Posts Tagged ‘Storied Haven’

Doing All The Things

May 23, 2016

I mean.


I broke it off today.

And I don’t feel broken, albeit tired, albeit a little keyed up from the day, but so in love with myself and the gift I gave to myself of doing this trip.


Don’t get me wrong.

I have had some moments of dis-ease (disease) and had to quietly pull myself back and get real and be grateful for all the things I have been given and all the experiences I have gotten to do.

Twice over the last two days or so I had moments of wishing I was not alone having a meal or walking through Brooklyn.

I wanted to be with someone.

I wanted to be holding a hand.

I wanted to be sharing conversation.

I wanted to be coupled up.

And those things are not wrong, that’s just human nature.

I just have to tread carefully in those areas because I can fall into the self-pity pot all to easily and frankly I’m all for avoiding potholes at this time in my life.

I’m being a good girl.

I mean I am being a very, very, very good girl.

I did no Tinder’ing while I was here, frankly the idea of trying to figure out how to hook up with someone out here was just too much to even fucking contemplate.

And yeah.

I like sex.


However, I don’t need it that bad.

I’m not desperate.

And I’m not an addict.

Although I play one on tv.

Just kidding.


And I had the opportunity.

Believe me.

It was on the table.


I turned down the offer after finding out said offer was not in my best interest–really too complicated and stupid to even write about here.


I also ran into someone I met at Burning Man in 2013.

“I’m sorry, I know it seems I’ve been staring at you for the last hour,” he said to me sidling into my space yesterday afternoon after we had closed up and said the prayers and did the deal.  “I mean,” he eyed me up and down (I can’t remember the last time I was that blatantly, to my face, scoped out), “I really like your look.”

“Thanks I said,” and I his, let me be honest.

“And I remember where I know you from,” he added, “you go to Burning Man, you’re hair’s different, but I recognized your tattoos.”  He paused, “you’ve gotten a few more I see, and you’re hair was blue the last time I saw you.”

He handed me his card and asked what I was doing the rest of the day.

My friend swooped in, “Hey, _______, I see you met Carmen, she’s one of my oldest friends, I’m stealing her back now,” he said and took my elbow.

I mean, tall, dark and handsome was tempting, but my friend, my old friend, my friend from the early days of the crazy, he was who I wanted to spend time with.

And there was a time when I would have ditched a friend in a heart beat for a piece of action.

Not so much now.

My friends are treasures and I don’t get out here often, twice in the eight years my old friend has lived here–we caught up at the deal in Atlanta last July and I usually see him for a minute if he gets out to SF, but he’s busy, I’m busy, so no getting busy for me.

And I’m grateful for that.


Another gentleman who had reached out to me this trip.

I texted him back.

“Hey, when you get a chance, give me a call,” I wrote earlier this afternoon.

I was surprised to not get a call for awhile then just a few minutes back, he finally did.

“Ah, I knew it was coming,” he said to me on the phone, his voice thick with the chagrin and the knowing of what I had decided I was going to tell him.

“You’re first year is a gift I don’t want to intrude on,” I summed it up, “I don’t date guys when they’ve got less than a year.”

It’s not my place, I don’t want to mess up anyone’s shit, and yeah, I know my pussy’s not that powerful, I’m not the reason some one relapses or stays sober, but I see a lot of folks that get focused on the dating deal and not doing the deal and I respect and like this guy.

So after consulting with the powers that be, “I need to tell on myself,” I told my person as I walked around Chelsea today after an amazing afternoon at The New Whitney Museum.

“It’s just really nice to be told how beautiful you are, that someone who is attractive finds me so compelling, I mean, it’s super ego feeding and I know that I can’t see this guy, I know it’s not right, it’s just, well, yeah, tempting.”

“Good on you for telling on yourself, and now you won’t do that, because that’s not the woman you are,”  I was told.


“Get your year,” I said, “don’t let me interfere with it.”

He knew, he told me that was what he thought I was going to say.

He was sweet.

And I hung up the phone feeling like.


An adult.

Perhaps an adult with the hormones of a horny sixteen year old girl, but an adult.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, but I don’t want to hurt anyone.

Sometimes it’s inevitable and someone gets hurt and I can be sorry for that and still not engage, and that’s what an adult does too.

And sometimes God blows magic fairy dust all over me and I am suddenly Alice in the looking glass.

“OH, I was just about to bring that in,” he said as I was snapping pictures of this spectacular piece of sculpture art in the front area of one of the historic brownstones in Fort Greene Brooklyn.

“I love it,” I said, “It just, well, it’s amazing.”

We started to talk.

He was the artist, Doug Beube.

He told me a few things, we chatted about me and my travels and being a nanny and a grad school student and then somehow onto Burning Man and I asked, I don’t know why, serendipity, God, what have you.

I told him about my favorite piece from last year-Storied Haven.

And then.

He cocked his head at me and said, “I don’t suppose you want to see my studio?”

OH my God.

I was so floored.

“I know, trying to get a beautiful woman into my house, and all, but,” he paused, “I think you’ll like it.”

I joked, “as long as your studio isn’t in your bedroom, I’d be honored.”

I was not only honored.

I was blown the fuck away.

The man’s work is amazing.


I was in tears a number of time, over awed by the depth and breadth and beauty of his work.

I took a lot of photos-they’re up on my facecrack page and on twitter and intstagram, and I’d put them here, but they just do not do them justice, my photos, so check out his website.

So good.

He works with old books and cuts them up and remakes them and he does photography and organic art and found art and these cunning little sculptures and so much political art that was poignant and beautiful, so insightful, so thoughtful, it was just such an over the moon experience.

I mean I got to go to the Brooklyn Museum, the MOMA, and The New Whitney and then, to top it off I get a private tour of this amazing artist out of nowhere?

Who is the luckiest girl in the world?


Hands down.

And perhaps I should change that up as I realize I have been a woman.

A proud woman, a respectful woman, a woman who looks the world in the face and who above all is not afraid to smile and thank someone for their contributions.

We all want to be seen.

And when I am allowed to see someone and the things that they do that make them artists, I am so very grateful.

I am blessed.

I am graced.

I am loved.

Thanks New York, thanks Brooklyn, thanks to my friends who drank coffee with me and the ones I called and said, hey where should I eat today, and all the friends who said, hey check this place out and to all those people who smiled at me in the city and said, “nice outfit!”

I like being seen too.

It’s been special New York.

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart.

Which I left in San Francisco.

Time for me to go back home.

But you will not soon be forgot.

I promise.








Lions, And Tigers, And Bears

September 15, 2015

And poetry.

Oh my.

I just received a really inspiring piece of e-mail from a friend I made standing in line at the Chapel piece by Mike Garlington out on playa this recent past Burning Man.

We were waiting to get into the chapel and the dust was blowing and the noise was high and the excitement to see the piece was big.

I gave my poem to a man standing in line with his daughter.

It was their virgin burn and it was sweet to make a connection in the moment, to share my art with another person.

I have had this poem memorized for over a decade and it never fails to surprise me how much people connect with it.

“I realized why I love listening to you,” he said in the dark of the RV, the cold air pressing in, drawing ourselves tighter into the embrace, “I love listening to you tell stories because I love the sound of your voice.”  He nuzzled the back of my neck and squeezed my breast, growled low in his throat, “tell me another story.”

I complied.

I don’t usually have to be asked twice to talk.

I have stories.

I do.

I have poems too and it’s been a sweetness to be approached for my poems.

The man in question found me on facebook and gmail and has reached out to me since he returned from the burn, reached out to say he was honored to have made the connection with me and also to ask for a copy of the poem.

And tonight I got home to another e-mail asking me to collaborate on a piece for the Burning Man ARTumnal.

The gentleman is a photographer and will be donating pieces to the art auction and asked if I would write poems using the 10 Principles of Burning Man as a jumping off place for the poems.

I am awed and flattered.



I am so fucking busy.


I think I’m going to say yes.

The ARTumnal is not until November and I could write 10 poems by then.

In fact, it might be a great practice for me, I haven’t written that much poetry in a while, my main focus has been this blog, for good or bad, and I have a hankering to say yes.

Yes, why not, why not put something else on the plate.

I could write ten sonnets on the ten principles.

I could write one long rambling piece.

But I think ten poems on the principles that are shorter make more sense.

I like sonnets anyhow and what with the lack of analog work in the blinky blinky that is so Burning Man, it might be nice to offer something by way of writing as a construct and art that is woefully underrepresented there.

Although there was a grand typewriter out on playa that one could write missives on, I was unable to leave my poetic footprint there as the young woman on some sort of hallucinogen or other, was adamant about standing on the “s” key and not moving off the keyboard.

I acquiesced to her trip and made my way out onto the playa.

But when I think of some of the big moments in my burn, they were always the small, intimate pieces that happened between me and one person and the connection made there.

The night I gave this new friend the poem.

The same night I got caught up reciting it for another man, a man who I had a soulful interaction with that rocked me while I was reciting the piece, in just that moment, under the lights of the Midway around the Man, we had a deep and profound connection.

One so profound that I was a tremble doing the poem, but reached in there anyhow and pulled it all out.

“You do know that you risk people falling in love with you when you do that?” He asked me at the foot of the Storied Haven piece.  A gigantic shoe that you could access from the bottom door which led into a small foyer with a winged back chair and a bunch of books in the book shelf that were exquisite pieces of art, panoramas, lighted shores and stories, the absolute disappearance of my self into an experience, it might have been one of the most amazing art pieces i have seen period, let alone this Burning Man.

I had just recited him my poem.

That means I recited it four times at the event, which is unusual for me.

But there it is.

The line to get into the piece moved excruciatingly slow because there was so much to look at inside of it and the cargo was so beautiful and precious they only let in a few people, two, three at max, at the same time.

I offered a fairy tale or a poem to the gentleman manning the door.

I blushed when he offered the compliment.

I had never thought of it like that.

Allowing someone to fall in love with me for my words, for the heart-felt stirrings and strivings behind them.

I like my voice, I won’t lie, and I won’t be facetious, I have a nice voice.

But to know that I can be a better artist in a way for having not only written the words but having voiced them too, that is powerful, there is power there.

I haven’t done spoken word in a long time, here, there, at the retreat for school I did a few pieces, in Paris at Le Chat Noir in the Belleville district, but not really anything where I have gotten up on stage and let the voice roll out.

That might be something to look into.

In what time?

I don’t know.

But I do know that I am an artist and I take great pleasure in that, even if it is analog.

Even if it is old.

There is beauty there.

The craft of the words and the thoughtful placing of rhymes and rhythms, means a lot to me.

I don’t have to question why.

I don’t have to justify.

I can just know that there is a singing there and that I need to continue to answer the call and response of my own muse.

And if you want me to write you some poems.

Why not?

I am honored to be asked.

Thank you for letting me be of service.

Thank you for letting me be an artist.

I am pleased beyond these meager words.

I am.


I say yes.

Yes please.


Yes, thank you, too.

Thank you for seeing me as a poet.

That means the world.

It really does.

%d bloggers like this: