Posts Tagged ‘submissions’

So I Said

September 16, 2016

Fuck it.

And went to yoga.

I expressed to my friend via text.

We were commiserating about having both gotten a rejection from a publisher in the past twenty-four hours.

Yeah.

I don’t write about it much, but I did send off a couple of poems in recent memory and yesterday I got the thanks but no thanks.

Ditto for my friend.

Although I still get them impression that he’ll be published in a big way and then I can be all like, I knew him when.

He asked if I was working on anything new and where I was going to submit next and what was the contest that I had submitted to.

I had already forgotten.

I explained that I have been too focused on trying to get through the reading for my second year grad program.

I haven’t had time to think about polishing any of my current pieces and submitting them anywhere.

I suppose I could.

I probably should.

I would like to.

Could, would, should.

Good ways to take me out of the moment and beat myself for not having done all the things yet.

But I told him I had a fuck it moment last night and decided to screw doing any more reading and go to yoga this morning instead.

I am grateful I did.

Although.

Fuck me.

It was hard.

In fact.

I cringed when I saw the instructor who was teaching my class today.

I went anyway.

I sacked up.

I got up.

I went.

It was hard.

It was hella hard.

I am still sore.

But.

Man.

I was out of my head and that’s the point, right?

To not be in my head, but to be in my body.

I floated out the door of the studio, gingerly, I was sore, I am sore, I’ll be sore tomorrow too.

I’m going to go to yoga again in the morning.

I have a busy weekend with the things and the doing and the goings and the people and oh, all the freaking home work.

But.

I will make time for fun.

Yes.

Yes I will.

Because all work and all grad school and all recovery can make Carmen a kind of crazy girl.

I have to do the work and I’m down to do it.

But I’m also going to take my joy where I find it.

I’m hella grateful tomorrow is Friday though, let me tell you.

I’m also grateful that I don’t have a paper due for my Psychopathology class; although there’s an uncomfortable amount of reading I need to do for the class by next weekend, at least there’s not a paper.

I have papers due in my two other classes.

Plus.

Sigh.

The paper I need to write for my Gestalt class.

Which.

Shouldn’t be too hard.

I really had some powerful experiences in Gestalt and I don’t feel that there will be any lack of things to write about, plus I read the readings and I took good notes.

It’s a six page paper.

I’ll have it done in an hour and a half.

Twenty minutes to review my notes, go through my notes in the reading, then forty minutes to an hour of writing, some time to proof it and voila.

A paper in 1.5 hours.

I’m a fast writer.

But please, don’t think that my work comes without effort.

It is work.

I have also been practicing my craft for years.

I started this blog what now, seven years ago?

I have been writing in my notebook for ten and a half years.

Every day.

Every god damn day.

I write, I write, I write.

So.

Yeah.

The papers do come fast, but I’m always doing the work, putting in the time and getting down to the actual practice.

I was a little afraid when I started my grad school program that I would lose the habit, maybe not blog as much or write less in the morning.

But.

That has not happened.

I have been consistent.

With that consistency.

Rewards.

The first being that I type hella fast.

I’m not sure how fast, but over 60 words a minutes, probably somewhere around 75 if I’m honest, 80-100 on occasion when the words are really flowing.

I can knock out a 1,000 word blog in a half hour.

Not that I always do.

My typewriting skills not withstanding, sometimes I’m crafting the blog or messing with it or I’m feeling poetic.

Anyway.

Yeah.

Lots and lots and lots of practice.

So the other two papers that are due won’t take me too long either.

Besides.

They’re both two-three page reflection papers.

I’ll review my notes and kick out each one in a half hour.

The biggest challenge is just keeping up with the reading.

And.

Fortunately for me I am a fast reader.

Granted I read slower when I am studying then when I am reading for pleasure, underling pertinent information, re-reading certain things, making sure I understand what I am reading.

But.

l still read at a fairly fast clip.

I am gifted and I get it and I am lucky and I also work my fucking ass off.

I had a friend who would give me shit last year while I was working on my papers about how fast I wrote, and it was no skin off my nose and I have to say, it is work, and I do so much outside work that is not my job job or my school job, that it can feel like I’m working all the fucking time.

I took some offense to it, despite also knowing that he was pretty correct.

The worst thing for me is not the paper writing.

It’s the anticipation of having to write the paper.

That’s where the anxiety lies.

And that’s just another way to take me out of the moment.

In the moment.

Right here.

Right now.

Nothing is wrong.

I have a roof over my head.

It’s an awful cute roof too.

I have food in my belly–dinner with a dearest to celebrate my nine-year anniversary in, well a sister program I go to–and!

I got persimmons at the farmer’s market today.

I have clean clothes folded up in my closet.

I have had a hot shower today.

I had coffee.

The nice kind.

Home brewed for breakfast then an Americano today at work from Ritual.

I got to spend an amazing hour with an extraordinary mentor and friend.

I got to talk with one of my best friends on the phone today.

I got to make plans for the weekend.

I went to yoga.

There’s a hot cup of tea waiting for me and a cozy bed.

Life is fabulous.

And.

Tomorrow is Friday.

So yeah.

Fuck it.

I’ll be going to yoga again in the morning.

The reading and the papers can wait one more day.

Seriously.

Are You Just Coming

May 31, 2016

From the Warriors game?

He asked me, his head cocked and curious, “you look amazing, really, beautiful.”

And he gave me a big hug.

So surprised, sweetly so, to run into my yoga instructor as I was mailing off a letter at the corner mailbox on Judah and 44th.

“The what?” I asked, “no, um, ha, I was working on a poetry submission.”

“That’s even better!”  He smiled and lit up, I mean, really lit up, it was nice to see.

“It’s the blue,” he said, “that’s what got my attention.”

And.

Wouldn’t you know?

It is the exact shade of blue as the Warriors blue and gold, and though I was not technically wearing gold pants, um, ha, I am wearing leopard print leggings which in certain light do come across as gold.

Nice God.

Subconsciously supporting the sports ball.

I mean.

Seriously.

Same blue, some gold, blue eyeshadow and blue glitter, blue flower in my hair and yes, I’m not kidding, blue nail polish, blue star necklace, blue star earring, and I don’t often wear this color, nor in the amount that I did today.

It must have worked.

I hear they won.

Heh.

“Carmen you are the only person I would take a phone call from at this time and only because I know you have no idea what is happening right now,” my friend on East Coast time said to me years ago when I called to chatter excitedly to him how I was taking dj lessons and the guy that I was working with really thought I had some skills.

Note to self, cocaine addiction not great for keeping up with things like.

Although super grateful that I did not know how much I could get for my sweet Technic turn tables until after I had gotten sober, sold my entire (oh the tears on my face) vinyl collection to Amoeba on Haight Street and all my cds too.

I might have been out there running awhile longer.

As it stands the money I got from the sales of those things kept me in food and rent for a month of San Francisco living.

Well spent, frankly, well spent.

My friend who I was talking to on the phone was in the middle of a nail biter, seventh game of the World Series, his team, tied or some such thing, and only took the phone call from me because he realized I had no clue.

Still little to this day.

Cue parking on 15th and Valencia the time the Giants swept the series in 2013.

Oops.

Ha.

I left the car there.

I was literally on 16th and Valencia when the entire world erupted and people poured out into the streets with brooms and starting lighting shit on fire and drinking open containers and screaming and jumping up and down.

And fuck people.

Cue the same team winning the series two years ago and I’m coming from The Gratitude Center on 7th and Irving at the exact time the series is won and I’m on my fucking bicycle trying to get around police in riot gear and the entire block erupts.

So.

Yeah.

Um.

I knew the Warriors were playing and it was a big deal.

But.

What was really a big deal to me today.

This.

Thank you for your entering the Rattle Poetry Prize competition—your entry has been received. If there are any problems with it, we will let you know, but otherwise it is safe to assume everything is set. Winners will be announced on September 15th.

It’s a huge prize.

The odds of me winning it are slim.

But the odds of me winning if I had not submitted, well, that would be nil.

I took the effort.

I pulled together three sonnets and a longer free verse poem and I submitted to the journal.

I am not making any promises, but what with the time I have off over the summer, I thought it wise to submit some work again.

Plus.

I read a blog that someone wrote about me a few years ago and it inspired me to submit again, it’s been a hot second since I have sent any work anywhere.

I had forgotten about the blog–She Inspired Me To Write–by my friend.

I was googling searching something and it popped up.

I re-read the blog and got a little misty eyed, recalling how excited he was to talk with me, about my travels to Paris, about taking risks and not knowing it and doing it anyway.

I have had it in my head to unearth a short story I wrote years and years ago as well and perhaps submit that out as well.

And.

I would like to put together a small manuscript of my poems.

I have never published a chap book or a manuscript, well, I did a limited, and I do mean very limited, press of a zine called 7 Months, but that was super small and super rough.

I think that it’s time to do something with all the words.

I have felt this before and gotten out there and submitted and nothing happens.

And.

That is ok.

I have to remember that, it’s just how it works.

Loads of folks get loads of rejection.

It’s not to take it personally.

This is my art.

“What kind of art do you do?” He asked me, assuming what I’m not sure, but that from my attire, my tattoos, my star tights, the flower in my hair, that I was an artist.

There was a time that I would have said.

“I’m not an artist.”

There was a time when I was more comfortable with the lie than the truth.

That I have been an artist since I was young and picked up my pen and started scrawling poems in a notebook sometime in middle school.

Or when I started doing forensics and reciting Edna St. Vincent Millay poems at competitions.

Imagine if you will.

I took first place at state.

Not too shabby.

Although I won’t soon forget what it felt like to have the entire school wait on me, as no one else on the team had made it to the final round–the guilt I felt as I progressed was almost subsumed by the pride I felt when my name was announced during the awards ceremony and I got up and walked to get my first place trophy.

And then I thought about being at The Strand book store in New York recently and how I touched and caressed titles of books that I had read, and then, to see a class mate from Wisconsin and his series of books doing so well, displayed prominently at the front of the store.

And.

Then there.

Another woman I know in San Francisco.

Her memoir there.

I had a moment.

I’ll be here too.

When?

Who knows.

But I will.

I have been given a gift and for me it is enough that I get to write.

Not that I am acknowledged for my efforts.

But.

To hear once in a while that I have inspired someone else.

That means the world.

Or.

To have someone tell me they loved a blog I wrote or a poem they heard me recite.

Well.

Love.

That means so much to me.

It’s almost unbearable to express.

But.

Thank you.

I am so graced with these gifts.

I have to share them.

Whether or not they are received.

That’s not my business.

I just get to have the experience of giving the gift.

And.

That.

Well.

That is everything.

Oops

May 17, 2016

Ha.

I just re-sent my paper for Psychodynamics.

Turns out that the e-mail I sent my professor did not have my paper attached.

This lady can write a scintillating amazing theoretical paper and forget to attach it apparently.

Jesus on a pogo stick.

I actually don’t think this was my issue, it’s the system, no I’m not passing the buck, I’ve had this issue before when I have directly responded to this self same professor through the school’s platform–Canvas.

So.

I just sent it off again through Canvas in case it was user error and also through my own g-mail account, just in case.

I had a horrid moment, but it passed quickly, when I thought, please let me have saved that paper, which of course I had, and then realized I know how to retrieve something from the trash had I accidentally trashed it.

Which was not the case.

So.

Now I’m officially done.

Just slightly anti-climatic.

Ha.

I am just a little tired, having not really had a weekend to decompress, just doing all the papers and finals and such, and now back to work today.

But that being said I realized a whole bunch of stuff.

Number one.

I’m going to New York in three days!

Fuck I’m so excited and I have resolved that this is the the grand way to incentivize myself to get through each semester–plan a trip somewhere two weeks following the last weekend of classes.

This gives me a carrot and also forces me to complete the work before leaving for the trip.

It’s perfect and I am just over the moon that I am letting myself take the time to do this and go.

Last time I was in New York I was still coming off that horrible ankle injury I had.

I really couldn’t walk as much or nearly as fast as I wanted.

It was bad.

It blew up a few times.

I remember my friend taking a look at it and demanding I sit down.

Yeah.

Like that.

Now.

Well.

I’m in some fine health.

Feeling sore, but that’s just from having done yoga today, three days in a row people, yes.

Tomorrow I’m probably going to take the day off, sleep in.

I can actually sleep in.

I don’t have to get up early and read for school or work on a paper, I can just get up and do my writing in the morning and then, off to work.

Second big thing that I realized.

It’s Memorial Day the 30th!

I will have a three day weekend right after my four day weekend.

I’m basically getting two Mondays off in a row.

Hallelujah!

I’m quite excited for that.

And third.

The boys are in school until June 3rd.

So the rest of the month I will be working my “normal” 35 hour week.

I’ll have mornings off for the rest of the month.

Come summer vacation for the boys I will be switching up my hours for the family–10a.m.-6p.m.

Although the mom wants to keep one day a week with me starting late so she and the dad can have a date night dinner night out with out the boys.

We haven’t figured out what night that is yet.

But it makes sense that’s it’s probably going to be Friday.

I ain’t gonna fuss my head with the logistics right now.

Suffice to say I have some spare time this month that I was not expecting since I’m done with my school for the year and the boys are still in theirs and there’s a holiday in the month.

I am very happy and very grateful for that.

I feel like I have earned some down time.

I’ll get my fill of doing yoga and sleeping and oh!

PLEASURE READING!

Oh.

How I have missed reading whatever the fuck I want to read.

I have a friend who just sent me some work to read over and I was like, ugh, I don’t have time, then, wait, ha!  Yes I do, I can totally read this whenever the hell I want.

Plus, I’ll have it on the plane with me to New York, it’s a bit of a long piece.

I’m always super flattered when he wants me to read his work, he’s a great writer and I find no little satisfaction in being asked to read what he’s working on before he sends it out.

I suspect he’ll get a publishing contract for a book long before I do.

I’ll get mine too, but I’m not worried about it.

Not right now.

Although, it would behoove me to write somethings that are not scholarly pieces over the summer, some poetry, some short stories, or even go back over some of my work that I haven’t gotten published yet.

I want to actually put together a chap book of poems including the pieces that I did last fall for my patron I met at Burning Man.

He gave me permission to submit it out into the world and I have not since I have been so busy with school, I have not submitted a thing all this past year so focused on school have I been.

It’s beginning to sink in.

This not being in school for the summer.

It feels really nice.

The break will go by fast, I am sure, but I am going to suck every last drop of juice out of it.

I’m going to have a full, busy, playful, raucous summer.

I’m going to see friends.

Go dancing.

Hit up museums.

Write poetry.

Dye my hair pink again.

Just because I can’t go to Burning Man doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have a hair party.

I’m going to date and get laid and make the fuck out like a school girl on summer break.

Because I am one!

There’s got to be a drive in movie for me somewhere to go to!

I’m going to walk on the beach, hike, play in the sand.

I’ll have a bonfire.

I’m going to go to shows.

I’m going to hang out in coffee shops.

I’m just going to have fun.

And be light and let whatever happens happen.

I will meet my life with joy.

Happiness.

Freedom.

All the things.

Yes.

Darling.

All the things.

 

Sunshine Day Dream

October 21, 2015

I woke up to daisies on my doorstep.

Not a bad way to rise and shine.

Happy.

That will be my principle today.

Not that I had any time,  not a single down moment or minute, to spare, to call my person and check in with her that my principle was such, but it was.

October is one of my favorite months in San Francisco.

It’s a gorgeous kind of Indian Summer that most out of towners are not aware of, the sun shines bright, there is a lick of cool in the wind if it’s windy, there’s not usually fog and there usually is sun and high, wide, blue, blue, robins egg blue, skies.

My kind of weather.

My outfit was inspired by the flowers.

I wore my bright yellow polka dot shirt and pig tails with a daisy, fake, but still, in my hair.

And gold on the eyelids.

I could have been a bumble bee if you had stuck some antennae on my head–I wore black tights as well–in fact, I had a moment when I thought, if I didn’t already have an idea for a costume for Halloween, I would go as a bumble bee.

It would be super easy.

Maybe for when I go trick or treating with the boys this year, they were in their police office costumes all day today and are definitely ready for the holiday.

Although, Halloween is on a Saturday this year, so I may not be trick or treating with the boys.

Still it’s nice to know I have a couple of costume ideas and options before the day sneaks up.

It always sneaks up.

And then it’s suddenly here and everyone is raiding Mission Community Thrift and Buffalo Exchange and all the stores in the Haight and no, really, I don’t want to spend money on an outfit, but I don’t also want to be left out.

I only have been invited to one Halloween event so far and I am not certain I want to head over to Berkeley on a Saturday night to play Halloween with the kids.

Maybe.

I also just checked and I do have another invite to the party at the Park Gym, that’s a possibility.

Although, I am not sure about heading into the Mission on a Saturday night Halloween.

The Mission on a Saturday night is enough of a horror show as it is.

I heard of another party in Glenn Park.

Who knows.

If I do go out

I will probably dress up like a pin-up girl.

I have all the stuff.

Polka dot dress with a flare out skirt and crinoline, high-heeled pumps, and I know how to draw on a pretty good cat eye.

What I would need, is someone to do my hair pin-up style.

I know a lady who does her’s in a victory roll and it’s hella cute, but I have never done one and I have neither a flat-iron or a curling iron and I can’t tell you when the last time was I owned hairspray.

Never?

But it would be fun.

I did have a couple of girl friends that wanted me to go to the Armory party, there’s great dance music going on there and there’s another good party at Public Works, but I am hesitating to commit to anything right now.

Committing the most now to getting as much reading done before school rolls around this weekend.

In fact, I set my alarm a little early for tomorrow so that I can get to the rest of it.

Halloween.

I may pass you by.

However.

I am interested in getting dressed up and going to the ARTumnal Burning Man event that rolls around in November.

I got word from the photographer/architect/artist that I am collaborating with for a project he wants to present there.

I would love to see my work out there in the public eye.

He was quite happy to receive them.

I was happy that he was happy.

I really quite adore them.

In fact.

I am thinking of submitting them to The Bastille–the publication in Paris that published one of my stories when I was living in Paris.

They reached out to me today and said they were looking for submissions.

It’s not paid, but it’s a chance to have my work in another publication and I would get a copy of the publication and an invitation, haha, to read from my work in Paris at Shakespeare and Company.

Not that they would pay to fly me over.

I was thrilled when they picked my story The Button Boy to publish and invited me to speak at the event and read the story at Shakespeare and Company.  But by the time the publication came out I was already living back in the states.

I do want to have a reading one day at Shakespeare and Company.

I mean.

Really.

What writer doesn’t?

So in lieu of going to Paris, not that I won’t hey, you want to go to Paris?

Let’s go!

I speak some French and know a few folks over there.

But realistically.

I think the ARTumnal is more likely for me to get into than Paris at this time.

I do want to go back to Paris, especially since one of my fellows in the program at CIIS is from Paris and it would be tres cool to hang out with her there–ma poulette across the Atlantic.

I will too.

I can tell.

I keep digressing on the Paris track.

Ah, the Bastille e-mail is doing it to me.

Anyway.

I would like to go to the ARTumnal.

The tickets are pretty steep.

But I am thinking that I want to be there.

I know I will see people I love and care about.

I know I will see some art and I might even see my own poems somewhere in the big mix of spectacle and carnival, music and mayhem.

If I don’t go out for Halloween, I definitely want to go and get dressed up for this.

Oh.

Shoot.

I just looked up my school syllabus.

I am in freaking class that weekend.

Damn it.

Ugh.

I don’t know that I can get out to it.

FROGS.

Oh well.

At least the poems are done.

And I am happy I wrote them.

They make me happy.

That’s what important anyhow.

Happiness.

Sunshine.

Daisies.

Love.

I got it all today.

Who needs more?

Submit A Story!

April 29, 2015

So I did.

And then I forgot that I had.

Then I got a nice little note saying, hey, we got your story and we’re interested, but so many projects!

But we like it.

We’ll keep in touch.

And what do you know.

He kept in touch.

I received the following missive this morning after I hopped off my bike and stretched out my legs before starting my very busy shift today at work (swimming lessons, t-ball practice, potty training, cooking–wild Alaskan Salmon anyone?) and let out a little whoop when I read it.

Hi Carmen. Your post is scheduled to go up a week from today on Tales From The Playa. Thanks again for writing.

)'(

Jon Mitchell | @ablaze

managing editor, Burning Man

So cool.

I’m going to be published on the Burning Man blog!

I’m excited.

I had sent the story in last June.

I was thinking about that and wondered, what the hell was I doing last June that out of nowhere I decided to send the Burning Man blog a story.

Oh.

Yeah.

Damn.

I had just had my severe ankle sprain.

The one that way laid me for weeks and still, yes still, hurts on the occasion.

Small aside.

I feel like I am rehabbing my entire body.

My knees hurt, my ankle hurts, my shoulder hurts, all injuries sustained while working or getting to and from work.

Even the spraining my ankle was in conjunction with work–I was anxious about having enough time to commute to work in the morning and I had a double scheduled that day and wanted to take my scooter in rather than ride my bicycle.

I decided to gas it up, feeling like since I was tight on time, might as well do it now before I need to worry about it in the morning and I got frustrated kick starting it, it was cold and didn’t want to start, and I went too fast (story of my life) and bam!

Sprained my ankle so severely that ten almost eleven months later, it’s still not completely healed.

I’ve been doing stretches, ankle strengthening exercises, hip strengthening exercises (damn they hurt), and rolling out my back and shoulder every night on the yoga roller when I get home from work.

My creaky old body needs a hot tub soak.

End aside.

I was laid up.

I was trying to keep busy.

I got a Jack Rabbit Speaks e-mail–the official newsletter of the Burning Man Organization–and I must have read one of the Tales from the Playa and I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to submit.

I think my exact thought was something like, I can write better than that!

And maybe I will.

And I put my money where my mouth was and submitted.

And then didn’t hear back until after the event sometime, mid-September of last year.

I had completely forgotten I had submitted.

Jon had sent me a very sweet message about how the story mattered to him and he wanted me to know that it was still in his bailiwick and forgive the tardiness in regards to it.

Sure thing!

Thanks for keeping me posted.

Then I forgot about it again.

I am sure the process of getting pieces in is far more arduous than I can imagine.

I am sure everyone has a great Burning Man story they just have to tell and then they decide to and well, maybe the story is great!

But.

Maybe, the writing, not so much.

I cannot imagine how many bad blog pieces the staff on the editorial team has to read.

I suspect it’s the same with every one who has anything to do with publishing.

There are few of them and many, many, many of us, with our stories and words and art and ideas, and hey, what about me?

Don’t you want to know about my story?

This one time at Burning Man.

I coasted a good bit of the day on the steam from the e-mail message.

It was really nice to think about.

I’m going to be published on a blog independent of mine.

I have a few other times and now I get to have another piece out there.

Then just as I got close to the end of my day at work, I did what I had been telling myself all day long not to do.

I started to read the submission.

“Oh shit!”

I thought.

This is ass.

Do I really swear that much?

Fuck.

Maybe I do.

Oh God.

I wrote what?

No.

That’s horrible.

ARGH.

Insert ego here.

Then smash it all to smithereens.

I put it out there and I let go of the results and when I actually got the results I wanted, to have a story on the website, I might have changed my tune.

Like.

Let me fine tune the sucker some more.

I had the same reaction when I got my first short story published in the Paris Journal of Spoken Word–The Bastille.

I was really happy about my submission.

Happier still when I found out they wanted it and they were going to publish it.

Not so happy when I finally read it in print.

Oh God.

I wrote that?

It sucks.

It is not good.

It could be so much better.

I am my own worst critic.

And yes, I stopped reading my story.

I just said, no.

I have better things to do than mentally masturbate about what I could have changed in the piece before submitting it.

I am not perfect.

Nor are my blogs or my stories or my poems or the books that I have written but not published.

Not a one of them holds up to my inner, fiercest, critic.

They all suck.

But.

I keep writing anyway.

I have to.

That’s just the way it goes.

“I’ve been an artist for the last 41 years,” he said to me last night as the cake was being passed around, small slivers of chocolate cake from Sweet Inspirations, I could smell how rich it was and had been a tiny bit nauseated when the cake was unveiled for the anniversary celebration.

He patted me arm.

“Good for you for doing what you’re doing with graduate school, you’re going to be a great therapist, but don’t forget your art, and don’t give up on it, it’ll happen when it’s suppose to happen.”

He smiled, gave me a hug, and walked out the door.

Who the hell was that?

I had never met him before and it was like God just sent a little angel to give me a hug.

Thanks man.

And then the e-mail today.

It was nice.

Affirming.

Lovely really.

And my defect of character–perfection–can just take a time out tonight.

The story is not the best, but it’s sweet and endearing, and true and I am grateful I get to share it.

Grateful it will be published.

Flaws and all.

Imperfectly.

Perfect.

Just like me.

Feels Like Vacation

February 18, 2014

How’s the time off been going?

An acquaintance asked me this evening as I wheeled my bike across the intersection at 7th and Irving.

“I slept until noon,” I said, the awe apparent in the tone of my voice.  “I wore my slippers until I came up here on my bike, about um, oh, fifteen minutes ago.”

I had gotten dressed, yes, but I did not leave the house until almost 6p.m. this evening.

These things happen when I don’t go to bed until 4a.m.

Yup.

That’s about how long it took for me to write last night’s blog, unwind, and get myself to bed.

Getting up at noon, though an extreme time difference from my usual hours, was not all that crazy–I got 8 hours–but not really packing in anything to said day was the difference.

I sent my housemate a message about not having gotten in until late, let’s reschedule our utility talk for another time (which we pretty much addressed already anyhow) and took a really long hot shower to get myself going.

But, not going too far.

When I think of all the energy I expended last night, riding to and from the club, three plus hours of solid dancing, it makes sense for me to have laid low.

I was recuperating and I didn’t have anywhere to be until 6:30 p.m. so I let myself, well, chill the fuck out.

My only regret was that I had not picked up a book yesterday when I had a moment in between this place and that place and had gone in to Aardvark Books to ramble through the aisles.

I could have used a book to curl up with.

Yeah, there is a book here that I could have been reading, but I was not in that kind of place for it.

I do hope to be in that space on Wednesday.

I have plans to hang out with a friend tomorrow and I think we will probably cruise around all day, maybe check out his scooter, drink a good bit of coffee and play some bones.

Dominoes that is.

Wednesday, then, seems the day.

The day I told myself, hey, lady, why don’t you pick up the manuscript your friend so kindly printed off and edited for you laborious page by laborious page, and give it a read.

I am prompted to do this because it stares at me when I walk by it, taunting me to pick it up, come on, what are you afraid of.

I am afraid it is shit and not worth the effort is what I am.

Yet, pick it up I will.

I am also inspired by a good friend of mine who has been sending me his short stories and asking me for editing suggestions.

I have read drafts of each of the stories, made comments, asked for him to not use adverbs, pesky little fuckers those, and to clarify what I as a reader am feeling or hearing or not understanding.

His stories have gotten better and better and he’s sending them out.

I want to be doing that as well.

I could not get myself to address any of that today and I was alright with that.

Fun needed to be had yesterday.

Fun was had.

Recuperation from said fun had to be done as well.

It was also a holiday for the housemate’s daughter  and there was general melee in the house as a play date with twin five-year olds and a little two and a half-year old galloped about the upstairs.

No way was I going to have the quiet to do what I wanted to do.

One of them jumped on something so hard or off something or slammed something, who knows what it was, but as I was sitting on the chaise I heard the bang then watched as the reverberation from it shook a glass jar out of my dish drainer and saw it crash to the floor.

Yeah.

Not really the day to sit and read my memoir.

Tomorrow neither as it really is a rare thing for me to have the same day off as my friend who typically works weekends, so Wednesday, when school is back in and I am back to or heading into my typical work schedule (I am on for Thursday, possibly Friday as well, though I am waiting to hear back about that), then I shall sit and read.

I suspect I won’t like what I am reading.

However, I get to honor my process and not judge it and just do it.

Every little action a step forward with it.

I just made a notation in my calendar and scheduled myself the afternoon to read it.

Five hours should be enough to kick through it.

I just want to read it and let myself soak in it.

I can go back over it with a fine tooth comb later.

Then I have the Motorcycle Safety Course in the evening.

I will have a day of study on Wednesday.

I know that I can beat myself up about not moving forward with the writing or the stories or what piece am I working on.  But I realize, with certainty, that I am doing a big part of what is going to make my book a better book by this daily practice of writing.

I am the type of person who works during their “vacation”.

Keeps me sane and happy.

Sure, I was a bit of a sloth today, but I still wrote my morning pages, a few extra then the typical three since I had the day to do so, I did a good meditation, I ate some homemade soup, did some laundry, did some service, and sat down to do this blog.

It’s all about the balance for me.

I don’t need to swim frantically to keep a float, but I do need to keep a gentle pace going, even when I have some down time.

Most especially then, it would seem.

But vacation it did feel like and slippers were had.

What’s nice for me to realize is that I don’t have to justify the down time to anyone, just myself, and ever more and more, not even to me.

That is the best vacation of all.

Flattened, I Mean

June 26, 2013

Flattered.

I ran into an old friend of mine tonight down at the Women’s Building in the Mission of San Francisco, he had just gotten back from celebrating his 75th birthday.

In Paris.

He showed my his photographs and I knew where they all were taken, literally, all of them.

It was a day to be reminded of Paris, in lovely ways.

“I know you are probably not that happy about it,” a friend said to me this evening as I was preparing to head over to the 16th Street BART station, “but frankly, I am so fucking happy you are back.”

Me too, love, me too.

But I actually am happy about it, happy to be back, happy to be making some work and personal progress, happy to be just a little lighter and easier in my skin.

Also happy to be connecting and staying accountable to my life, my choices, and my actions.

“I just wanted to call and leave you a message about this upcoming weekend,” I told a friend’s voice mail, “despite my protestations to the opposite, I am going to house sit again.”

I promised to take care of myself, I promised to not isolate, and I promised to stay away from the sugar and their cupboards and from all things tempting.

I am ok with this house sitting gig, as well, as it feels really safe, it’s in Cole Valley in a gorgeous house and it happens to be the place where I do my nanny gig on Tuesdays, and it will be the spot I also get to pick up an extra gig for Monday.

I don’t have to commute anywhere, I get to just wake up and be in the spot.

This morning the commute was not bad, but getting back was a headache.

The rain pouring down was discouraging to me, the thought of showing up wet, as well as the need to leave early so that I could take extra precautions on the road–when it rains people do not drive as well, and I always have to be a defensive bicyclists.

I packed my messenger bag with my lunch and dinner, I had plans to meet up with a lady at the Dolores Park Cafe after work and knew I wouldn’t get home til late, and as it turns out, way late.

My room-mate offered me a ride to BART and I made the executive decision to leave the bike at the house, I would take the bus, or a cab.

Or the MUNI!

Totally forgot about that.

I had to leave the house faster than I was prepared for, breakfast left on the counter, half my lunch left on the counter, 1/2 a cup of coffee quickly ingested, but it was worth it to not be wet at work (although I am sure I could have tossed the wet items in the dryer) and once the BART pulled into Civic Center I realized I could take the NJudah to work.

I got there so fast I actually had 45 minutes to spare.

I went to Crepes on Cole and had an omelet and some fruit and a couple of cups of coffee, did some writing and prepared to meet the day.

The kids were great, but I am sore, yes I am.

Mostly just achy, not as flattened as normal.

Although every time I tried to do any sort of work remotely, I was unable to.  I kept checking in my e-mail and there were little things here and there to address and I could just keep on top of the babies.

Which is just how it’s going to go some time.

I was also intrigued by an e-mail I received from an organization that I had submitted some work to.  They had chosen one of my photographs to be in a gallery show in New York.

I got all excited, I clicked on the photo they had pulled from the portfolio.

Sidebar-fuck me!  I forgot to down load my photos, grrr.  It’s almost eleven pm.  I had made the decision to get my photography back up and going and said I would at least post a daily photo.  Where’s my camera, I took some shots today.

Yes!

The photograph they chose was one I was quite fond of and I was thrilled they wanted to use it.

Then something struck me as fishy, I read the fine print and sure as shit, I had to upgrade to a different platform with in the artist site to be eligible.

No thank you.

I will however use the money that I would have spent on printing off some of my photos, I would love to print off a couple of larger ones for my new in-law.

But it was nice for a moment to feel special.

What it reminded me to, was to my commitment to continue taking photographs, even if they’re just for me.

I love pictures.

I do.

So, as my friend was scrolling through his shots of Pont Neuf and Notre Dame and Hotel de Ville, the Seine, and one magic shot he got at sunset from Pont Alexandre of the Eiffel Tower, I was thrilled to see that my memories of the city were still firm in place.

“I asked about the magazine, you know,” he said to me, as the last picture floated by on his I-pad.  “Mo said it had not come out yet, and that you should be very pleased to have gotten them to publish you.”

“Really? That’s sweet,” I replied, “I was asked to read from the magazine as one of the contributors at the launch party, but well, I don’t plan on being in Paris on July 22nd, unless something crazy happens.”

“That’s when it comes out, July 22nd, I will be sent a copy,” I finished and gave him another hug, “it’s really good to see you.”

“You should know, Mo says you should be very flattered, they got 1,000s of submissions,” he said, “you should be very proud of yourself.”

I am.

Mostly for just getting through the day and not dropping any babies on their heads, but I am also flattered, I am.  It’s awesome to have a publishing credit.

Even an unpaid one.

I will take it.


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