Posts Tagged ‘The Artist Way’

God Damn

November 12, 2015

You are sexy.

Thanks.

I needed to hear that.

And now it is time to listen to some French music.

Frenchies are sexy.

I like being sexy.

I remember when I was in a little bistro up in Potrero Hill, I think it might have been Chez Papa, but I am not 100% sure and I had just had my hair done, colored so that it was as close to my natural color as possible.

No more hot pink.

No purples or magentas.

No blues.

Just a rich, lustrous, dark brown.

And it was blown out.

I remember having the hamburger with an egg on it and Gruyère cheese.

To die for.

No bun, thank you.

Just a little green salad.

And after my friends and I were paying the check and leaving out the front door, saying good night to the owner, he waved, got up and came to see us out.

I let my friends go ahead of me and as I was walking out.

The owner leaned in, just a tiny bit into my personal space, but not too much into my space, just enough to know it was deliberate.

“Bye bye, sexy,” he said with a smile, his heavy Paris accent a lyrical whisper in my ear, and opened the door for me.

“Oh!” My friend said and giggled, “I heard that!  Do you want to go back and get his number, he’s single.”

I laughed, “um, DIane, the reason I was at the salon today was to get my hair ready for Paris, since I’m leaving in four days, probably no the best time to set up a date with a guy, but I think the hair is a hands down success.”

Heh.

It was a sexy hair do.

And I am feeling sexy tonight.

Just.

Well.

Because.

Suffice to say I know I am, but sometimes when someone you like says it to you, it makes all the difference.

Especially after a full day of being a nanny, running around, doing errands, going to the market, stripping beds and doing laundry, cleaning up little boy messes, filling the dog bowl with water, putting away groceries, wiping little runny noses and re-filling milk cups.

Of course.

There are moments too.

Oh, when the littlest guy, says, “pick me! pick me!”

He means, “pick me up.”

And I do.

And we dance around the kitchen and he throws back his head and smiles like a Cheshire cat and we sway to the music and I feel so much love and his little stuffed kitten is squashed between his arms and I have the best job in the world.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I told him as I snuggled him on my lap, “you’re my favorite three-year old in the world.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispered, then said, “STAR WARS, Carmen, STAR WARS.”

So I put on the John Williams score and he does this crazy little interpretive dance and just melts my heart.

“He’s going to be a lady-killer,” a friend of mine said when I showed the video I took of him dancing.

It was just something else.

My job.

It is a good one.

I am grateful to have it.

Grateful to have not been priced out of the city and able to afford my rent.

Grateful for everything.

Hearing about a friend who is out there and can’t make it back really brought it home to me today and I was tender about it.

I remember the last time I saw him.

I have a picture of him, sitting in the sun on my back porch in the little tiny in-law I lived in on 23rd and Folsom Street.

He was all smiles and handsome and lit up by the sun.

We’d gone on a date or two, but never had anything come of it.

Just that we were friends.

And yes, there was some attraction there, but hey I was going to be traveling, leaving on a jet plane, jumping out of the country, getting the heck out of Dodge, and I was telling him about my decision to get up and go.

He reminded me of the time we had spent together with other friends, almost two years!  Doing the Artist Way, all the adventures we had, the group waxing and waning, but he, and five or six of the others of us, met weekly on Wednesdays for an hour, then we would all go up the hill and hang out in a church basement and drink crappy coffee and hang out after and fellowship some more.

We were tight.

We all were tight together and it was every day it seemed that I called one of those friends or saw them around the Mission.

Until I didn’t.

Until time passed.

And people change.

And not always for the better.

Sometimes for the worse.

I remember my friend leaning over and saying, “and I’ll bet you’re going to do it, too, you always do, you do what you say you are going to do, look at that first time you went to Paris, you just up and went and look at how many people you inspired in that group, you inspired me.”

“You’re going to love it, and you’ll be ok, you know you will,” he ended, leaned back, rocked back in the chair, the high Juniper trees of the next door neighbor waving behind him, “send postcards.”

I did send a lot of postcards.

I send them to lots of friends.

But.

I am not certain I sent him one.

He asked after me though, today, sent a hello out into the Universe via a mutual friend, and my heart broke reading the message and seeing how hard a time he was having of it.

Sexy is sad too.

Sexy is of the world.

I have experienced love and loss and sorrow and pain.

And that is what makes the living, the life I lead, the love I give so much more valuable.

it is tempered by that pain and explodes with sexiness.

“What’s up sexy?”

My friend said to me tonight as I sat down on a wobbly folding chair next to him in a dimly lit room.

We hugged.

“Nice hair cut!” I said and ruffled his hair.

“My girlfriend did it on the front step of my house with a set of fabric shears,” he replied, turning his head and giving me profile.

“That is hella hot,” I said.

“I know,” he said and we laughed.

Life.

A simple.

Full.

Graced life.

Sweet and round.

Limned in music.

Bursting with light from a glowing globe lantern.

The soft plink of piano keys.

The mystery of being on the top of the steps in the Montmartre.

Not knowing where I was going, just walking down those cold steps.

The stars so low in the velvet sky.

The air so cold.

It would snow the next day.

The silence of the city a soothing balm on my soul.

My little morose soul as it wandered the streets around Sacre Coeur.

Allowing one more experience to be impressed upon my soul.

The drift of wind, the muffler pulled tighter around my face.

A tear slipped down my face.

Then I thought.

There is no one else in the world at this time in this place.

Not another soul on this cold mid-week late evening stroll in the heart of Paris.

I am special.

And.

Just a little sexy.

Although I did not realize it at the time.

I am reminded of it now and I look forward to only growing.

Sexier.

With time.

My life.

It just gets bigger and grander.

The best.

Truly.

Is still to come.

And.Snow on Sacre Couer

That.

Is.

Sexy.

Steps of Sacre Couer

Stair way in the Montmartre

Hey, I Got You A Job!

October 9, 2012

Good Lord.

Really?

It is apparently going to be just that easy.

Keep moving forward, Martines, and you will be taken care of.  Stay the course.

I got a message from Barnaby a few days back that he knows some one who needs some office assisting and some management for an aspect of his business.

Said person runs a pub crawl.

At first I was a little taken aback.

Really?

Drunk people.

Gah.

Then a co-worker pointed out, hey, you are the perfect person for the position.  First, you won’t be drinking so you will be responsible.  Second, what a great way to meet people.  Third, what a great way to get to know the Paris landscape.

And fourth, it’s a job!

I mean, I have not even packed my bags yet and there is a job waiting for me?

Rock on.

Wait, I still have to buy that damnable suitcase.  Which I am putting off one more paycheck as I just had a lean one with the pay period falling during the time I was seeing the moms in Florida.

Good news y’all!

Mom and partner are NOT coming to Paris.

There is a god.

They are instead going to Belize.

Have fun kids!

That is not to say that at some point I may very well welcome a visit from my mom.  But not yet, let me get settled, let me get grounded, let me get into the city and being a Parisian.

I saw Molly Daniels today at Kaiser Permanente in Oakland.  Molly has acute onset Leukemia.  It hit out of the blue and they are going after it aggressively.  At first I did not want to talk about myself, which is really truly something else, but she insisted she wanted to hear about me, she wanted to hear about Paris, and Burning Man, and boys and sex and life and art.

I told her.

It felt good to catch up with her.

Molly was there with me when I was doing the Artist Way along with Matt and Johnny Carroll, Jennifer, and Yanno, Kap, myself and Ian.  We met for over a year and half and did The Artist Way.

It changed my life.  And Molly’s and Jennifer’s and Johnny’s.  I dare say it did a lot for Matt and Ian and Yanno too–most definitely for Kap as well.

I started doing things differently.  I started writing my daily morning pages.  I went through and cleaned up a draft of Baby Girl.

Molly read it in paper form and made some valuable suggestions.

I began to take myself on artist dates–ferry rides, trolley rides, cable car rides, trips to the local toy stores–The Ark in Noe Valley and Jeffrey’s downtown on Market Street–I got myself stickers and notebooks and made collages and dyed my hair and I made the decision to go to Paris for 10 days all by myself.

I wrote post cards to all my cohorts.  I wandered.  I ate croissant.  Hell, I ate a lot of croissant, drank a lot of cafe creme, ate croque madame until I might have become one, had the most amazing tartar outside of the Metro Cafe in the Latin Quarter, chocolate meringue cookies, Berthillon ice cream–salted caramel–the best in the world, baguette fresh from the oven which I would walk with ripping off pieces and stuffing them in my mouth, cheese, oh the cheese, Thomas Savoie, Gruyère, Roquefort, and chocolates, lots of artisanal chocolate and caramel, chocolate eclair, tarte tatin.

I did not gain any weight because I constantly was walking from 1o a.m. to 10 p.m.  All I did was walk and wander and go to museums.  My feet hurt so much and I actually gave myself shin splints from all the walking.  I also nearly put myself into a state of diabetes with all the sugar and pastry I ate, but my god, it had to be done once.

Not this time.

Not now.

I won’t eat like that again, although I will still drink plenty of cafe.  There is no denying that.

Molly has actually cut out the caffeine.  I was much impressed.  We talked about art and following our hearts and not stifling the muse anymore with office work and fear.

I feel like I entered into a pact of sorts.

Here my friend lies riddles with cancer, cropped short hair, pale and thin, smiling at me, encouraging me, egging me forward–I cannot but embrace the words, the art, the life.

I met her brother today, whom I was introduced by Molly as, “my friend Carmen who is moving to Paris to become a writer.”

He replied, “how Bohemian of you.”

I rather like that.

I am bohemian.

I am an artist.

I will go make me some art.  I will also continue to work on my art here while I am here.  There is nothing that says I have to wait to go anywhere or be with anyone to write, to create, to make poetry, to sow art in my wake, to dance, to express, to wear my dirty heart on my ragged sleeve.

I am an artist.

And I do not believe I am a starving artist, nor that I will fail by declaring myself an artist.

My job is to create, inspire, and invoke awe.

However I am used to do such, I shall do, I shall say yes, I shall create.  I shall be the channel for the artistry.

I will step up and through and go.

I have a job waiting for me.

It is not the pub crawl, although, I will say yes to employment.

It is to be the writer and embrace the artistic life.

Not just for myself, but for Molly, and every other person who does not believe that they are capable of doing the art.

Yes you fucking are.

Now go.

Get your art on.


%d bloggers like this: