece of my soul has been torn out and dragged away.

Eaten by the heart monster.

Came for me in the night and ripped me to shreds.

Opened up my chest pulled out all my organs and crammed them in its mouth.

I have walked around all day feeling like an open wound.

I don’t know how to express the pain and i don’t know how to get away from it.

It comes and goes in waves.

Big rolling thunders of it.

When I am least expecting it.

Kneeling and saying my prayers and smash.

Knocked over, bowled over, thrown over, tossed onto the floor, if I wasn’t already on my knees I would have fallen.

Peeling a hard-boiled egg and there, out of the blue, another blast of it and I’m bent over at the waist with silent cries careening out of my mouth, I don’t know how I ate today, except out of habit and ritual.

I still didn’t finish my full lunch.

Too busy sobbing on the proverbial shoulder of a friend.

Grief.

Eaten alive and spat out and stepped on and smashed down.

And sad.

Just so damn sad.

Then to top it off, I got out of school to go to the dentist and have my permanent crown put in.

The process wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t horrible either.

I was told to not eat anything hard for the rest of the day, soft foods, and take it easy.

Sure.

Ugly cry face, just take it easy, no worries, go read some school work since you got out of the dentist chair quickly.

Go ugly cry in private for a little while instead of underneath the blue sky watching pigeons wheel in circles above the SafeWay on Noriega.

I read a couple of chapters that will be covered in class tomorrow and a fifteen page article on research methods.

Scintillating.

Not bored to tears.

But you know.

Close.

Always just there.

On the edge of tears.

“You want something to cry about, I’ll give you something to cry about,” my mother used to say to me and then give me something to cry about.

Funny how that happens.

God took away one pain and gave me another.

The Novocaine wore off my dental procedure and holy mother of God.

Pain.

Not insufferable pain, not going to crush my heart pain.

What heart?

It’s been broken, pulled apart, torn asunder.

You think I exaggerate.

I do not.

I have not experienced this level of emotional pain in well.

Ever?

I can’t even fathom it.

It just goes and goes.

I know that it will pass, “this too shall pass,” they say.

They say it a lot, make it happen faster please.

But the emotional pain took a back burner for a while to the physical pain.

Boy howdy, that was a neat trick.

Ugh.

And I think I’m running a fever in response to the pain level.

I should just take the stomach upset that will likely occur and eat some ibuprofen.

I will say the tooth pain is not as excruciating as it was when the Novocaine wore off, so I’m hoping I can suck it up and get through it.

Suck it up.

Buck up.

Grow up.

And all I want to do is fall down on the ground and cry like a baby.

All over again.

I think I am dehydrated from crying so much.

I shit you not.

I should Google it.

Can one get dehydrated from crying too much?

Is it possible?

It is.

Well, look at that.

Thanks Google.

Google also let me know that crying is good for you.

Well, duh, Google, I fucking know that.

Crying relieves emotional stress, lets your body detox by releasing stressful chemicals that your body produces during times of emotional duress.

I had a therapist who used to tell me that tears were a sign of pain leaving the body.

I suppose so.

I had a lot of fucking pain leave me today, but there’s just so much there, I wonder when I will be done with it.

It’s lessened as the day has gone on, but I have to admit, I’m in tears now thinking about how sad this week has been and how hard the last day has been to navigate and how it hurts when someone I love hurts.

God.

It hurts.

And then I hurt and I am.

Well.

Fuck.

I am just a wreck.

Tear spatters on my glasses.

Dried tears on my face.

Streaks of salt on the on the panels of my face a window of grief a story of loss and longing for something that is out of my reach.

Like a child crying for the moon.

Did you see the moon rise tonight?

So beautiful.

Although not as enchanting as the orange glimmering thing that floated on the horizon when I saw it out the car window last night heading towards the sea.

“Oh!  The moon!” I exclaimed and I felt that pain in my heart beating, pushing at my ribcage, trying to burst through.

I could only contain it for so long.

The sadness.

The tears.

“This better be worth it God,” I cried out last night and then just prayed harder, take care of the one I love, please, just take care of my love.”

Please.

That’s all I can ask.

That’s all I can do.

Pray and cry and let the pain wash through me until it is spent and I am just a rag doll washed up on the beach of sorrow.

Waiting for the light of dawn to illuminate me and my shattered skein of sorrow.

Tears on my pillow and the light of a new day washing pearl grey through my back door window and the aspect of going through my day without you haunting the periphery of what is left of my heart.

 

*This blog was postponed from being posted by an hour because I started to cry again.*

End blog.

 

 

Speak To Me

November 12, 2017

Of the desire in my psyche.

As I try to move.

Closer to you.

Binding my heart.

Against the heart place in your body.

Interconnected.

Landed in heat.

Transcending my day to day human life.

You have given me access to energy.

Star energy.

Dream energy.

Love energy.

The chemistry of love ignites within me–

Binding me with bright prisms of light.

Blinding me to all else.

But.

Your souls depth calling me home.

Descending me into vulnerability.

And.

Embuing my life with purpose.

Through the feeling of love for you.

Sublime you.

My kissling.

My burnished butterfly wing.

My sacred crow calls and whisperings.

Leveling me with your divinity.

Archetype of my heart.

Reflected in your heart.

Transcending my needs.

And.

Glorifying me.

Connecting me to this blue

Incantation of you.

You.

My tether point.

 

 

Bless you my darling.

May the angels of dawn.

Kiss you.

While.

You lay dreaming.

The Continuity of Our Souls

October 16, 2017

You, my love, my lover–

Sunshine glowing over me,

The environment of my heart.

It grows.

Rich.

Verdant.

Green.

Vibrant.

Lush, this plane of existence,

I have stumbled upon.

Greeted by synchronicity.

Adoration of butterflies.

Susurration of trees.

Which whisper to me in your secret language

Upon my upturned face.

Heavy headed dahlias,

Sunsets of color on my

Cheeks, rising up from this garden

Of sensuousness.

Felt delight.

Spun out in gossamer.

In swaths of gold.

Held together by magic.

I am comforted.

I am held true.

Swaddled by this bliss.

I expand further soft.

Commingled in the dusk

Of rising stars on the

Horizon of your warm heat.

There stand I.

In awe.

In the still point of your heart.

My dearest darling dear.

I sing you this song until my breath collapses.

 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

The Universe

It cries out in the echo chamber of my soul.

And.

It assures me.

Yes it does.

It knows what it is doing.

 

My Loving Present

October 13, 2017

You are my holy ideal.

My passion.

My archetype cohered to my heart.

Differentiated.

And.

Separated.

Yet.

Connected to this fire of love.

How I am put together.

Ingrained to my flexible soul.

All that stuff.

All these things.

Opening into space.

Breathing my heart open.

Opening me to more to be more.

I see a table-cloth, red checked.

Flaring out.

A blanket of hope and a lens too.

Complex and beatific.

Oh the awe for you of you about you.

The depth of you.

My value increasing with every breath.

Virtuosity in the cello string.

The thrum of my song of love.

Adoration of crows.

Murder of my ideas of who I am.

Into who I am becoming.

Filtered through this

Harrowing of you.

Exacerbate me.

Explode me.

And.

Reconstitute me.

In your love.

The fall from being.

Into your arms savages me and saves me.

Activating me.

Another layer comes forth.

Another exploration.

Basic trust.

Support.

Strength.

Foundational love.

My own capacity,

Opens.

My heart in my chest.

Exposed to the air,

The fire and heat of you.

I stand strong and still in this knowledge,

In my being.

I let myself bathe in the bliss

Of you.

Your love, flying in the

Face of impossibility.

Which guides me to my expansive

Home.

Embodied and alive.

In the benevolent glory,

The astonishing glow,

Of you.

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.

Not Enough

July 6, 2017

Just not enough time to look at your face.

To memorize the lines there, the smile lines, the laugh lines, the color of your skin.

It was too long.

This time in between tasting you.

Having your kiss on my mouth.

Holding your hand in my hand.

Laughing with you while the sun streamed through the window and my heart fled out my body.

Absconded by you.

I realized later.

I hadn’t opened my eyes enough.

So love lost in the moment.

So taken with the abandon.

I forgot to look.

I forgot to get my fill.

I didn’t get enough.

I sound like a junkie, don’t I.

A little love junkie.

A little tortured and twisted and sighing in the wind.

When.

Oh.

When, will I see my baby again?

And see I must.

See I demand.

With my eyes, with my hands.

To.

Take the measure of you.

Holding images against the braille of my heart.

Reading all that lies in between the shadow and the soul.

The dark drift of my dreams and the raft of pleasure I find myself

Moored upon.

Open your eyes I tell myself.

Don’t get so damn lost.

So easy to get lost in you, in between the slipstream and the curve of your shoulder blades.

The cusp of your collar bone.

The smell of you.

Not enough time to take it all in.

Damn it.

There were things I saw though.

Oh.

Yes.

The dewy fall of a bead of sweat down the back of your neck, sweet, succulent, juicy, droplet.

I wanted to lick it off of you.

Taste you.

I watched it fall instead.

Sliding down your skin it mesmerized.

Or.

Your smile.

Searing me in half.

I did not see enough of it though.

Too busy instead kissing that mouth to take it in properly.

Astray in the lushness of your bottom lip, the holding space and the sigh of it.

I could fall down that velvet blackness and abandon myself there.

Gone.

Star dust to star dust.

Ashes to ashes.

Obliterated.

Abandoned.

Lost.

In this.

Exquisite dream.

So.

I reprimand myself.

Open your eyes.

Open them wide.

See.

See all of you.

As I am so taken with you.

Kidnapped.

Dazzled.

Captivated.

Enchanted.

Enthralled.

And.

Beguiled.

All the damn things.

All of them.

So.

Let me say it one more time.

So I dare not forget.

Open your eyes baby girl.

There is so much to see and see it all you must.

Imprints of you on the backs of my eyelids.

In the narrative of my blood.

Standing there.

Just waiting.

Waiting for me to see.

Waiting for me to see.

All.

Of you.

 

 

 

 

Nocturne

May 18, 2017

Just out of a super hot shower and swaddled in blankets tucked away in the prow of the sleeping quarters on the houseboat listening to Chopin.

It is sweet and dreamy and all things rainy night in Paris.

I am finally not wet and cold.

It rained.

It poured.

It was a deluge.

I had Mike Doughty’s “Sad Girl Walking in the Rain” stuck in my head for hours.

However.

I was not sad.

I was dreamy.

I was bemused.

I was looking at all the things.

I was seeing the poetry in the wet cobblestones.

In the unexpected flair of a red rain poncho covering an old man as he pedaled his bicycle along the Seine.

I saw the heavy-headed peonies, blushing pink and sweet underneath the floral shop awning, drowsed with rain and nodding on their pale green stems.

I smelled roses, drunk with rain and walked underneath flowering chestnut trees.

I got wet.

Oh.

I got so wet.

Drenched.

Doused.

Soaked.

And yet.

My heart felt light and I strode along the avenues, occasionally lost and adrift in the details of the weather and in the welter of my soul as it beat against my rib cage, sometimes it lives there, underneath my heart, just behind my rib cage, a plummeting bird singing a song, sad and melancholic, beautiful and lyric and like the timpani softly chiming it sings a song just to me.

I was not sad.

I was not melancholic.

I was steered toward that direction once or twice when the rain seemed to overtake me and my feet got wet, but the lightness in me kept me warm.

I was surprised to find, when I finally took shelter in a cafe bistro, that my hands were so cold from clasping the umbrella handle that I could not bend my fingers properly.

I had a quiet dinner in a small bistro on Rue de Bac.

Roast chicken and roasted vegetables, sweet and savory in their juices, a Comte cheese plate with a simple mixed green salad and a few drops of balsamic vinaigrette, a small bottle of Perrier, and a cafe creme.

I sat and almost became melancholic and I can feel a sad story trying to escape my heart and perhaps it is just the poesies of the art I saw earlier still nestled there, but I did not let myself drift there.

You are not alone in Paris having dinner you are with yourself and your company is lovely.

I sat and looked at the rain falling outside, the umbrella stand tilted over, heavy with parpluies, the round wooden bistro chairs tucked underneath tables, more peonies and pink roses on the bar, the old man who tumbled by underneath a large yellow and red and blue golf umbrella, chased by the rain towards home, I presume.

I tasted the cafe creme and once caught my own eye in the long mirror to my side and thought, who is that beauty?

Oh.

Ha.

It’s me.

And that made me, for a moment soften and sadden for all those times when my company was not enough for me, not knowing how rich and good it is, and I longed for another and there was no other and I was alone in Paris eating my steak tartar in a bistro years ago somewhere in the 9th arrondissement in the rain.

Oh.

Paris in the rain, you can be so sad and lonely.

Or.

You can shine with lustre like a rare pearl, polished in the fiery embers of the red lights reflected in the wet street pavement.

I am never alone when I am with Paris.

We are lovers.

Yes.

My own secret language of dreams, and do you really wonder why I have it tattooed on my chest, dream, in French, that is.

I saw you as I walked back to the house boat after my lovely well curated little meal, a single swan in the Seine, in the rain, long graceful neck slightly curved beneath the weight of the glory of being its own perfect self.

Perhaps I too am like that.

In moments here and there.

In the light that reflects from the raindrops, in the light that is cast from the bateaux mouche as they traverse the river up and down, constantly ferrying souls to and fro.

There are times I am lonely.

Yet.

I am never alone.

Unfettered and loved.

I am here.

I am there.

I am in the notes of revery between the keys on the piano, the soft hand strikes the ivory and music resonates, pearling into the air about me like staccato raindrops on the roof of the houseboat.

And so.

I go forward.

Warm now.

Sheltered from the rain.

But not quite a part from it.

As it, like the music, like the painting that blew my heart out in the Musee L’Orangerie today, blew it out, devoured it, rendered it changed and altered and smashed my face with soft tears that drifted shamelessly down my face, awestruck in the face of such grace, is now ground into me.

The rain.

The poetry.

The Chopin.

The art.

The city.

A swan of desire upon my fevered face.

I shall not forget soon.

No.

I shall not.

This blasphemous joy.

Sorted, Satiated, Seduced

July 5, 2016

By my sweet foggy city.

Home.

It is such a nice place to be.

I am so grateful I put it all back in place to when I got home last night.

I unpacked and put away all my little treasures from the trip.

Some flower hair clips.

Two vintage cardigans.

A couple pairs of cheap earrings.

Some stickers.

Two pounds of locally roasted coffee, one from Mojo and other from Hey Cafe and Coffee.

Two pairs of new sandals.

And the little bit of swag from the conference.

I was a little wound up from getting home.

I got the butterflies and the happy sparklers of joy in my belly as the plane flew in over SFO International Airport.

It is this way every time I fly into the airport.

This feeling of happiness and glee.

This recurring knowing of being home, even before I called San Francisco home, it was home.

I still remember, sixteen years later, how it felt the first time I flew in over the city and how giddy I was with it.

Anticipatory joy and love and awe.

Awe that I was coming and getting to see the friend, a man I was in love with, romantically crushed out on, a man that though I did eventually get to have for one one night, was not the man for me.

But.

I will always be grateful for that unrequited love song that yearned in my heart for it led me to this city, this amazing space and land and confluence of fog and love and flowers in my hair and self-discovery.

And.

Of course.

No matter what.

No matter where.

It will always be home because it is where I got sober.

No other place can lay claim to that piece of my history.

So on top of the general body and soul and heart knowing, there is this deep pocket of grace that I am here.

I leave and return.

I tried to move to Paris.

That didn’t work.

I could see living in New York, it has it’s energy and allure and spark.

But.

Yet.

I am here.

And I continue to return and be soaked with gratitude every time.

I could live in New Orleans.

Oh, the hot humid sexy of it.

The big lushness of it, the flowers and trees, the moss in the trees, the drawl of the voices, the funky, bluesy, jazzy’ness of it, the art and the creative.

And also the underground dark scary spooky.

I suppose everywhere has pockets of wildness and dark.

But I could sense it closer to the surface there than a lot of places, maybe any other place I have been.

Death and sex and hot damp over abundant wildness.

It is there just skimming along below the pulse of warm air on your skin.

I can’t quite describe it, it is intense and dark and surreal and powerful and made my skin feel electric at times, the small hairs on the back of my neck rising in silent acknowledgement of the old the, wild, the barbaric yawp.

I feel it at times, in a different kind of way, but a dark wild way, in pockets of Golden Gate park when I would ride my bike through it at night.

Not always, but often, and though a different kind of energy then what I felt in New Orleans which was at once languid and violent, it too has a dark windy animal howl.

I am compelled by both those energies, softly drawn and also quite aware and wary that it is not my space to wander through.

I get to give it a wide berth.

The other thing about New Orleans was the architecture that was so heavily French influenced.

I do have a thing for all thing Francophile.

It is a definite and well defined influence that I really felt drawn too.

Plus, the colors.

Oh, so bright and many.

And that too, is something I find wonderful and compelling about San Francisco–the Victorians and the architecture here, gorgeous and bright and colorful as well.

I also recognized a kind of art and brightness that I normally associate with San Francisco and the Burning Man culture here.

In fact, at one point when I was in a little store on Magazine Street, I recall thinking to myself that I didn’t know New Orleans was such a Burner’s city.

Then I realized that it was Burning Man influenced, though, there may be some of that too–I know Burner’s Without Borders did a lot of work in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina–it was Mardi Gras.

The store was full of costumes and feather boas and masks and at first I thought it was a store like you might find in the Haight that specializes in festival gear and clothing.

Nope.

Mardi Gras.

Either way, it’s dress up.

For me, though, although I flew my personal little self-expression flag high, I was not as comfortable with it in New Orleans as I am in San Francisco.

I felt at times, if I were to live there, I would tone it down a bit.

Then.

I realized.

Nope.

I am not toning it down for anyone.

I am wild and free and wonderful and live a happy, joyous, compelling life.

And so far.

That life has been focused and centered around living in San Francisco.

Even when the fog, Karl, sweetheart I did miss you, is so thick you can’t see the fireworks display in the sky on the fourth of July.

Even when I needed to unearth the heavy sweatshirt today.

Even with the tech kids and the Millennials and the people getting pushed out and the high cost of living.

Even with the extra traffic and the gentrification.

I still love it so.

I still get feathering tickles in my body of joy co-mingled with electric blue sparkles of anticipation and awe, the wonder of it all.

I get to live in San Francisco.

I.

So.

Am.

The luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

Take The Fucking Drama

June 17, 2016

Out of it.

Oh my god.

What a fucking concept.

I laughed and almost slapped my own forehead.

Instead of getting worked up about work, I just thought, fuck, all I have to do is show up and be of service, I don’t have to ask anything, I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to be stupid and pushy, I can ask for what I need the next time it comes around.

No need to do it today.

Just having done the work around it, the internal re-arranging of my perspective was the relief.

My boss doesn’t have to change.

My boss is never going to change.

She doesn’t have to.

I do.

I change.

And today I decided that creating unnecessary drama before a three day weekend was stupid.

Idiotic really.

When I was going to get off work early today and be eating out with my boys and drinking pricey iced coffees.

Oh Stumptown how do I love thee.

Yeah, I know, it’s not San Francisco based, but fuck, they have good ass coffee.

I am all out of the coffee I bought in New York.

Frankly, I have to say I was disappointed with the Gorilla Coffee I got, the roast was far darker than I like and just a tiny bit charred to my taste.

The coffee I had at the cafe when I popped into it was great, but they were out of the beans that I wanted.

Now.

Variety, in Williamsburg, that stood up to the test.

In fact.

It was like being transported back to the cafe and the talk I had with the barista and then the getting together with my friend and doing that thing I like to do in church basements that evening.

It was a sweet reminder every time I ground up a batch of the Variety beans I brought back.

Maybe I’ll find some hipster coffee in New Orleans.

Fuck me.

Total digression.

I’m all over the place.

Like always.

But.

I’m a tiny bit at loose ends.

Having a clear three day weekend ahead of me.

I got free of jury duty for tomorrow and the family is out of town visiting aunts and uncles and grandparents in the Midwest.

I spent the day keeping the boys on the move and out of the house, hence the Stumptown, I popped into Atlas Cafe on Alabama and 20th.

I have so many fond, and not so fond, memories of the cafe.

It was my first heavily visited cafe, being a block and a half away from the first place I lived in the city, 20th and York.

The first time I go there I ran into someone from Madison who had moved to San Francisco years before me and I had had a class with at University, a TS Eliot class that was amazing and also challenging beyond comprehension, most of the class dropped, including the guy I ran into at the cafe, but I stuck it out and though it may seem odd, that was were I began to believe in God.

That coupled with the course on fairy tales I took the next summer and there, a chink in my armor.

A place where the light got in.

Not for a while though.

Just ask my dealer.

He made a few deliveries to me at Atlas Cafe as well.

I have a nodding acquaintance with the bathroom there.

And a fondness tinged with nicotine nostalgia for the back patio where once upon a time a lady could smoke a cigarette with her espresso romano–a shot of espresso with a lemon twist.

God damn.

I don’t smoke anymore.

I forget that sometimes.

I can forget many things easily.

Use to weigh over 80lbs heavier.

Forgot that.

Used to do drink every day.

Forgot that.

Used to not be able to not spend the money on the bag or pick up the phone to call my dealer to do a little delivery.

“Fuck, you’re guys faster than pizza delivery,” a friend “complained” as he had to scramble to get to the cash machine when my dealer showed up less than fifteen minutes after I had placed my “order.”

He was pretty quick.

Grateful for other things today.

Explained how grateful to be less of what I was and somehow so much more, humbled by the grace that I have been given, bowed head, loved, shined on so that I can turn it out and shine it forward.

That this body is no less and no more than a conveyance for love.

And hopefully sex once in a while.

Oh my God.

43.

STAWP with the hormones.

Oh.

I suppose I’ll rue the day when they go away, but seriously, the sexy sex chemicals in my blood stream.

I don’t have the screaming baby keening ache that I had for a few years, no, it’s been replaced by a last ditch ovarian siege where I am smoking out any guy with the testosterone to hang with me.

FUCK ME!

That’s what it feels like all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

Ok.

Maybe I exaggerate a little, but seriously, the body and the brain in collusion are trying real hard to get this lady some action.

Let’s go out and find some trouble….nothing’s sexier than regret.

Heh.

Were I to stumble upon that I might be smote.

So.

Until then.

The yoga.

The masturbation.

Thank you rechargeable Hitachi Magic Wand.

The hair geographic, which will happen Saturday.

I have a tentative date, blind date, Tinder date, not to hook up, which he made that clear, thanks, I think, but hey, you know, just trying, and I wonder if I should warn him about the impending pink hair or just spring it on him.

Fuck.

Who cares?

The drama.

There is none.

If my worst fucking problem is that I want to get laid and no one has thrown their hat in the ring, then my life is a fucking cake walk.

Rent is paid.

The phone is paid.

I got a yoga membership at the studio.

I got that thing in the church basements doing it’s deal for me.

I got happy, joyous, free.

I got friends.

I got good coffee in the cupboard.

Light in the soul.

Shine on my heart.

I ain’t got worries.

All I got.

Is three day weekend and endless fun.

Let’s see what kind of silly I can get up to.

Want to come along?

I promise.

Good times.

Seriously.


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