Posts Tagged ‘the music of the spheres’

Getting Laughed At

January 20, 2017

Carried my umbrella all day long.

Did it rain?

No.

Is it going to rain gangbusters the next few days.

Yes.

Was it supposed to today?

No, and I prepared to ride my scooter out into the great big blue sky that was finally peeking through the grey clouds.

I emptied out my bag, transferred gear to the appropriate spots and got my riding jacket out, I took the cover off my scooter and came in to sit down to do some writing and have another cup of coffee before heading out into the day.

Then.

What the fuck?

Down pour.

Deluge.

The sky got dark, it happened super fast, and the rain just flooded down.

Um.

Ha.

I guess I’m not going to ride my scooter in this mess.

I went back outside and put the cover back on my scooter, getting a bit wet in the sudden onslaught of weather, secured the cover, came back in, transferred all my gear into different bags, hung my scooter jacket up.

I finished my coffee.

Finished my writing.

I got out my phone and saw that I wouldn’t have time to catch the train, so I sent for a car, grabbed my umbrella and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Hmm.

Well, fuck, it stopped.

But the forecast was saying it was going to start back up early evening and did I want to be on the scooter in the dark and the rain?

I patted my scooter cover and waited for the car to pick me up.

No rain.

All day long.

Oh, it’ll be back, but it made me laugh, plans, I make them, God laughs at them, here, a change of plans.

Hey, here a change of careers.

Oh, wait, no, try this, go here, do that.

Oh hey, dating?

How do you like them apples?

Fuck I suck at all this living, all these things.

Plans, plans, plans.

Plans don’t save me.

Managing my life so that I am safe and secure doesn’t work.

I can’t control the outcome.

The MUNI.

The weather.

None of it.

But I can show up to it without expectation, anger, resentments.

And that is something really lovely.

Like.

I don’t know what the weekend has planned and I’m actually trying to not plan anything.

Tea and conversation with a lady this Sunday.

A tattoo after that.

Yes.

I will be adding star number 12.

I have it narrowed down to one of two places.

But that’s it.

My person is out-of-town this weekend, so we won’t be meeting and all the rain, rain, rain, well, I have no idea.

And I tire of plans.

Fuck the plans.

Fuck my expectations and desires and wants.

My needs are amply, and then more, met.

I have everything I need.

And.

More.

I have a lot more.

Grateful for all the gifts.

All of them.

Perspective.

Better than a plan any day.

Bravery.

Sounds like courage and walking through fear when my plans don’t go my way.

Faith.

Belief that something has a better plan than I do.

Love.

That I am loved even when my plans are stupid and short-sighted.

Joy.

I am allowed to have fun, despite my best laid plans.

Hope.

That someone else has a better idea than I do how I should live my life.

Happiness.

That none of my plans matter anyway, I can be happy no matter what, no matter where, no matter how.

You catch my drift.

I want to let in some time to be spontaneous, to say yes, to say ok, I’ll show up to that.

I don’t know yet what “that” is, but I’m saying yes.

Because so often I want to say no.

Nope.

Don’t do that, don’t give me that, I don’t deserve it.

Don’t love me, I’m not enough.

No, really, I am fine on my own, I’m good.

I got this.

Hahahahahaha.

Oh.

Yeah.

I got this.

Heh.

So funny.

But in that knowing, maybe there is something, a small inkling of relief, sotte voce of the stars, the music of the spheres and the poetry of language pushing out of my heart, blowing the top of my head off with hot-house flowers of desire and bespoke romance.

I’m doing pretty damn good.

Just hanging on the corner laughing at the inside jokes I tell myself.

Insight, roses in the tall Mason jar on my table, cuddled up close to a lighted globe of incandescent love and desire, traveling all over, a map of longitudinal lust and lush tales from the wide Sargasso Sea.

I swim in this blue-green firmament.

I am home.

I am in my heart.

My arms await me.

Don’t forget to water the orchids tomorrow, I whisper in my ear, and then laugh.

Always so practical minded.

Yet.

They bring me a sense of constant renewal.

An acknowledgement that extraordinary beauty opens slowly, takes time, that the unfurling is just as exquisite as the full bloom.

That stunning flowers can come from bare and barren sticks.

The green leaves signs of plenty of life.

Water them, let them go, don’t have plans, give it to God.

And when you’re least expecting.

Flowers, buds, burgeoning growth where there was none before.

Don’t force the flowering.

Leave it be.

Let it grow.

Have dreams, aspirations, hopes.

Have faith.

But fuck your plans.

They are so limiting.

At least, let me speak for myself, because ultimately that is the only person I speak to and speak for, my plans are so limiting.

There is so much more.

Allow yourself to have it.

I stand where the light is pure.

The moon is on fire.

My hand upon the door.

I’m burning like a white wire.

It’s an inside job.

But.

It’s a job I’m grateful to show up for.

Day after day after day.

One fucking day at a time.

Doing the God

Damn.

Deal.

Get it.

Got it.

Good.

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Well, Your Man Won’t Dance

January 13, 2016

But I will.

Oh.

My.

God.

Total nerdgasm.

I was meeting my person at Church Street Cafe this evening after work, grabbing a tea, just about to turn off my phone and I see a little notice on my Instagram feed.

Mike Doughty just liked your photo.

Followed by.

Mike Doughty is now following you.

What?!

Fuck me.

Wet panties.

Wet.

I am a dork.

I admit it.

I saw that man up front and personal when I was a wee lass, at the Eagles Ballroom in Milwaukee when Soul Coughing was on tour for Ruby Vroom.

I saw him solo at Cafe Montmartre in Madison and I talked to him, briefly about maybe booking a gig at the Angelic Brewing Company.

I remember one of my friends, a co-worker, was so in love with him and screamed out his name and belted out his lyrics, then in a hushed moment declared her unending love and the fact that she was high on mushrooms.

He heckled her so hard she left out of pure mortification.

I saw him back a couple of years ago at The Fillmore when he was playing the Ruby Vroom album pretty much solo and I just finished reading his memoir and like a dork, really thought hard about bringing it with and asking for an autograph.

I didn’t.

But.

I did get my own form of mortification.

I was right up front with my man Stark Raving Brad and our mutual friend Dirty was somewhere out there too with another friend, and I was bobbing along to a solo acoustic rendition of Janine when Doughty changed up the lyrics and said “Edna St. Vincent Millay” instead of the ┬áradio announcer’s name and I whooped out acknowledgement.

He startled, obviously surprised that anyone got the reference.

Secret.

Shhh.

I won a gold medal at an 8th grade forensics meet in Wisconsin when I was at DeForest Middle school reciting a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

She’s my kind of woman.

And Mike.

Well.

Gah.

He gave me a nod and a smile.

I wanted to sink below the floor.

Or give him a blow job.

Heh.

He got me through the sads in Paris I must have listened to Yes, And Also Yes until I knew every single song back and forth.

It was a part of my soundtrack.

It still is.

I have it on the stereo right now.

Just a little hero worship.

Or.

Maybe some day we’ll meet.

Love, love made them beautiful at last.

She doesn’t fall in love, she takes hostages.

Let me take you hostage, baby.

Your new song can be 27 Carmens.

Instead of 27 Jennifers.

Bwahahaha.

Oh.

Gack.

I think the closest I have ever gotten to being a douche, but I reframed was when I saw Pete Yorn in the hotel bar at the W down on Mission and 3rd.

I bought him a drink and sent it over to his table.

He had some tiny, skinny, glam doll draped over him and they were both slunk so low down in the chair you could barely tell it was him.

But it was.

I asked the waitress and she nodded.

“Send his next drink from me, but you don’t have to tell him, just a fan,” I said.

Then.

“I mean, I owe the man a few drinks when I think about all the sex I had to Music For The Morning After.”

Then I got good and wasted myself.

Not so much anymore.

The days were darker then.

Not so now.

“You’re on your watch tonight, aren’t you,” he said to me from the deep brown leather chair in the front window of the Church Street Cafe.

I am.

One hour and thirty minutes.

Unless I get some crazy hair up my ass and run over to the 7-11.

I’ll buy a bunch of PowerBall tickets, a bottle or fifteen and then go throw myself in the ocean because my life will effectively be over.

Nah.

I think I’ll stay in.

And do what I did last year.

Drink a cup of tea and say some prayers of grace and thanks and let the clock roll over to midnight and then get on my knees and cry a little out of gratitude.

You know.

No biggie.

Just eleven years of being happy, joyous, and free.

And.

Sometimes depressed, wrecked, ravished, ravaged, and lost.

But never fucked up like I used to be.

No.

Never.

Sometimes so overwhelmed with sorrow that I think I will break.

“Does it bother you that I talk so flippantly about him,” my person paused, looking at me with piercing eyes, gentle, but probing.

“No, it’s ok,” I said.

And it is.

I think he would be proud of me.

“You aren’t going to relapse,” he said, “please, that’s just not in your stars.”

Not so far.

Your love is ghost.

But I still remember the kiss you gave me on that night sitting in the front row at Our Lady of SafeWay on a Friday evening.

You wrapped your arm around my shoulder and pulled me close and kissed my forehead.

I won’t ever forget that kiss.

Or.

The glow of you that last night I saw you alive.

I will always remember.

My dark star.

My heart.

I know how proud you would be of me.

I know how proud you are of me.

I hope you and Bowie are out on the dance floor together.

Toasting our souls with ginger ale.

I heard you whisper, “be the ball, Martines,” to me the other day when I was re-arranging the postcards hanging from my mobile.

I was putting up one I had forgotten I had sent myself from Paris.

On Christmas day from the Pompidou, I ransacked the gift shop and bought a cloth sack, a notebook, two magnets–one of the Pompidou and one of a Mark Rothko I really liked–and postcards.

I had written myself a note, one of congratulations for having made it through a blue period, I think Christmas Eve was the only night I thought I might die of heart ache and sorrow, but I knew, from having walked through it before that I would again.

And.

I did.

And it was Christmas and I was high on art in the Pompidou.

I bought a blue on blue on blue postcard of dense indigo; a smash of rich monochrome, super saturated, intense color.

I got that postcard in the mail, read it, and spun the mobile, looking for a place to clip it.

And there it was.

My post card from Hallowell, Maine.

The one I sent myself the Christmas I went to Maine to stay with your family, their first Christmas without you.

I heard your voice, “be the ball, Martines.”

Yes.

I think I will.

Year eleven.

I hereby declare is the year of being the ball.

The belle of the ball.

The apple of your eye.

The ball to be watched.

The ball to be chased.

Because.

I’m done doing the pursuing.

I am enough.

He knew.

He knew so many years before I did.

Mike Doughty knows.

He liked my street art photos from the Marais.

He’s following me.

Who knows who else will.

This is my miracle year.

I just fucking know it.

Like the clarion ring of a soft finger stroking the string on the neck of a guitar.

It resounds within.

Clear as a bell.

These.

Natural harmonics.

This singing of the spheres.

The lightness in my heart.

This divine glow of love all around me.

All.

Around.

Me.

This.

Love.

 


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