Posts Tagged ‘taking suggestions’

The Opposite Action

July 31, 2015

From what I think I should do is usually the action I need to take.

So.

With that in mind, I slept in a second day in a row, just because, wow, bed, it’s a nice place to be.

“Where did you go on summer vacation?”

To bed.

“Where did you camp on summer vacation?”

In bed.

I jest.

A tiny bit.

Bed, it was nice.

I did get up and I did take care of business, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t, now would I.

I did the deal, I read the works, I said the words, I knelt, no I did not genuflect, fuck off, but I did get humble.

I find that kneeling puts me in a place of humility, it drops me into a level of acquiescence to do that opposite action that I so often do not want to take.

Like.

Um.

Having fun.

Yeah, I know, how hard is it to have fun?

Well, you see, it’s just not allowed.

“I love coming over to your place, it’s like there’s a party going on whenever I come over.”

AW!

That might be one of the nicest things I have had said about my little home.

Beats the time I had a friend over to my place in Nob Hill and she said it was like being in a shop display.

I wasn’t sure how to take that, in fact, I’m still not.

But it felt like a backward compliment.

The former statement though, about my place being a party makes me happy to hear, I like that, and it is a celebratory space and a comfy space and, dare I say it, a welcoming space.

I could use better communal seating, no couch, but it’s not bad for the size of what I have, there’s a chaise and a table and four chairs and my bed and it works.

Plus lots of art and I like to burn candles and I like listening to music while I’m here.

It is a party, my party, I’m the main attendee, but you know, I do like guests, so you know.

Anywho.

After doing my morning, or dare I say, my early afternoon routine, I knew I wanted to do two things, one was cook some food up for the next few days so I wouldn’t have to eat out, and the second, was to yes, take the suggestion that has been given to me more than a few times this past week, go out and have fun.

Well, damn it, ok.

I guess.

I did my morning writing and realized while doing it that, yes, I do want to go to the Turner Exhibit at the DeYoung, but I would like to go with my friend who brought me down to LA to see the LACMA and the MOCA.

He’s a big art fan too and I want to go on a museum date with him rather than a solo outing on my own.

Although, I may change my mind and just go tomorrow anyway.

But today, what sounded like fun was being a little silly and being a little girly and being a little Burning Man.

I made plans to go to the Upper Haight.

But first!

The stuff of life.

I went to Noriega Produce and picked up a few essentials and then popped into Establish to look around, I always find something I like there and today it was a card, I owe someone a thank you and I found a sweet little card and it felt pretty darn nice to write a note and drop it in the mail later on today when I was in the Haight.

I got back from the market and cooked up lunch, and what was dinner and will be lunch and dinner for me tomorrow as well (and stuck one container in the freezer to bring to Burning Man, slowly but surely accruing all my food stuffs, I don’t have much left to prepare for, except picking up some apples to take with me, but that won’t be until I’m on the road)–sautéed organic chicken thighs with onions, garlic, white sweet corn, and brown mushrooms along with a pot of brown rice.

Then I hopped on my bicycle, despite rather not wanting to ride, I had a feeling I needed a little exercise and the ride provided just exactly what I needed, and headed up into the Haight.

I went to Good Will and found the dress of the century.

I have never been so lucky at a Good Will.

Ever.

I found a fantastic kelly green and white polka dot 70s vintage sun dress with rushing in the back and a full swing out skirt, it has a sweet heart neck line that ties around the neck with strings and it made my heart sing when I tried it on.

I wanted to come out of the dressing room and parade around the store, “look at me!  Look what I found! I never find stuff like this!”

I restrained myself, barely, and gleefully changed back into my street clothes, but don’t you worry, I’ll be wearing that dress tomorrow, heck it might make for the perfect thing to wear on a museum date with myself, and it will definitely be going out with a big old crinoline underneath it.

After my score at Good Will I was riding pretty high.

I went to the two dance shops on the block and picked up two pairs of ruffle panties, white and black, because every body, I do mean, everybody, men and women, should have a pair or two of ruffled bloomers for Burning Man, and besides they were $5 a pair.

Come on.

Then the other dance shop where, yes I did, I scored a tutu for $13!

Hell yes.

And.

It’s hot pink.

So I’ll have something to match my hair to.

Ahem.

I have one jar of Manic Panic I am reserving for after I work with the family again in Sonoma–I get in the pool a lot with the boys and I have no intention of doing my hair hot pink only to have the chlorine strip it right back out.

Learned my lesson on that one already, thank you very much.

I also picked up a five dollar pair of patterned fish nets at the store.

Quite pleased with myself, I made my last stop of the shopping trip–The Sock Shoppe.

Oh.

How do I love thee?

Let me count the tights.

The funky ones and the butterfly ones and the checkerboard patterned and the flowered ones, and oh yes, the fancy high end ones with a love song lyric scrolled over the legs, I’ll take those too.

I have a Sock Shopped addiction.

But I only hit the place once a year, pre-Burning Man, and I was well within my budget.

So.

I had fun.

And fun wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t stop at Free Gold Watch.

That’s right.

I got my pinball on.

Damn Gina.

It was good.

I had raided my piggy bank for quarters before I left the house.

Two games of The Machine–Bride of Pinbot and Ten games of the Addams Family.

I had fun.

I absolutely did.

And I took the other suggestion and did no graduate school reading today.

I just let myself have a day off.

Simple stuff, shopping, cooking, writing, a bicycle ride, a few pinball games, some butterfly tights and a tutu.

Life is really good.

Especially.

When I get the hell out of my own way.

And take the opposite action.

Walk Away

March 26, 2015

Let him go.

Those were the words in my head when I saw my friend sitting outside the burrito joint on Judah and 44th smoking a cigarette.

He doesn’t see me.

Which doesn’t mean that he didn’t see me.

He did.

I saw him.

And we did the weird, uncomfortable, yet oddly enough, familiar dance of people who need to be in the same place at the same time who don’t have anything to say to each other.

Which says volumes.

It did not hurt as much as I thought it would.

I knew he’s been around and I know, know without a doubt, that he won’t have anything to do with me even if I did approach him.

Which I have been directed not to.

And if you know anything about me, have read even one of my blogs or seen me around the block, you know, that the one thing I do well is take a suggestion.

Leave him alone.

Walk away.

Let him go.

Surrender.

Again and again it comes down to surrender.

Gratitude as well.

I am grateful for the time I got to have my friend in my life, for the words and books, the conversations, the music, the poetry of our time together, the love, the in bed the out of bed, the growth and the loss.

And the grief and joy and weirdness that is life.

One day, I hope, I’ll run into him and the past will have passed and we will be able to smile at each other, have a hug, share a moment, maybe get a cup of coffee.

Or not.

It is not for me to decide.

I choose, respectfully, to move on and keep moving forward.

These dreams.

True dreams of Wichita.

….Where you stand with keys and your cool hat of silence, while you grip her love like a drivers liscence…

These dreams lead me forward.

I know, in my heart, of hearts, of hearts, that I am not alone and that my circles of friends and lovers and relationships and employers and family may change and melt and merge and coalesce in different ways.

I have loved so many people.

And so many of them are no longer in my life, my daily life, not because they have died, although a few have, but because life has happened and they moved on or I moved on.

Yet.

I get to still hold space for these people within me.

That is the fallacy of my thinking prior to having gone into recovery, that I would always have to hold so tight to anyone in my life, regardless of whether or not they were good for me to be holding tightly too.

I get to let go, softly, gently, even though I have not always done so gracefully or graciously, I get to let go even too, of that thought, that I have to move on in a certain way or manner.

I don’t have to do anything perfect.

The only thing I can do perfect is love all those in my heart and hold them, whether they know or not that they are held there.

In some ways I believe, a person is truly alone, there is no one who is ever going to know the exact depth and weight of my life or my soul or my heart, there are some that will get more inside my sphere and I will get to share with them to a greater degree than others, but on some levels, there is always this alone.

There is not, however, this loneliness.

I am not lonely.

Which is a lovely revelation to have.

I am never truly alone.

And it is not important that anyone other than myself know the inner workings of my heart.

It’s my heart.

I do hope that I can share some of it with you.

There is that.

That I can love you and that you will know it, even if we are not together.

Even when we used to be so close.

Where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

“Sit next to me Carmen,” he said in his sleepy cat voice, fresh-baked from his nap, small sweaty head imprint on his pillow. He rolled over in his ‘big boy’ bed and made room for me next to him and then tucked his Meow Meow under his arm.

“Sing me a song, Carmen,” he said, opening his raccoon fringed eyes, brown and soft and sweet, at me, before shuttering them down again, the weight of his eyelashes pulling his lids shut.

I sang him a song.

My sweet boy.

I have so many songs to sing, but they all sort of come out sounding the same and that, too, I believe, is as it should be.

I don’t know how to change you, so I change me.

Sometimes the lyrics to the song will be different from what I think and I will forget the refrain or chorus, or make a jumble of the words, but the feelings remain the same.

Instead of sorrow I feel joy.

And perhaps it is tinged by a touch of sorrow, but the sadness makes the joy that much more bright and palpable.

When I think of all the people I have met in my life and all the people I have shared a moment with, or a year, or more. When I think of all the people who’s hands I have held or the hugs given and received, whether they are to be given or received again matters not, I have been given the gift and to ask for more is greedy.

Though, I suspect, I will be given more, I think my purpose is still evolving and I know that I have more in me to let out.

More heart to wear on my sleeve.

More love to give.

More love to receive.

 

Time after time you’ll hear me say that I’m so lucky to be loving you.

Ten Years After

February 16, 2015

I was given the amazing perspective of being asked to reflect on the last ten years of my life and where I was and where I am now.

It was intense.

It has been an intense day.

“I love reading your blog, it’s so dramatic!” A friend of mine said yesterday at the going away party I attended.

“I bought a loaf of bread at the store, it was good bread, I have an insight, it’s a big one, wow, life, amazing, that was some tasty bread.”

I punched him in the arm.

“I know I’m dramatic, I can’t help it, it’s just how I am,” I said, blushing red-hot, I could indeed see myself waxing poetic about buying a loaf of bread.

I mean, have you ever walked past Tartine in the Mission and smelled the butter scented air?

The only corner in the city that never fails to remind me of Paris, as the bread and pastry there is very French informed.

I mean, I could really write a full on 1,000 word blog on the smell of baking bread and my insights there of.

My friend was spot on.

I punched him in the arm again.

“Fuck you.”

“No, I love it, it’s so you, it’s good, don’t stop,” he gave me a bear hug.

Sometimes the little things are the most dramatic, the flight of a pigeon startled up from a palm tree on Dolores Street as my old friend leaves the coffee shop, a friend I said goodbye to.

I surrendered a friendship.

I have surrendered a romantic relationship and didn’t write much about it, or him, as it wasn’t my place.

I will do the same here.

I am sad.

I watched the light shift, I listened to the incoming whistles from my phone and let the tears well in my eyes.

I felt my heart and breathed through the process.

Things end.

Things begin.

The light, buttery, soft, warm, awash in the rich scent of jasmine and of blooming magnolia, the sky clear, high, blue, swathed in light airy clouds, the palm trees against the robins egg blue and the rattle of ice in my coffee cup.

It was a comfort to be in that window space and sit there and look at those palms and remember so many times, over the last ten years, that I have sat in that same window seat watching those same trees.

Sometimes laughing.

Often times crying.

Always living.

Always walking through the next thing in front of me.

Speaking of which.

I did it.

I filled out and filed my FAFSA form before starting my blog tonight.

Federal student loan application for graduate school is now complete.

I have yet to hear back about what specific day I will be going in to do my interview for the program, but I do not doubt that I will get it.

It all feels right.

If I am supposed to go to this school and do this program and get the Masters in Integral Counseling Psychology, then the money will be there.

I have always been taken care of.

I don’t foresee being dropped now.

And if I’m not supposed to go, well, something else will happen.

I just take that little action, whatever it is, when my hands are cold and I am breaking out into a cold sweat and my flight or fight is high, I breath and take the next action in front of me.

Some times that is to pause and not respond.

I did some of that today.

The not responding.

That was a challenge.

Then there is the time to stand up and speak my experience and share what it’s been like and how I go forward from here.

Which is that I see and hear and rely on those that have gone before me, how they walk through, how I may do the same thing.

I am not the first person in the history of graduate school to be nervous about paying tuition.

Well, excepting those in European nations that pay for their citizens to attend school, but despite wanting to be French, I was not born there to take advantage of their school system.

Or Germany’s.

Someone suggested I move to Berlin for the free schooling they are now offering.

I don’t speak German though.

And I don’t want to move a way from San Francisco again.

This is home.

“I am so glad you moved back from Paris,” she said to me tonight before I stepped out into the hallway, “it’s really good having you here.”

It’s really good being here.

Home.

My little corner of the planet, which happens to exist in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Not that I am biased or anything.

But San Francisco, she sure is pretty.

Especially when there are days like today when the entire city is outside enjoying 70 degree weather and sunshine.

The beach was packed.

The Mission was packed.

Dolores Park looked like a movie set.

I don’t know that there could have been one more person shoved into the green space on the hill, it was a carpet of people.

I laughed when I saw the park.

I was in the car with a friend whose surf board I had returned.

It was suggested to me I get it back to him.

I was on my way to say goodbye to a friend at Maxfield’s Cafe.

It was suggested I give him some space to have his process.

I amend my life the best way I know how, take the suggestions I am given, and try to live my life in a spiritually principled way.

How that comes across is none of my business.

I looked out over the faces in the room, full of light, full of unspeakable radiance and shine and perhaps that was because my eyes were full of tears with the gratitude I hold for them, or perhaps it was the face of God I was looking into.

All I know is that I am in the heart of love and that these ten years have been a gift I never expected or thought I was good enough to receive.

I hope I was a mirror to the people in front of me.

Love.

I love you.

Love.

Thank you for all you have given me.

Get Out With Your Girls

February 7, 2015

Ok then.

I did it.

I went and hung out with some ladies.

Jesus fuck.

I had no idea how much I needed to just hang out with some ladies and kick it at Burger Meister.

I didn’t even eat, I had gotten to do that already tonight at work, work, which was intense, long day, two sick boys, extra hours, thank god I made it through the week.

And let myself take a Uber into work this morning.

The gale winds did not speak well for traveling by bicycle and I knew the rain was close behind, I could smell it this morning when I opened the back door to my studio and heard the surf crashing on the beach.

I took a car.

That feels all luxurious and shit, which, let me tell you was not, despite it being Uber which I like a little more than Lyft, I tried the new Uber service, Pool, which was ok, although, the driver did the cardinal sin of waiting too long for the second passenger, they are only supposed to wait two minutes when picking up a shared ride, I came rather close to being late for work.

And I couldn’t tell if it was the passenger that was already in the car, or the driver, but the bad breath was foul.

Bad, bad, bad.

I got good and grateful though, to not be riding my bicycle in the weather and though it meant being trapped inside for the majority of the day, I got through.

And although I found myself meandering through the Mission in weird weather after work killing time, I took care of myself by doing a lot of contrary actions.

I had some thoughts about where I would go this evening after work, I had some choices, I could have flagged another car and headed toward the Inner Sunset, seen some folks over at 7th and Irving, but I had a feeling the ex would be there, and that was the allure to going there.

Oh.

No reason to engage, you know, just cause myself, some unnecessary pain, feel uncomfortable, and rub some salt in a  wound that is rapidly healing.

Don’t pick at it.

It’s still a relatively new tattoo, but I have found my hand drifting toward it, stroking the edges where the skin is still rough and pulling, healing.

Leave it be.

I reprimand myself.

But a few times I have found myself doing it without even thinking.

And that was what was tonight.

Sneaky, slithery, slippery thoughts, sniping their way into my brain, little ear worms of irritation, I knew better than to entertain them and I knew to take the opposite action of what I wanted to do.

So I ended up wandering around the Mission for about an hour before I needed to be where I knew I needed to be.

I window shopped.

I grabbed a tea at Church St. Cafe.

I read my book for a little while.

The desire to pick at the scab left me.

I went where I was supposed to be.

I saw who I was supposed to see.

And I was invited to hang out with a trio of lovely ladies at ye olde Burger Meister.

I took my own suggestion and fellowshipped.

I also talked up dancing next Saturday.

It’s going to be a long week-end for me, I’ll have Monday off for the holiday, so I thought, to hell with it being Valentines Day, I am my own best date, let me take me dancing.

I’ll have an extra day of recuperation if I blow out my knees.

Or my ankle.

Let me not dance too hard, now that I am thinking about it, I don’t want to do either and I can.

I just want to have some fun and work  it out.

And there it is.

I just wrote that and realized, what the hell is holding me back, go buy a ticket.

Good thing I did, the event is about to sell out.

All the early bird tickets are gone, so I had to shell out another five, but it’s worth it, the Basement Jaxx are one of my favorites, I’ve never seen them live and David Harness is also playing–I’ve seen David plenty and like his stuff–I’m going to dance myself out.

Public Works, next Saturday, Valentine’s Day, I’ll be giving myself the gift that I always want a gentleman to give me, the gift of going dancing.

“I’ll learn to dance, I’ll take lessons, I swear, really, this time, I will,” my ex of five years pleading with me on bended knee in the house on Gilman Street in Madison, the late afternoon sunlight fading into the gloom of a grey dusk in January, the frost patterns on the window catching the last glints of light on his face.

I gave into being in that relationship another week, maybe ten days, I don’t remember, but he didn’t go out dancing with me.

I learned to do it on my own.

I’m not the worlds best dancer, but I like to cut a rug and though I sincerely wish my body was in better shape, my feet are flat, my knees are creaky, I apparently have weak ass ankles, I can still get out there and let the music wash over me and get carried away and dance like there’s no tomorrow.

The music is love for me and I intend to drown myself in it.

I’ll be my own best date.

Speaking of dating.

That was something discussed by the quartet of females in Burger Meister this evening.

And yes.

I have been convinced to hop back into the online dating weirdness.

Although I didn’t care for the slightly smug message from OkStupid, “welcoming me back.”

I uploaded a new photo, checked my stats, scrolled through the matches, looks about the same, and said, ok, here’s to taking an action and letting go the results.

I also was given the suggestion, which I have had before and think I did, but I honestly don’t remember, of making a list of ten guys I would ask out and then, well, actually going and asking them out.

I’m ready and willing to give it another go.

The break up is done.

Three weeks ago tonight.

The relationship was short, intense, but short, and three weeks feels right.

This lady is back on the market.

You can check out my profile, or just get back to me here, or facecrack.

Or maybe, you might see me, smiling my head off, next Saturday at Public Works.

Doing that thing that I do so well, getting lost in the music.

Being utterly in my body and present.

Dancing.

Come on, you know you want to.

Ice, Ice Baby

July 29, 2014

And not the diamonds.

No.

Just the ice.

Actually, let me upgrade.

Ice, ice, peas.

Peas.

Tanks.

Fuck me man.

I am over this.

I am over it and than some.

I am just tired, is what it is.  Worn out.  Sacked out.  Beat down.

And it’s just Monday.

Eek.

I will get through, I am sure I will, but I was tired so quickly today and my ankle was much sorer than I thought it would be, is that grammatically correct, sorer?

What ever it is, it, said ankle was really tender today and all the muscles around it were in protest too, like hey, ankle, snap out of it, we be tired of carrying the brunt of the weight, get on some support.

By the end of the day I just felt like it had all been sucked right out.

And it was a lovely day with the boys, they were sweet as pie, it was great to see them, they were super lovey and I got lots of hugs and even a little down time with naps.

Not as much as I could have used, but I snatched thirty minutes of down time with a moment to put up the foot and chill.

I began to wonder if I was coming down with something, my energy just way low.

And a friend shared his experience around a broken leg and it was an aha moment for me.

He said that it was almost harder when it started to heal because he realized how weak he had become.

That is what I feel like, weak.

And I have felt weak and vulnerable for weeks now, and it just makes me tired.  I have been showing up for work and showing up for commitments and trying to go, go, go, and not like my normal pace, but just a little bit, and I can’t seem to muster it.

I know this will pass and in that there is the relief.

Today just felt interminable.

But it is a feeling and they pass, just like the days pass, time passes, the world moves on and before I can blink I will be onto something else, some other adventure to ruminate on, some other part of myself or my body or being to “improve” something to learn and grow around.

Part of the exhaustion, I must admit, seemed mental too.

I have been thinking about a story piece and working on it and the performance is tomorrow and I just could not wrap my head around practicing more for it, writing more on it, then going and doing it tomorrow after I got done with work, commuting on more public transportation down to the Mission/SOMA border, being there, then commuting back to the beach.

I really wanted to cry when I thought about it.

I had the piece on my mind all day long and wrote and rewrote it in my head and thought about re-visiting old blogs to get inspiration and it all just seemed like too much work.

I might be trying to go to fast here, the intuitive thought, perhaps next month, perhaps not tomorrow.

And.

Maybe just pause and wait until tomorrow and see how you feel.

Maybe I will feel amazing and excited and want to go perform and even if it’s just to be bad, since I have not had a lot of practice telling it, just mostly the writing of it, because bad is better than not at all.

I kept admonishing myself, just show up, that’s half the battle.

That’s where most of the work is for me.

Just showing up.

Sitting down in front of my laptop and opening up the blog page and just letting the words roll down the page like alphabet rain.

I know that part of this too is that I don’t want to disappoint someone who has made the suggestion to me to go and have this experience.  I take all her suggestions, or almost all, I am realizing, if there’s one or two I haven’t taken it’s rare.

This would be me not taking the suggestion, show up and be horrible and have fun with it.

I took the other suggestions she gave me over the weekend about getting a little notebook to jot down creative ideas, I usually carry something with me anyhow, but I picked up a special little guy just for more writing down of the stuffs.

I like the idea of being bad, well, sort of, I really want to show up and be perfect, but I know that’s not possible and the stress of being perfect is not worth the effort, I am too tired for it.

I like the idea of being of service.

“That’s what creatives are, they are being of service by putting their art into the world,” she told me Saturday.  “You are of service to the audience, it’s not about you.  What can you bring to the performance?”

My tired ass self.

I did give her a call today after I got done with work and just expressed how I was struggling with it, not so much the writing, I got that down, at least the bones and musculature, it needs a little fleshing out, but I could extemporarize it quite well, I believe; but the idea of just getting there.

That’s what was exhausting.

And it made me long for my bicycle and that bums me out, not being on my bike, really just bums me the fuck out.

I miss it so bad.

I miss the feeling of being free on the road and the wind on my face and my legs moving underneath me without pain, just moving, like pistons, clocking the distance down Lincoln or through the park.

Exercise is important to me too because it helps stave off that low-level depression that can sneak up on me when I am not as active and that could be some of this too, tiny bit of depression, woven in with a smidgen of self-pity, some physical discomfort and pain, and voila.

Perfect cocktail of “tired the fuck out.”

I will wait for tomorrow to make my final verdict.

Tomorrow is another day.

Tonight is for tea and rest.

And iced peas.

Open The Door To Opportunity

January 23, 2014

“I mean,” she said, with a pause and a knowing look, “you could meet people in your studio, but the odds are pretty slim.”

Ugh.

She’s right, but sometimes it is hard to get out of a routine to find ways to open that door and walk through it, to try something different, to make space for a new interest, be it person or thing.

“Why don’t you try the Moth.” She added, then, paused, “you know about the Moth don’t you?”

I do now.

I have been looking at the format on and off for a few weeks since she made that suggestion.

It’s a storytelling affair.

Started in New York, and has meandered its way across the USA to San Francisco.

Oh, I simplify, honestly, I don’t know jack about it.

However, I just signed up to go to the one that is at Public Works this upcoming Tuesday, January 28th.

There was a slam recently, the 13th of this month, at The Rickshaw Stop, but apparently it is no longer being hosted there.

I was just on Public Works website to find out what the deal was.

I really should go back to the site and buy a ticket as well.

I just signed up to go, I didn’t actually purchase the ticket.

Suddenly shy.

Suddenly at a loss for stories.

I have a million stories.

Jesus.

When did I get nerves?

If I can do spoken word in Paris I can show the hell up and tell a five-minute story at Public Works.

Excuse me, what?

They are not selling tickets for it on Public Works website, so I am uncertain if I just show up and throw my hat in the ring or what.

But I will find out.

I am actually going to Public Works on Friday evening.

A dear friend had a birthday a little while back and was unable to celebrate as she was down for the count with the awful flu that made its vicious rounds recently throughout the city.

She is making up for it by going dancing on Friday.

Plus, it’s a Heart Deco event, and I love me some Heart Deco–Burning Man–dancing.  There will be loads of friendly faces there and good music and I will get my groove the fuck on.

I will also find out what the deal is with the Moth.

I booked it into my calendar and although it’s on a school night, I figure, come on, you have to do it.

I have to continue expanding my creative base.

Not because I expect to get anything from it either.

I just want to the experience of doing it.

I also feel like I am a good story-teller.

Not the greatest, but not too bad, and I think I can handle my own for five minutes.

What I like about the format, although it makes a girl nervous, is that you don’t get any props, no notes, no cues, just you and a microphone.

And it has to be a true story and it has to be about you.

The theme for this show is “Beginnings”.

I have no clue what I will tell a story about.

I searched my blog archives with that term and turned up a few, all about Paris, and I suppose I could come up with something to tell about that.

I have until Tuesday to figure it out and practice.

I suppose I may even write a new piece.

I certainly would have to re-draft a blog if I used one, the blogs are not really written from the standpoint of being told as a story, although the narrative is all my, and only mine, I don’t write with the idea of performing my blog.

I am a performance all on my fucking own.

“Marco!”  I hollered out to a friend I saw standing on the corner of La Playa and Judah.

“Polo!” Some wise ass called out, as my friend looked around bewildered.

“Marco!”  I yelled and waved.

“Polo!” Three more people chimed in.

Oh, I give up, as my friend turned confused on his phone trying to pinpoint where I was hailing from.

It reminded me of being outside a cafe in Noe Valley with my friend Shadrach on the phone and he kept asking my email, which is my full name and thus sometimes a bit of a nuisance getting it to folks over the phone who tend to misspell my last name, and shouting, I mean shouting at the top of my lungs, my name.

“What was that, say it slower,” he chuckled abruptly.

“You fucker!” I said, turning bright red.

I had been shouting my full name, middle and all, for over three minutes in front of Martha’s Coffee and had many a person turn and stare at me.

“Gotcha.”

Yeah.

I can make a scene without even meaning to.

I can tell a story.

I can stand up in front of a room full of people and tell my story.

I have done that quite a few times.

Although, only infrequently in five minutes.

Though, I have done that as well.

I could wing the whole god damn thing too.

I just got an idea.

Oh.

I don’t know if I want to do it, but I do have an idea of a beginning.

Shit, I should, I just celebrate the 9th year of that said beginning.

I wonder how I could craft that into something without blowing my.

Well.

I can’t say, now can I?

Ha.

Anyway.

There’s fodder there.

There’s fodder everywhere.

“I don’t usually enjoy stream of conscious writing,” an old acquaintance said to me today as we met for coffee (hey, look at me, doing something outside of my schedule!  See I can take suggestions, pardon me while I preen over here), “but there’s something about the way you write, it’s really unaffected.”

Yup.

It’s just me.

And a lot of the time I just open up the blank page and go for it.

There it is too.

Every time I blog.

A new beginning.

A new way of shaping myself and my story.

A new way of seeing.

I guess I just gave myself something to work on while I stand in line at 850 Bryant on Friday waiting to contest my “traffic” infraction.

Maybe I will practise on the judge.

Baha.


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