Posts Tagged ‘The Mission’

All The Gifts

June 26, 2016

The constellations in the sky.

The love in my heart.

The ocean, the waves this twilight, late afternoon walk to the beach, perfect curls and peals and no one there.

No one.

The whole city, and a few extra thousand folks, were all at Pride.

I didn’t have FOMO.

Fear.

Of.

Missing.

Out.

I thought I would, but truth is, I’m in the Mission and the Castro a lot and it felt like it was going to be like going to work and all the traffic and the drinking and sloppy, I just didn’t have it in me.

Although I did get dressed up for it, just in case I happened to change my mind.

I did the yoga and that was great.

Felt nice to be in the studio and stretch and get strong.

I had a nice breakfast at home then scootered up to the Inner Sunset and met my person and did the deal and connected and got perspective.

And fuck.

The gratitude.

Just whelmed me.

That I get to do all the things that I do.

That I get to go to New Orleans next weekend.

Next weekend!

I mean, it feels like I just got back from New York.

Heh.

I sort of did.

I mean.

There was a moment, and it was so brief, that I just waved it off, swatted it like a little gnat, I don’t have a date for Saturday night, oh boo hoo.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

You know.

The thing is, I do.

Me.

And I am damn fine company and not that there’s not interest.

There is.

I just have some rules about dating that I am pretty unbendable on, even if he is hella cute.

No touching.

Hands off.

That’s the policy, always has been, always will be, but it was sweet to get his messages and catch up, we’ve known each other for years and always stayed in touch.

We reconnected and that was nice.

Although, also a tiny bit disappointing to hear that there was a misadventure and a return to day counting.

Le sigh.

Oh well.

So it goes.

Although, it was sweet to hear the incredulity he had that I was still single.

I’m saving myself for Mike Doughty.

Ha.

Anyway.

I took myself down to the beach and I had me a me date and it was fantastic and I sat in the dunes and let the wind rumple my crinoline and sat with my face in the sun and let God blow love into my heart.

It was a good time.

I’m such a lucky girl.

Pink hair and all.

I think that this is going to be it for a while on the hair color too.

Time to go back to brown.

I’ll spend the summer pretty in pink, but yeah, I have been thinking it could be time to go back to my natural color.

I also thought about hacking it all off at the end of summer.

Go short again, cut off all the colored bits.

That’s on the table though, I do love my long, curly hair, I do.

But.

Yeah.

Maybe back to natural.

Who cares?

I am rambling.

Oh.

Ha.

And I could have had a date tonight too, now that I am reflecting.

I must have been putting it out there on my way back from the beach, I don’t know how the guy didn’t hit me, but I literally had a guy whip across the MUNI tracks and pull his car in front of me while I was crossing the street at Judah and 46th and ask me what I was doing tonight.

I was like.

What the fuck?

Do I really look like a prostitute?

Were you just hoping I would say, well, dear, I wasn’t doing anything, but since you zipped up in your brand new bright orange SUV mini Cooper (which is so not mini and so ugly), I’ve totally changed my mind.

Let me get in your car and give you a blow job.

What you say?

Fuck off.

I just walked around the car and kept going.

I’m not sure if he thought I was a working girl, I mean, I am sure there’s lots of extracurricular action going on this weekend, but come on.

I was walking home in my flip flops.

Of course, I am tall, maybe he didn’t see the beach wear.

Just the bright, hot pink, hella big, curly hair waving around my pink glitter lips.

I get it, but seriously, fuck off.

Besides, like I said, Mikey, I’ll be waiting for you, nice and cozy, down here by the sea in my little love shack.

hahahaha.

Oh.

I fucking amuse myself.

I do have a thought though to message him when he gets to San Francisco.

Then.

I heard “Don’t You Forget About Me,” and I heard Shadrach in my heart.

“Be the ball, Martines, be the ball.”

Yeah.

Like that.

Go where the water is warm.

Let myself be pursued.

I’m not real good at that, but I’m willing to try.

Flowers yo, courting, pursue me, damn it.

Ah.

Fuck.

I feel like I’m trying all sorts of things.

Although I have yet, and really don’t plan on doing so, returned to OkStupid.

I can’t bring myself to do it, after having a profile on that site for like six, seven years, time to move on, it didn’t work.

And.

Yet.

I still feel like I am hurtling, inexorably toward the man I am supposed to be with.

So.

So.

So.

Not worried.

I’m in love with me.

Yeah.

I know what that sounds like, you can fuck off, but it’s true.

I really do feel that way.

It only took like a few decades or so.

Heh.

And it may change tomorrow.

But right now.

Life is so fucking good.

It really is.

I have so many astounding gifts.

I am so grateful.

If life were fair.

I would be dead.

I am alive.

I am a light.

I am loved.

I am.

I am.

I am.

So.

Very.

Loved.

 

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You Know You’re Busy

June 22, 2016

When you haven’t finished the second half of Game of Thrones.

I stopped mid-way Sunday night.

I had to.

I had to put it down, I was tired, I had a long weekend and I had to be at work early Monday to do stuff for the house and the household, even though the family was still out of town.

Make the oatmeal for the boys for the week, run to Lucca Ravioli and get a pound and a half of sliced peppered turkey, make broccoli soup, make beef stew, put fresh sheets and duvets on the boy’s beds, make sure the housekeeper got in and out.

All the things.

I told a friend I ran into last night that I hadn’t finished it and he marveled at my will power.

Strangely though, I have no will power.

It just is what happened and I also know myself well enough that I like to get a certain amount of sleep.

I got it.

Which is good, my sleep last night was a little erratic.

Which happens.

So tonight, I’m sure I’ll get back to my GOT.

However, I knew I had to do the writing, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to or had anything new to say or add in regards to my week.

Well.

I mean, there’s things.

But I’m not sure how much I feel like putting out there.

Sometimes I’m transparent as fuck.

And sometimes.

Well.

I’m not.

I will admit that I have been haunting Mike Doughty’s website waiting for the tour dates to be announced for the Living Room Tour he’s on.

There’s a date in September, the 1st, that he will be here in San Francisco.

I would like to get tickets, I have a few friends who also want tickets and I’ll be buying four once the date goes on sale.

Yesterday it was not on the roster of places, but I knew through a weird round about way that he would be in SF as it was listed as a place that should you want to host a show I could have applied.

Except.

Well.

Heh.

He wants a space that can hold 35-40 people.

That’s not my place.

I mean.

I would be willing to cram that many people in my studio, but it might be a tad close quarters, I would be like, so, you’ll be playing from my bed and, um, fuck, hahaha, I love this, I just blushed.

Mike Doughty in my bed.

Whoa.

I just blushed again.

I am such a girl.

Anyway.

My studio is too small for the tour so I didn’t apply.

However.

I asked a friend and he forwarded that information to another friend.

But.

I haven’t heard anything.

Until yesterday when it popped up in my facecrack feed that there was a show here scheduled for September 1st.

A host has been found.

Well.

I do want tickets to that.

But they’re not on sale yet.

I had a wild idea to message him and ask for tickets.

“Do not be a fanboy!” My friend said when I relayed the message that I was now friends with Mike on all things facecrack.

I know.

I know.

I don’t like that thing, I don’t want to be that girl.

I would, however, like to see him.

Fingers crossed.

I’ll be able to get tickets and if not, well, then I might message him, but I won’t ask for tickets, I think I’d rather ask him out to coffee and just sit and hang out.

This is all just idle fantasy.

Just because there’s a connection on social media does not necessarily mean connection.

Although there is something there.

I’m not going to, as my friend intimated, fanboy out.

Nah.

If it happens I get tickets, cool.

I almost want them more for a ladybug of mine.

She and her boyfriend are big fans and it would be really cool to get them tickets or my friend Stark Raving Brad, since he took me to the Paul Simon concert at the Greek in Berkeley, or for all of us.

I just figure the show will sell out quick.

Last time I saw him was at the Fillmore and that was pretty packed, certainly more than 40 people in attendance, so a Living Room show will probably sell out fast.

Anywho.

The things that capture my attention, all for your reading pleasure here.

Dating.

Sex.

Making out.

Going out.

Recovery.

Doing the deal.

Not doing the deal.

NO, hahaha, I kid on the last, I’m in it hard core right now, especially since my schedule is a bit more flexible with work.

Even with my work schedule being all over the place at work, the not having to think about being in school or having homework or reading to do, except for pleasure reading–on my third book since I got out of the end of the semester and countless magazines, I’m getting a little gluttonous, but it’s super fun–I’m going to lots of church basements.

The highlight of the day, quite often.

That and getting re-connected to my friends and fellows who I haven’t seen much of this past year, and getting to rooms I haven’t been to in months.

“Are you the speaker!?” A friend asked last night.

Nope.

But god damn it was good to see faces and get hugs.

Reconnecting last night with another person I had been estranged from too and getting an amends, that was powerful.

Yeah.

I guess you could say, life is pretty damn good.

If not having tickets to a show that I want to go to is my biggest problem, well, please, life is a bed of fucking roses.

And.

I am excited.

I just received the confirmation about doing the podcast this upcoming Saturday.

I’ll be up in Noe Valley at one p.m. to get recorded, live!

Eek a mouse.

Better do some practice.

Actually.

Ha.

I should.

It’s been a little while since I have recited any of my work for a person.

Maybe I’ll see if I can get a person to sit and listen to me for a minute over this next week.

Any takers?

I’ll be in the Mission for work and out and about in the Outer Sunset.

Maybe I’ll wrangle an ear tomorrow.

I get done with work at 6p.m. and won’t be getting to my commitment until 8:30 p.m.

If you’re in the Outer Sunset tomorrow and want to hear a few poems, hit me up.

And with that.

I’m out.

I have some Game of Thrones to finish up.

Yes.

Willpower.

Hahahahaha.

None here.

Move along.

Please, seriously.

Nothing to see.

Nope.

Not a thing.

Wink, wink.

Nudge.

Fucking.

Nudge.

Heh.

 

Take The Fucking Drama

June 17, 2016

Out of it.

Oh my god.

What a fucking concept.

I laughed and almost slapped my own forehead.

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

No need to do it today.

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

My boss doesn’t have to change.

My boss is never going to change.

She doesn’t have to.

I do.

I change.

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

Idiotic really.

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

Oh Stumptown how do I love thee.

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

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

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

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

Now.

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

In fact.

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

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

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

Fuck me.

Total digression.

I’m all over the place.

Like always.

But.

I’m a tiny bit at loose ends.

Having a clear three day weekend ahead of me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A place where the light got in.

Not for a while though.

Just ask my dealer.

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

I have a nodding acquaintance with the bathroom there.

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

God damn.

I don’t smoke anymore.

I forget that sometimes.

I can forget many things easily.

Use to weigh over 80lbs heavier.

Forgot that.

Used to do drink every day.

Forgot that.

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

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

He was pretty quick.

Grateful for other things today.

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

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

And hopefully sex once in a while.

Oh my God.

43.

STAWP with the hormones.

Oh.

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

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

FUCK ME!

That’s what it feels like all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

Ok.

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

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

Heh.

Were I to stumble upon that I might be smote.

So.

Until then.

The yoga.

The masturbation.

Thank you rechargeable Hitachi Magic Wand.

The hair geographic, which will happen Saturday.

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

Fuck.

Who cares?

The drama.

There is none.

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

Rent is paid.

The phone is paid.

I got a yoga membership at the studio.

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

I got happy, joyous, free.

I got friends.

I got good coffee in the cupboard.

Light in the soul.

Shine on my heart.

I ain’t got worries.

All I got.

Is three day weekend and endless fun.

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

Want to come along?

I promise.

Good times.

Seriously.

Three Day Weekend!

June 14, 2016

Hello there sexy.

I had no idea.

I mean.

I sort of forgot what with all the excitement of getting my ticket to New Orleans and my special spot via Air BnB, I still feel like pinching myself a good one when I look at the pictures of it, that I have this Friday off!

In fact.

I will probably get out of work early on Thursday too.

I doubt very much that I will have a full day at work.

The family is flying out at 4:10 p.m. from SFO.

Granted.

I will have work to do.

I always do when they travel.

I’ll straighten out the house and clean out the fridge and make sure that everything is closed down and organized and set up for their return.

I will also go in early on Monday to open the house up for the housecleaner, but I will get out by 2p.m., so even though I’m working that day, the family doesn’t get back until Tuesday, I will have an easier work week then normal.

Of course.

I may still get called in for jury duty.

So far so good.

I don’t have to go in tomorrow and I did not get called in for today.

I’ll be checking again tomorrow after 4:30 p.m. for Wednesday.

Fingers crossed I don’t have to go in on Wednesday.

Yeah.

I know.

Civic duty and all that.

But.

Yes, I am hoping that my number doesn’t get called.

And if that happens.

I have a totally wide open Friday.

I will do the deal with my lady at 6:30p.m. and head over to the place to do that thing I do on Friday nights, but open during the day.

Maybe I get my butt over to the MOMA and see the new space.

A Friday afternoon when everybody is working would certainly be a good way to see the space versus trying to battle it out with the weekend crowds.

I should see if anyone is around to do a museum afternoon with me.

Especially since I plan on just getting the membership.

Hoping that I’ll get a student discount, but even if I don’t, the membership is worth it.

The cost is $100, but it’s $25 for a solo ticket into the museum and with the membership I get to take a friend with me.

Right there that’s $50.

Do that twice and I’ve paid for the membership and I can foreseeably see going to the MOMA more than twice in a year.

I’ve always had a membership, except through the last three years or so when I was in Paris and they had closed down the museum for the renovation.

It’s been re-opened long enough now that although it’s still special, I don’t think it will be packed.

Anyway.

That’s a thought.

I could do some yoga in the morning and then spend the afternoon there.

Or.

I don’t know.

But I do know.

I am grateful for the time off.

Sleeping in always sounds yummy and then I never do it.

Doubtful I will do that.

I could go on a date.

I had one on Saturday, not bad, someone I know from doing the deal and it was nice to catch up, but I think it felt like just hanging out with a friend.  It was good to catch up though and have coffee at Java Beach and sit out in the sun.

I haven’t had much success over the last few weeks with the Tinder.

I don’t really care either.

Life is good and rich and full and I don’t feel like I’m lacking anything.

I have been doing fun stuff for me and that feels really good.

Like.

I have a hair appointment for Saturday.

Yeah.

Like that.

It’s time for pink again.

“Why?!” My friend exclaimed at Philz yesterday as we were sitting up in the Castro waiting for loved ones to arrive and go to dinner with.

“You have such great hair right now,” she said.

“I have to, it’s either dye it pink or cut it the fuck off,” I said.

“NO!” She exclaimed.

It’s hard to explain but sometimes I just need a change and my hair is the easiest thing to change, like it gives me some modicum of control over the uncontrollable nature of living and being a live.

I know that I have no control.

And I’m pretty at chill with that.

But.

Once in a while.

Yeah.

I have to do a hair geographic.

It’s better than doing the other geographic, which is indicative of moving for me.

Not necessarily out of San Francisco, although I have, hello Paris, but to another neighborhood.

You know.

Rattle my box a little, get myself up-rooted.

Create some unnecessary drama.

“But you love living by the ocean,” he said to me, with a raised eyebrow.

Yup.

And I have lived here coming up on three years.

The longest I have lived anywhere in San Francisco.

Seriously.

I have moved a lot.

I landed a sublet in the Mission at 20th and York for a few months when I first moved here.

2002.

I was there about eight months?

If that.

Then the house sold and I found a room in a place at 22nd and Alabama.

I lived there for about a year and a half.

Then 25th and Potrero.

There about a year?

Not sure.

The end of that time was in 2005 and it was a bad, bad, bad, bad, REALLY bad, time.

Like.

BAD.

I remember being on the back steps smoking a cigarette, really chain smoking a box of Marlboro Light 100s and talking to my best friend back in Wisconsin about how it was so beautiful where I was living and I was so miserable.

So unhappy.

It hurts to even contemplate it.

Horrendous.

And then three months into 2005.

I moved.

Again.

30th and Kingston.

Then 26th and Kansas.

Then Palou and 3rd.

After that I was at 23rd and Capp Street.

Then Taylor and Washington.

Then I couched surfed for three months in 2008.

After that a tiny in-law in the Mission at 22nd and Folsom.

So tiny.

After that.

Paris by way of a housesitting gig in East Oakland.

Paris six months.

Back to East Oakland.

Fucking talk about culture shock.

Then.

Finally.

Here.

46th and Judah.

The Outer Sunset.

The ends of the earth.

Just about as far West as one can go, give or take three blocks.

Three years ago September.

Of course I want to move.

A moving target is harder to hit.

No wonder I’ve been single so long.

Actually.

I have never dated more then since I moved here.

Ha!

Fuck moving!

What was I thinking?

Yes.

Fuck moving.

I’ll dye my hair instead.

Bwahahaha.

Anyway.

I have some time this weekend.

Want to hang out?

Hit me the fuck up.

Seriously.

Coffee?

Museum?

Making out.

Heh.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

 

God Damn!

June 6, 2016

She shouted as she got onto the beach.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” she squealed wrapping her bare arms around herself.

I chuckled inside.

I was wearing leggings, a long sleeve shirt dress, cardigan, and my hoodie, one of the four in my closet, yo.

Yeah.

I was rocking the flip flops, but I don’t like sand in my shoes, I get that enough at work with the boys when we go to the playground.

This is not, of course, the first time I have heard such an exclamation from some one getting off the N-Judah at the end of the line.

Welcome to the Sunset.

It’s fucking cold out here.

My heater is on.

Not on high, but it’s on.

I just got back in from my second, yes, second, bike ride of the day.

Neither one of them was real long, but they both got my heart rate up, and it was quite nice to come home to my cozy, good smelling, little home and turn up the heat a little to warm up the studio.

I was thinking today, why hasn’t some one started a sweatshirt stand out here?

I mean, seriously, I might make a mint.

Or you’d think San Fran Psycho would open a pop up or something at the end of the train line, just would hoodies and hats and probably some scarves.

They’d make bank.

I saw another gaggle of girls, who from the talk sounded like they were coming from the sacred inner city warmth of the Mission district, bleat like small lambs to the slaughter as the minced up the dunes toward the beach in bikinis and cut off shorts.

“It’s so cold!”

And repeat.

I had a nice little day in my neighborhood.

Despite waking up with dread on my chest like a weight of demise and ruin.

What the fuck?

I had a fantastic night last night, why the anxiety, the dread?

Well I know.

I have that thing upstairs that likes to ruin shit for me, my brain, that is.

So.

I just did what I do best.

The next thing in front of me.

And a lot of writing this morning.

I finished up my notebook that I bought in Paris at the Palais de Tokyo over Christmas when I was there visiting.

I opened up my Brooklyn notebook.

Or I suppose, I should say, my New York notebook.

Which I had bought when my friend and I hit the Strand.

A very dangerous place for me to be considering my fondness for the written word.

I did get sucked in, I did, until I realized that I could buy any and all of the books that I had in my hand in San Francisco, and that the weight of the books would not be fun in my suitcase on the way home.

I bought, rather, notebooks, some stickers, a magnet, and today I opened up one of those notebooks.

It was the one I had started when I was staying at the Air BnB in Clinton Hill.

The one that I slapped the Gorilla Coffee sticker on.

I also, happily, glue sticked my Paul Simon ticket from last night’s show in there too.

I have ticket stubs from the Brooklyn Museum, the MOMA, the New Whitney.

A postcard I got at the MOMA of a Warhol Marilyn with a pink background.

Stickers from the Brooklyn Museum.

The business card, which was really a clever word balloon cut from a book, from the art studio I got the private tour of, Doug Beube, as well as the business card from Mat Moreno [sic] which looks like a Metro card, who gave me the tattoo at Three Kings Tattoo in Green Pointe.

I also have their sticker.

There’s a few other things in there and I am always so grateful that I do that, scrap book a little, they are sweet, small tokens of my time.

So.

Yes.

Lots of writing.

Then some phone calls to my people.

It always helps to just drop a message and say, I know I’m being crazy, my brain wants me to have things to do, stuff to ruminate on, all I have to do today is show up to the 7:30 p.m. thing up at St. Gabe’s and just take the rest of the day as it comes.

One moment at at time.

And it all works out.

I think, no, I know, God damn it, I am getting old, that part of my unease was sleeping in as “late” as I did.

Gah.

I remember sleeping until 5p.m. before and rushing to get myself to the bar to work by 6p.m.

Not any more.

10 a.m. is sleeping in.

10:30 a.m.

Fuck.

That’s heresy.

I screwed my whole day.

That was the story, oh fuck off narrative, I was telling myself, I had wasted the day already, even before it had begun.

Might as well just make it a rotten one.

Wait.

Stop.

Pause.

Breathe.

Pray.

Try again.

Call another person.

Ask how they are doing.

Go buy some groceries up the street.

Then.

Oh.

Novel idea.

Cook the food.

Ha.

I actually made a really fucking delicious dish today, I haven’t made it in a long time and I must be craving something, because it was calling.

Basically I made a sort of stew.

Turmeric seasoned brown rice with a little olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper.

And.

Chicken, shrimp, and mussels sauteed in their own juices with a little garlic, chopped onion, Basil, Oregano, Parsley, lots of sea salt, I like things salty, ahem.

Then I threw in four green zucchinis chopped up with a can of black olives and some crushed tomatoes and let it simmer in the pot on the stove.

It was hella good.

I froze some and put up the rest for meals at work this week.

Love taking care of myself.

Although.

There, it snuck in, for just a moment, man I wish I was cooking for someone.

Ok now.

Stop it.

I hate this trope my disease likes to throw out.

It has not been working for me lately though, I’m like, over you, shut up, move on, been there, done that.

I recalled my conversation with my friend last night after the Paul Simon show and how sometimes the solution is just to do some fucking exercise.

Yes.

Hop on the bike.

I took a short bicycle ride and felt much better.

And.

Yes.

There is an afternoon yoga class.

Sign up for it.

Ok.

And fuck it.

So what if it’s grey, take a walk to the beach.

I was on the beach for an hour, talked with the moms for a half hour, did my daughterly duties, and then I collect sand dollars like pennies from heaven.

Seriously.

I have never found so many whole sand dollars on a walk on the beach.

I could set up a sand dollar and sweat shirt shop on the beach if I don’t make it through grad school.

She sells seashells by the seashore.

I found nine or ten and some pretty stones and sea glass.

I picked out the ones that pleased me the most and put the rest back for some one else to happily discover.

I got back here.

Hopped into my yoga clothes.

Got on the mat and got happy.

Then a hot shower, God, I swear, is a hot shower.

And.

Dinner was a repeat of the delicious.

Then, yeah, fuck it, ride the bike up to St. Gabe’s.

And like that.

My day.

Two bike rides, cooking, writing, long walk on the beach, ahem, collecting shells (yeah, I am a girl like that, shut up), yoga, and doing the deal.

Even when my head tells me, lies to me really, that my life is not enough.

It so obviously is.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

 

Warm and cozy.

Down by the sea.

Wrapped up in my music and the love of the day.

Nigh y’all.

Happy Sunday.

It was smashing.

Seriously.

Hello Friday

May 28, 2016

Hello three day weekend.

Yay.

I earned it.

Even with it being a short week at work, it was crazy.

Cookie monster crazy.

The littlest guy turns four this weekend and I was the cookie making queen.

I made cookies for the birthday part, I’m not sure how many dozens, but it was a lot.

“You have such self-will,” the mom said, in awe as I slid the hot cookies off the spatula onto the lined counters to cool off.

I’m not so sure about that.

I think that’s called self-will run riot.

I have no self-control.

Hence.

Alcoholic.

Hence.

Addict.

Hence just give me fucking more.

More attention, more sex, more money, more attention, wait, I already said that, more please.

Are you thinking about me?

Why aren’t you thinking about me?

I don’t think you’re thinking about me enough.

Bwahahahaha.

Fuck my mother.

My brain is the lotus of the crazy, but fortunately, I know I’m crazy.

“You got to watch for the ones who don’t think they’re insane,” a person once told me.

Yup.

I know I’m crazy.

And I’m completely cool with it.

I’m exactly the person I’m suppose to be and I have a solution for the crazy.

Some folks do different things than I do and that’s cool too, I just do what works for me, eleven and a half years in, it seems to be doing just fine.

I don’t have to be perfect.

Thank fucking God.

And I have no will power, the choice was just taken from me and I’m fine with that too, if I thought I had some control over things I would still be out there trying to figure it out.

Figure it out works for shit.

I can still fall into it.

I fell into a little today.

But.

I called my person and confirmed that we were meeting this weekend, I get to see two of my people this weekend, because this crazy takes a village, and I’m super psyched for that.

I also have a coffee date with a friend of mine from school on Sunday at Trouble.

Because who doesn’t want to get into a little Trouble now and then.

I know I do.

Saturday and Sunday I got plans.

Monday not so much.

One commitment in the evening.

I’m debating a few things.

I may go to the new MOMA.

I have heard such good things about the new space and I have missed not being able to go to it for the last few years that it has been closed for renovation.

I’m also debating getting a membership.

I have had one a number of times.

It’s handy.

Plus.

I can get into the Guggenheim, the LACMA, the New Whitney, the MOCA, and the MOMA in New York with the membership.

Not that I have any more travel plans right now, but who knows what the year will bring.

I mean.

I didn’t make it to the Guggenheim this past trip.

Plus.

With the membership at the MOMA I can get another person in with me free.

The last time I was at the MOMA, I just realized was on my seven year anniversary.

I went and got this little chip with a friend at a spot in the Mission, the she and I went to the MOMA and walked through the exhibits.

That was four years ago.

Crazy so much has happened in that time.

The year or so I worked at the bicycle shop.

The six months I lived in Paris.

The not knowing what I was doing and just continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

The high school twentieth reunion.

The amends to my grandmother, my mother, my father, my sister.

All the traveling.

All the Burning Man.

All the life I have lived.

The uncertainties and the fears and showing up with bravery.

Walking through the fear and discovering yet more untapped sources of courage.

“Men of faith have courage,” it says somewhere, I don’t remember where, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

I have great faith.

I have walked through so much fear.

Graduate school anyone?

New jobs.

Boyfriends.

Ex-boyfriends.

Break ups.

The almost was but never was unrequited romantic love.

“Who’s he,” the oldest boy asked.

“A friend,” I said, slightly wistful, but my, so nice to not have the sadness and the stabbing ache that I used to have when I looked at those photographs of our Paris trip.

Growth.

Change.

Love.

Life.

Friday.

The day of the week where I actually set my alarm a little early to go to yoga in the morning before I meet up with my person at Tart to Tart.

I have my alarm set.

I’ll making the commitment to myself to go to the 9 a.m. class.

Then the doing the deal and maybe hitting up a spot at 7th and Irving.

And then, well the day will be mine.

No plans for tomorrow afternoon either.

“How’s the head,” he asked, after I had calmly rattled off the things happening at work.

I laughed, “oh it’s crazy, but really it just comes down to not getting what I want in the time frame that I want it, that’s all.”

Sex.

Relationships.

Love.

I’d like to wrap that all up in one neat package.

But the fact is, again I come back to it, I don’t need a person to complete me, although a compliment is nice, it’s just that thing I can get focused on when I feel uncomfortable with the idea of having down time.

I can get myself all booked up and busy and make busy and make like I don’t have feelings or a great big bloody heart on my sleeve.

Actually.

It’s not bloody at all.

My heart tattoo has healed up quite nicely.

No.

Today I’m not beating my heart against anything.

My life, perfectly imperfect, my heart beat, a hot flush of rose fire, beats just fine.

There is nothing wrong.

There are no problems.

Only opportunities to learn.

To grow.

To change.

To love a little more.

Because ultimately.

That’s the only thing that I really need more of.

Love.

Love.

Only.

That.

Love.

Back to Back

May 10, 2016

Sleep overs?

Yes please.

Last night one of my best friends from school slept over.

Yes.

That’s right.

I had a girls slumber party.

There was so much talking.

OMG.

I actually can’t quite believe how much we talked, and that we could have continued to talk the entire night away.

We had our last day of the school year yesterday and went out for sushi to celebrate.

Mmmm.

Sushi.

So very good.

There had been previous talk about things we could do since she doesn’t live in the city, in fact commutes into the city for school from out of town.

The effort that some take just to show up is amazing.

Never fails to put me in a place of awe and humility, especially since I can bitch and moan about having to commute from the Outer Sunset to the Mission for work.

Speaking of which.

Still no response from the SFMTA in regards to replacing my parking permit for the scooter.

Boo hiss.

I sent them another e-mail this morning and rode my scooter to work anyway.

I did not, however, park on the block where I work.

Rather I found some metered parking for motorcycles on Valencia between 20th and 21st.

I paid for the whole day and left her there.

I may wait until next week to deal with going down to the SFMTA.

I have too much homework yet to tackle before I want to give up precious time in my day to go stand in line for the replacement permit.

Especially if there is any problem getting it issued.

Anyway.

It will get taken care of.

All in due time.

But first.

The homework.

I have it outlined in my head what I need to do and I know it will all get done.

Nothing tonight.

And that’s fine.

And nothing this morning.

Like I said we were up late chatting and talking and connecting and being “girls.”

So good.

And.

Oops.

I forgot to set my alarm!

Not a big deal, I only slept fifteen minutes past my alarm, but I feel pretty lucky that I woke up, the morning was grey and when it’s overcast and grey I don’t always wake up without the alarm.

Normally the sun will wake me up.

Not so today.

So I am super glad that I was up.

I could have slept the day away.

I was actually going back to sleep, the grey had me fooled, when a little internal voice said, just look at the time.

Oh.

Damn.

Oops.

Looks like I forgot to turn on the alarm.

And.

Oh.

Heh.

Ding dong.

My second over night slumber party has just arrived.

And.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Heh.

Bye.

 

Date Night!

March 20, 2016

I jest.

Work night is more like it.

Being tired night can be included in that.

Why am I at work night should be the title to this blog.

Because that’s where I am.

Le sigh.

It does not happen often that I am here on the weekend and it will not happen again this semester.

I feel a little bit broken.

I realized, on Sunday, as I was sitting in my last class of the day that I had unconsciously, oh what would Freud say about that, sabotaged myself into working thirteen days in a row with one day off and then another five days of work before I had my two day weekend.

Ugh.

Carmen.

I met with my person today.

And no!

Fuck.

We did not finish my inventory.

The lady is having me go deep.

DEEP.

It’s been a little painful, plus I’m sick, let’s just not beat around the bush, I haven’t been running at full speed, it’s not debilitating but it certainly feels vulnerable when I am sick and it’s usually when I am better that I realize how sick I have been.

Or when someone points it out right in front of you.

“Oh, you’re sick,” she said, “ok, we’re going to go easy.”

And did we go easy?

Nope.

But.

Ah.

I got some stuff out.

All the stuff that just does not serve and she promised we would finish next week and I believe her.

But when she asked about today and the working, then added: “how do you feel about that?”

I burst into tears.

Um.

I didn’t see that coming.

And that indicates to me that I am sicker than I am letting on.

So this has been a very take it easy sort of day.

I left the scooter at home, took a car to Tart to Tart, then another to the Mission after doing the deal for awhile.

I also got a manicure and a pedicure and chatted with a girl friend I’d lost a little touch with since she’s moved to the East Bay.

“It’s so affordable over here!” She told me.

Yeah.

I hear that.

I’m pretty damn lucky to still be here.

My driver today asked how long I’ve lived in San Francisco and I’m coming up on fourteen years!

It’s a pretty great run.

I found myself a little overwhelmed though, in the Mission.

It’s changed a lot and I know that and I am here all the time and I work here and I commute here and yet, wow, I just got such an eye full and ear full and the bustle and the weird, well, to me, it’s weird, tourists and gawkers and destination people and the conversations and the money.

Whoa.

There is some money on parade here.

Especially on the weekends.

I mean.

I know that I am in it consistently, but I’m here when the work week is happening and I don’t interact with the community the same way.

Hell.

Who am I kidding.

It was not community that I was interacting with today.

Not that I had much interaction, it was mostly observation.

I am pretty happy that I am not living down in this area anymore, despite occasional longings for a shorter commute to and from work and school.

I never thought I would say that.

I always thought I would wind up in a house in the Mission.

Perhaps not.

Of course, there is plenty here that is still good and awesome.

I was just a bit overwhelmed with it and remembered with a lot of nostalgia what it was like the first few times I hung out here and ate here and went to bars and night clubs and danced and shot pool and played poker in the back room at Dalva.

Long soaks in the hot tub at Osento.

I still, once in a while, think, oh, I should go to Osento then realize it’s been closed for years.

Things change.

And that’s ok.

I don’t have to bemoan it or belittle it either.

It was nice to go to dinner with my boys and we went to Tacolicious and were waited on hand and foot and it would have perhaps mortified me to be there in another lifetime, but in this one I was being paid to eat out with the two most handsome little guys ever.

And.

When I was with the boys, I didn’t notice the hoi poi and the hulllabaloo and the commerce and the scene and be seen.

I just enjoyed walking along a street, Valencia, that I have walked down many, many, many times before, remember New College?

Remember when Ritual opened?

I do, I was there day one, third latte of the day.  Same for Four Barrel, before they were open, grabbing coffees from the back of the store where the roasters were.

Remember the KFC!

A street where I have played and worked and sat in cafes.

A street I have written blogs on, poetry on, had sex on, well not on the street itself and now that I think about it, ha!  No.  I have hooked up on Valencia.

Heh.

Anyway.

I digress and yes, this lady is a little tired.

So.

Movie night the rest of the night and some hot tea and just sitting back until the parents get home.

Then a ride out to my home, my sweet, quiet, laid back, sleepy little studio.

Down by the sea.

But still, yes, still.

In San Francisco.

Where my heart lives.

Where I wear my flowers in my hair.

Where else, would I be?

Well.

Burning Man.

But that’s another blog.

 

Oh Hello

March 19, 2016

I said to my house with distinct pleasure when I walked in the door just a few minutes ago.

I had forgotten, completely, that I had got down on the house before work today.

Scrubbed the bathroom, swept the floors, dusted, took all the trash out, did the recycling, swiffered the floors, fuck, I even vacuumed.

It was sparkling when I came home and such a nice surprise.

I did a lot of things before work today.

Like.

Yes.

I sent in my amended tax statement.

I should be getting back $805 for the penalty I paid but turns out I didn’t need to.

It will take about three weeks to process.

I’m sure it will take longer than that and I don’t care, I’m not financially in straits, it just was a really good feeling, dare I say, adult, to print off the forms, sign them, affix the appropriate paper work to the form, seal them up in an envelope and drop it in the mail box.

I did not sit on it at all.

I took that bitch right out to the mailbox and mailed it.

I also went grocery shopping and sat down for a moment at the little parklet by the store and wrote out my mom a card.

Just because it’s nice to send mom a card once in a while and I was thinking about her.

I got back from the grocery store and had a half hour to “kill” before work.

I decided that since I’m working again tomorrow, four hours of active duty and then five hours when the boys will be sleeping, good excuse to work on my homework, maybe write that little two page paper I need to do for Multi-Culture class.

Oh.

Fuck.

I have to post to the fucking Applied Spirituality forum.

God damn it.

As you may have cottoned to.

I don’t like this class and I don’t often feel very spiritual about it when I think of the work that I am supposed to do.

But.

I get to do it and it’s due tomorrow?

Ack.

I better check that.

I could be due tonight.

Grrr.

Anyway, I can sort that out after I finish writing this blog.

I got my house clean because I knew it was the best thing to do.

And I am glad I did.

I am busy tomorrow.

I am meeting with my person and finishing reading her my inventory.

Then some lunch, a little lady time, mani/pedi.

Then off to the Mission.

I may have a few minutes to kick it around the hood.

I may not.

I have to be there at 5p.m.

I’m working until 2 a.m.

Then I have a ladybug coming over to do some doing the deal on Sunday at 1p.m.

And.

Heh.

I may have a date.

Not a Tinder date either.

(Oh so many “Nopes”)

I have been using the app but not so much action seems to be coming from it, but the Universe does seem to hear me say, hey I’m single and sexy and available for pursuing.

Let’s have fun.

That’s all this is about.

Having fun.

If it’s not fun, fuck it.

I’m not interested.

I don’t have enough time.

I do have time for hanging out and having a good time.

He’s going to call me on Sunday.

See that’s the nice thing.

We have already established that there is chemistry.

We did that when we exchanged phone numbers a couple of weeks ago.

He knew I was in school last weekend and working this week, but when he saw me he asked what I was doing this weekend and the possible time slot I was perhaps setting aside for a maybe Tinder date is now being held for him.

Which is nice.

Already know what he looks like and his age and his smile and I can say reality is a much nicer thing than a swipe on a phone.

That being said.

I will keep on keeping on.

As I was told.

There’s nothing wrong with the app, what needs to change is you.

Yup.

Change.

The only thing I can count on.

Change.

I have changed so much.

It really does amaze me and when I was riding up Lincoln today with a song in my heart, the trees in the park, the flowers blooming, the red tail hawk soaring, I felt uplifted and grateful and just fucking amazed at this life I have.

I have an amazing life.

I live in San Francisco.

I have great tattoos.

I have a scooter that’s completely paid in full.

I have a place to live that I can afford.

In San Francisco, let me repeat, afford.

(Although once in a while I still kick myself for turning down the Junior One Bedroom Studio on Valencia at 21st.  Oh how sweet would my commute be?  OH how cheap my rent would be.  It was $850 when I looked at it.  I turned it down because I thought the carpet was nasty and I wanted to explore living somewhere other than the Mission. D’oh!)

I am in graduate school.

I am doing well in graduate school.

I get to go to Burning Man.

For my tenth year in a row–a decade at Burning Man and no Burning Man tattoo, not that I am opposed to one but the Man symbol has never done it for me.

I get to go to New York in May and have a place to stay at a friends house in Brooklyn.

All these things.

And so much more.

Filtered through my heart, dripped down into my heart, and I breathed and laughed and could have cried, but I was scootering and didn’t want my vision impaired, so I held it down a little, but yeah, I was the girl on the scooter laughing with joy this afternoon.

Sometimes.

It just hits me and I am overwhelmed with the love and the living and all the fabulous things I get to do.

Even my Applied Spirituality class.

I get to do this.

I get to have these experiences.

Rock on life.

Let’s have a fan-fucking-tastic weekend.

Right.

 

You Needed A New

January 27, 2016

Cog.

Huh.

I never would have guessed that.

And in my own perverse little way.

I am a little proud of that.

I have ridden my bicycle so often and for so long that I basically had worn down the teeth of the rear cog and that was why my chain was slipping and my crank wasn’t turning.

Brava!

I mean.

I have had the bicycle for three and a half years.

But the last two years, living in the Outer Sunset, bicycle commuting to the Mission five days a week, putting in over thirteen miles a day, usually 14, sometimes 15, why, of course I had worn out my cog.

Damn Gina.

The shop also fixed the flat and actually replaced the tube for free considering that there was no evidence on my tire that I had punctured it, fault lay with the shop and they took care of it promptly.

It was nice to have my wheels back under me.

Especially after the shared Uber ride into work.

My God.

I don’t mind the sharing the resource, I don’t mind going out of my way a little bit to get from here to there–I like to think of it as taking the scenic route.

However.

I am scent sensitive.

No shut up.

I’m not being a fucking pussy about this.

There are two smells that really make me feel like I am going to vomit and I got both of them today.

The first was from an middle age woman with a bad bed head do and an obvious hangover.

The smell of alcohol was not so bad, yeah, I gagged a bit from it when she turned and asked if she could recline the front seat, um, ok?

But it was the smell of cigarettes.

Deep, dirty, skin yellow, brown in the wrinkles of the fingers, nicotine stained.

It was like driving with a sack of formaldehyde.

She reclined her seat, put in ear buds, popped on her sunglasses and fell asleep in the front seat.

The second passenger, though much more dapper and clean, was not a bouquet or roses either.

Nope.

He was a big smelly sack of raw onions.

I mean.

Fuck.

It was like he’d just eaten a raw onion sandwich and then shoved a few shallots under his arm pits.

I was like.

Dude.

The window went down and I got some fresh air, but it was a tasty ride.

So different to be on my bicycle, in the dark night, whistling through the Pan Handle, the rich smell of just turned dirt and the bark of eucalyptus trees.

The smell of evergreens in Golden Gate Park.

And the spot, the one spot, close to the De Young Museum, where Fenugreek must grow–the delicious smell of maple syrup always wafts out at me from the bushes, I invariably think about bacon, the skillet breakfast at a O’Malley’s in Waunakee where the family would go every once in a while for a Sunday breakfast, and waffles.

I could ride back and forth that little bridge a 100 times just to get to smell that again.

But I am too concerned with getting home, the whisk of my pedals beating the air and the sound of the waterfall splashing over Storybrook Crossing keeps me company.

A few critters, who though did not smell as bad as my companions from this afternoons ride, nonetheless, were not to be messed with.

A big rambling raccoon, that startled me in the grass as I turned onto Chain of Lakes and my front light hit his masked face.

And the dog, wait, what the hell, that dog is going to get schmucked crossing Lincoln, I should stop and scoop it up and.

Oh no.

That’s not a dog.

That’s a skunk.

I whipped past and watched the little critter scurry into the underbrush.

Lots of critters out and about.

I thought, as I rode, about how long I’ve been riding my bicycle, riding bicycles in general, in San Francisco.

I have bicycle commuted from the Mission to jobs in the Mission.

I remember, with much fondness the five minute commute I had for a year and a half when I worked at Mission Bicycle Company on Valencia and 18th.

I lived at Folsom and 23rd.

It was such a sweet commute.

I have commuted from the Bayview to the Mission–Palou and Third to 18th and Alabama.

I have commuted from Nob Hill to China Basin and Noe Valley.

I have commuted from Nob Hill to the Mission.

You may see a pattern here.

I do a lot of work in the Mission.

I have commuted from the Outer Sunset to Cole Valley, NOPA, and the Castro.

But the commute I have now, is the longest.

I also, briefly, for a few months when I was in transition and staying out in East Oakland (EAST not West, thank you very much) commuted from 51st and International to North Berkeley.

Yeah.

Like that.

I had some interesting rides.

The prominent scent was not Fenugreek however.

Although it did have a sweet, sickly smell to it, it was not a natural smell.

Nothing says good times like rolling through the valley of crack and prostitution on your way to nanny.

I have ridden a bike up to Twin Peaks.

I have ridden more than one century–that’s a 100 miles–though not for a while now.

I have ridden through parts of the Bay View that I don’t even think people now exist.

I have seen things.

I have been seen as well.

I whistled at a pedestrian about to walk into the street against the light as I was crossing Divisadero on Fell Street.

“Whoa!” He said, “thanks!”

Then, without much thought, he said rather loudly, “holy shit! You’re beautiful!”

Thanks man.

That’s always nice to hear.

Can’t say my ego minds.

Most of the time, though, it’s just me and the bicycle and my thoughts, which fortunately are usually not too loud, I’m in my body when I am on my bicycle, even when the knees hurt and the hips are a little tight and my bag was heavy with stuff tonight, I am in my body and alive.

It really is a gift.

I love my bicycle.

I really do.


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