Posts Tagged ‘The Moth’

Long Legs

February 24, 2015

Long day.

“Look at your legs!” The kid passing by me on his fixie shouted.

“Thanks, I’m twice your age, I don’t think I can keep up,” I shouted back.

He had whipped past me and gone up the right side of the flow of cars crossing Market Street at Church.

I, having discovered, weeks ago during my commute, that unless there’s a MUNI train screaming behind me, to take the far left lane that is specifically only MUNI and taxis–thereby avoiding the commuting traffic at Church and Market and also the drivers turning in and out of SafeWay.

“What the fuck?” The kid saw me angle left and whip around the N-Judah that was waiting to cross over to Duboce.  “How did you do that?!  Sneaky lady!”

I laughed.

I got to have some tricks up my sleeves.

“You’re not twice my age, no way,” the kid replied.

He was right.

I’m 42 and he was 32.

Still.

That’s ten years and I worked a 9 hour day today.

My 42-year-old legs, though lovely to look upon whilst riding my one speed from the Mission to the Outer Sunset, were tired.

Monday’s are always a busy day, a long day, full of stuff and things and work, work, work.

But today there was the extra hectic of a grandparent visit, construction happening at the house and the house next door, visits from out-of-town friends, and swimming lessons.

Whew.

I was never once alone in the house.

Or at the park, grandparent’s tagged along on the outing in the morning.

Fortunately I have gotten used to interacting with a lot of people while working for this family and I feel like I can roll with the punches.

I generally keep a pretty good demeanor and keep myself occupied.

It does, however, mean I was unable to take phone calls, make phone calls or really respond to texts messages during the day.

I realized that I hadn’t talked to anyone outside of work until 6:30 p.m. tonight when I rolled up into the Inner Sunset.

I was grateful to sit and be quiet though, sometimes that’s all I need, I don’t need to check in, I just need to claim my seat and sit.

Then pedal my bicycle on out towards the beach and the smell of the ocean.

Monday’s always go by quick, I tell myself this when I am eating my morning oatmeal and drinking my coffee, waiting for the caffeine to hit while I write my morning pages.

I was writing this morning about how I feel a little stuck on the dating front, I exhausted my list of guys and I haven’t met anyone new online that is a good match and well, what now?

I had a friend suggest I go perform, or try to perform, at the Moth tomorrow night at Public Works.

I was tempted.

I even came up with a few ideas about a piece.

The topic?

Heartbreak.

Heh.

I thought I could tell a story about red flags.

And there’s some funny ones that have come up for me and I probably could tell a five-minute story on them.

Truth though.

I’m tired thinking about it.

I have a long week this week with the grandparents in town at work, and the graduate school interview on Thursday, and the scooter getting checked out on Wednesday night after work, and stuff and things that I normally do, plus a workshop that I agree to run on Saturday.

I mean.

Sitting here at my table this morning sipping coffee and my whole week is mapped out and I wonder, well, fuck, the next thing I know it’s going to be next Monday and the whole thing will start-up again.

I felt exhausted even before starting.

I shook it off.

I had a really lovely, relaxing, mellow day yesterday and I bank rolled that into today, keeping my spirits up, not getting involved in drama, doing my job, keeping my side of the street clean, and going to do my commitment.

That leaves little time in my day to write out an extra piece and practice it.

Anyway, the contemplation process was short and sweet.

Not this time.

I can and will make time to do things, I will, I thought, I have to, if I’m going to date I definitely have to.

There’s a balance and I know it can be struck.

But I am, really, fresh out of ideas for the dating thing.

Y’all have any suggestions throw them my way.

The best thing I can think is to not isolate, and yes, I know that going and doing something like the Moth would be a great social event to check out, I just find it a serious challenge to add extra things onto my week day evenings.

I will though.

If I have to.

I’m willing to do the work, but right now, I don’t even know what that is.

I like myself, natch.

I take good care of myself.

I try to look cute when I leave the house for work, you never know when someone might be looking, at the “those legs” or that hair.

Or the glasses.

I got a lot of compliments on the frames today.

I am quite pleased with them.

They are outside my box, and yet, a perfect fit for me.

So how to get outside the dating box?

I tried Tinder and that was just nasty.

I’m not having much luck on OkCupid.

Unless you count offers in Scranton.

Sorry dude.

I don’t want to date outside of San Francisco, let alone outside of California.

I asked out the ten.

I did get two dates out of that.

So cool.

But what next?

I really would like to just magically get asked out.

Ah.

Magical thinking.

Fucks me every time.

I used to have magical thinking around my weight.

Turns out I had to have a huge bottom around it, get broken down, and find spiritual help outside my own brain.

Basically, I had to do a lot of work.

I did the same with my finances.

I had to do a lot of work to get out debt, stay out of debt, and live prosperously (thanks Jerrold Mundis).

I know the same is applicable to dating.

“You know what’s been nice about this graduate school deal,” she told me on the phone yesterday, “it’s not fast and wild and crazy, it’s been a slow, serene process, where you’ve taken things a step at a time and let go of the results the entire time.  It’s been pretty amazing to watch it all unfold.”

I know that’s a correct assessment.

Those things worth having are worth working for.

I don’t mind doing the work.

That’s not the conundrum.

I don’t know what the work is anymore.

So, this week, unless I get some stellar suggestions about dating.

I’m going to focus on taking care of myself and doing the things that I need to do for graduate school and doing my job at work.

As well as doing the deal.

Which is a non-negotiable deal.

The dating will probably happen like every thing else.

When I am not paying attention to it.

I’ll get popped on the head, or in the heart.

And I’ll be off on another adventure.

Such is life.

My life anyway.

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.

Get Messy

January 5, 2014

She told me today.

Stop trying to be perfect.

Work on acceptance, read this one story here.

Write about what I want other people to think of me.

What?

No.

I don’t want to write about that.

Then write about what I want to get from them, what I want them to do, how do I want to look and what is my idea of who I am.

I tell you what, none of these are my idea of fun.

Fuck me.

However, I am ever willing to do the work.

Even when it means re-applying the eye make up and getting vulnerable.

Even when it means showing up to get hurt.

I am going to fail, you are going to fail me, no one is perfect, which means I don’t have to be perfect and if I want to be in an intimate relationship there’s going to be pain.

“I am willing to get hurt,” I said, and something shifted.

Holy shit.

I am willing to get hurt.

I mean I get hurt all the time, I go through pain, things happen, life shows up, people are not who I think they should be, I get expectations, and then something completely weird happens.

I just don’t know that I have been in a place before in my life or my recovery where I was able to vocalize that, I am willing to get hurt.

Most of the time I am working pretty hard to not get hurt, to not connect, to stay safe by playing it safe.

I say I want intimacy, then I run the other way, I get a little, A LOT, scared, then I don’t want to deal with it.

Today, for whatever reason I was able to say it and mean it and it went from head to heart to gut.

Now to get messy.

Not quite certain how that looks, but I feel like it means living and trying and making mistakes and yup doing things differently.

Maybe it’s time to try a new direction with my writing.

For instance.

Get me out of my shell a little.

Writing on one hand connects me with myself, a creative force, and with others, especially when I blog.

Yet, I am completely by myself when I am doing it.

I am alone.

Aside–pet peeve–“Yeah, I know, I read your blog.”

I am not my blog.

It has my voice and there is loads of me here, but I am more than the sum of these words and there are some things I don’t write about, or can’t write about, or frankly don’t care to write about.

I am more than this summation of ideas and images.

Oh, it’s all me, but it’s not all of me.

Social media creates a false idea of connectedness wherein we are all in our rooms peering into the well crafted lives of others on facebook and okcupid and tumbler and twitter and linkedin and whatever else that we do tweeting and poking and posting and liking and commenting.

However, despite knowing what you posted last night on your facebook feed, nice pix of your cat, FYI, I haven’t actually seen you since before I left for Paris, which was over a year ago, and you don’t actually know what’s going on in my life.

Nor I in yours.

Oh, I get a little peek, but I don’t get you and you don’t get me.

What was suggested to me was to check out The Moth, a storytelling event that arose out of New York and is now happening here in San Francisco, where basically you tell true stories out of your life.

I like the idea.

The next event is going to be held at the Rickshaw Stop on January 13th.

Which has some special meaning to me as an important anniversary in my life.

However, I will be in Florida celebrating with family, not in San Francisco.

The events are slams.

I have done slams and I like them.

True, they are nerve-wracking, but I seemed to do well and I believe I am a decent performer and maybe that I could try a little something outside my comfort zone.

Ie my blog.

Which I am not about to give up.

It was also suggested a writers group and or a class on performing.

Had not thought of doing that last one, but why not?

Things that I can do and be a part of a creative community, not just where I am sitting by myself in my room writing.

I am pretty good at sitting by myself in my room writing.

Things to do to get me out there, rather than in here.

Here being my head, my ideas about where, who, what, when, the list of all my shortcomings and I am not enough.

Because I am enough and I am willing to do the work.

I am shocked sometimes at those who are not and devastated to watch what happens when people drift away.

I cannot afford to drift.

I know where I will drift to and it is not a pretty place.

Softening to this way of life, easing into it, allowing myself to be hurt, risking the mess to get to be beautiful, accepting that I am exactly where I am, that I don’t have a good idea of what’s best for me and that it really is ok to accept that people love me and care for me and respect me and what I do.

Who I am.

That I can acknowledge and accept that as well.

Let in the love, so to speak.

So much to keep learning.

And re-learning.

Not even judging that this blog is drifting into self-affirmation, Stuart Smalley land.

So what?

I can be alright with that as well.

Tomorrow I get messy.

I make mistakes.

And I allow the light in.

I will write a story to tell the Moth and go to the website and record my bit.

I will try to do something new and let myself not be good at it.

And be perfect and happy in my silly self willing to get hurt to get love.

The love is the better for the pain.

Richer, deeper, fuller, sweeter.

All things I wish for in my life.

So get ready for messy.


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