Posts Tagged ‘the path’

It’s Official!

February 7, 2017

Hi Carmen,
It is my pleasure to officially offer you an internship at the Liberation Institute. It was wonderful meeting with you and I’ve no doubt that you’d be a great addition to our therapeutic community.
Next steps:
We need you to reply with one of the following answers:
– Yes, I officially accept! 

or

– No, I officially decline.

or

– I need more time to decide.

Please let me know if you’ll be joining us!
If you have questions or concerns, just let me know.
Thanks!
What do you think I said?
Ha.
Of course.
I said yes.
I said I “officially accept!”
And I did.
And it’s official.
I’m an intern.
Holy shit.
So nice to have this part of the journey out-of-the-way, I was much more anxious about it than I needed to be, so much more anxious, and for naught, it worked out perfect.
It was on God’s time.
Not mine.
In fact.
I hadn’t even had the Liberation Institute on my radar, I was going to go work for UCSF or one of the CIIS sites.
I had my plans.
God chuckled, and said, hey, what about over here?
I said, nah, I’ve got this.
Then I realized, as I do so often, that no, in fact, I do not have this and yes, actually, the Liberation Institute is indeed the place where I am supposed to be.
How may I fit myself to be of maximum service to my fellows?
And there it was.
After I responded yes and then text my two besties in the program and sharing the news, and yes, I did, I called my mom.
It’s nice to call your mom with the big news.
We had a good catch up chat and she asked when I was going to be graduating and I said May of 2018 and she’s going to come out and see me get my Masters degree.
I was so touched by that.
And grateful.
Then I got another message from my new supervisor, saying, “hooray!  Welcome aboard Carmen.”
How nice to have someone excited to work with me.
My supervisor outlined what I need to do next, basically get paperwork through my school and I’ll be able to attend to that this up coming weekend when I am in school for the second weekend of the semester.
I’ll pick up the paper work and then I’ll meet with my supervisor in March to do the next part.
And I will also do my interview of him for my Community Mental Health class at that time.
Yes, I will.
Two birds, one stone.
It feels really so nice to be here, to be taking these next steps.
I know there is still so much more work to do, but this just feels so good, so right, so affirming to have this happen, and I’ve been assured by many in my cohort that of course it was going to happen, but still.
When it does.
Oh.
That is a damn nice feeling.
Yes, yes it is.
And it was really swell, yeah, I said swell, to also relay the news to my employer who was happy for me and also relieved, even if she didn’t express that as much as the happy, that I won’t have to change-up my hours, that I will be with them, that we are on the same page, that I can do the internship and still be their nanny.
Yup.
The grad school nanny.
Not a role I ever thought I would be in.
Not a hat I thought I would wear.
But I’ll wear it.
Jaunty and slightly askew.
Rakish like.
Happy to be in said position.
I got such nice compliments from the mom today too, about how nice it was to come home and not have to make dinner and that they really liked my food so much and, well, that too makes me happy.
I do so enjoy cooking for others.
I made them two kinds of pasta tonight.
One a fusilli with fresh pesto.
And.
Spaghetti with meat sauce and herbed tomatoes.
Lots of fresh grated parmesan and a happy clan of people.
I was let go a few minutes early and hopped out the door and was able to catch my 6:30 pm regular get together and see some folks there.
I was invited to fellowship and I ended up going.
And then.
I ended up bailing.
I love my people.
But I can’t eat at Pasquale’s.
It’s all pizza and pasta and as I started to get a little panicky about eating and making something work when I had planned on eating at home and so I bounced.
I felt a little bad, but not too much.
Sometimes I need company.
And sometimes I just have to eat my own food.
I’ll make up for it this week.
I promise.
I have dinner plans to meet with my person tomorrow after work, so that will do as a start.
It was really nice to check in with him today and tick off the things that I had done, taking his suggestions around some stuff that came up for me yesterday, relating that I had put my big girl pants on and made an appointment at the dentist.
Yes.
An internship and an appointment to go to the dentist.
Adulting all over the place.
I also shared that I had gotten the news about the internship.
It was nice to share the news.
I mean, I had known, the interview went so well, but until one gets the official letter, well, it wasn’t official.
Now it is.
I really am so pleased.
Life continues to open up and bloom and it’s such a gift to be witnessing it.
I hadn’t expected to be on this path and I am blown away again and again at how right it is, how it feels to pursue, how competent I feel in moving forward and how humbled that yes, after all, I am supposed to help people.
That my main talent is to be a helper.
First and foremost.
To myself.
But then for so many others.
I am thrilled.
And.
Honored.
I am.
Grateful.
I am.
Graced.
I am.
All the things.
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Rejection Is God’s Protection

March 23, 2016

Maybe it’s the full moon.

Who knows.

But the date I was supposed to go on cancelled very last minute and it put an odd taste in my mouth.

Tinder fail number four.

Le sigh.

Full transparency.

I don’t need to be on Tinder.

I’m doing pretty good on my own.

In fact.

I turned off the app again.

My person was right.

There is nothing wrong with the app, but I also know when something doesn’t work for me and this is not working.  It was fun.  It was titillating.  It was and appears to really just to be about fantasy.

And.

Well.

This lady has had enough of fantasy.

I like the real deal.

The smash me into the man deal, the full on kiss, the I want you, you’re sexy.

I can have that.

I am aware of my needs and the TInder and the OkStupid, again, I come back to this again, haven’t cut the mustard with me.

It’s fun.

To a point.

Then it seems.

I don’t know futile.

I was actually a little relieved when he cancelled.

I have had plenty on my plate this week and I’m finally feeling like my cold is passing.

A little lingering cough in the morning.

I figure one more day of sleeping in and I will have the little fucker kicked to the curb.

I’m planning on hitting the yoga studio on Thursday and get back into the flow of that again.

I have missed it.

The being in my body, the stretching, the achey muscles.

Yeah.

Ha.

I’m ready for sore muscles.

Too funny.

Full moon.

Spotting this morning.

Ovulated yesterday.

But not the full on roaring hormonal monster that had me in its clutches last month.

Just a normal cycle.

The moon though.

Have you seen it?

Magic in the sky.

I imagine it descending over the ocean and how it will paint the sand dunes white and silver with its light.

Splendid and alive in the sky.

Or perhaps just in my imagination.

A luminous pearl in the velvet sky.

Yes.

I can feel that I am doing better.

My head feels clear.

My heart feels clear.

A touch sad now and again.

But I have that love of richness, that emotion, deep and true and yes occasionally indigo blue jean blue, but so sweet and tender and alive, that I don’t mind.

I have had so many feelings, tender and vulnerable, strong and flexible.

I do feel that I’m coming out of something.

A little darkness and mourning.

And by perfecting my heart truly/I got lost in the sounds.

The opening of the crocus pushing it’s way through the soil, dark, and at first impenetrable, then, the flower bud plunges up and out and unfurls and yes.

I am like that flower.

Fresh as a daisy.

Silly and sunny.

Sexy.

Back to myself.

Out of the dark.

Into the blue.

The sky blue.

The light of day.

It don’t hurt that the rain stopped falling.

A break in the rain.

A reprieve from the storm.

The orchid on my night stand table has bloomed again.

Five times now since I have been here, I bought it the first week I moved into the studio.

Not bad.

It always seems to bloom at an opportune time for me to self-reflect, to see the purity that comes from the gnarled and twisted roots and the glory that faces into the sun and blossoms there from the ungainly and the knots of green.

I remember to not force the blooms.

To not rip open the petals because I want the full beauty.

There is beauty in every stage of the development.

Just like there is with me, with dating, with romance, with love and loving myself and learning what works and what doesn’t.

And not judging myself when I don’t bloom out as fully as I expected.

Sometimes the flowers on the orchid are six, seven, eight blooms.

This time around there were only two.

Yet.

The simple divine flowers floating in the air are such tender white magical things that I cannot imagine that there needs to be anything more.

I don’t need anything more.

Look at all I have.

My simple life.

My sweet space down by the sea.

My dear friends.

My good job.

My school.

I get to live this life, I get to revel in it.

I get to roll around in it and not take it so seriously and lighten up and go out and put myself out on a limb and take chances and change.

Open the door and meet the welcome face there.

Be swept up into the moment and taken along for the duration of the song, carried away, caught for a moment in the in between moment.

The twixt and the tween and see that here too, is still another way to go.

A softening and letting go.

A sweetness and surrender.

Everything must come and go.

Yes.

That too.

So seize the moment, let the life in front of you be joyous, full, and alive.

Being awake is sometimes a tender place to be, but I’m no good checked out, and I’m not good when I am in fantasy.

I am good here.

In this reality.

With all my vulnerabilities and mistakes and terrors.

The fear it fades.

The sun it warms me as I walk towards it.

And the flowers bloom on their own with out me forcing them to open before their time.

There is no there there.

I am the party.

I am the girl.

No.

I am the woman.

And this is my life.

I’m going to keep having fun and dancing in the hallways and crying on the yoga mat.

I’m going to keep showing up.

Going where I must.

And letting go of thinking I know where it should go.

It’s all the same road anyhow.

Even if I often choose the one less taken.

I bet they all end in the same place.

I don’t need to know my destination.

I just know that I’m on the right path.

Free.

Silly.

Joyous.

Heart on my sleeve.

Happy.

 

Do You Speak

December 15, 2015

Spanish.

Nope.

And I’m not interested in flirting with you.

I speak French.

Not the best French, not the greatest, but enough.

Enough to get me into trouble, I joke.

I suppose I should be brushing up on it, watching some more French movies and such.

I watched Blue Is The Warmest Color recently and may also download Amour, Love, to fly over the seas and into the heart of France.

I have been watching little snippets of Paris Je t’aime, Paris, I Love You, as well.  And unlike previous times I have watched it, I am watching it without subtitles.

Not that it seems to be helping, but I never know what is going to stick and what is not.

That is often the case with me in school as well.

I am not sure I got something, but I write the notes and I read the books or the article and I act as if.

And.

More often than not, the information comes up to the surface and I find that is has been integrated somewhere in the hard drive of my mind.

The mind is a marvelous thing.

It will tell me stories.

Not all of them true, ha, most of them not true at all.

It will entertain me.

With those stories that are not true.

But sometimes, my mind will surprise me and work in conjunction with my heart and I see a path, a resolution, a laying of love down the road, an acceptance, an awareness, an action, a course to take, a way to go, a belief that the summer skies will always wheel over my head and the warmth of love will not be blown out in the cold winter nights.

And even if it is, another flame will rekindle and there, despite the dark and the not knowing and the wayward beat of my heart, a drum pulsing with rhythm and the blood drives within, I will find that I have arrived on another shore and found, if not another way home.

The realization that I am always home.

In this body.

In this life.

In this love.

For myself, for the experience, for the constant and consistent journey on in this life.

The journey that will take me soon over the country and across the sea.

Another day closer.

A little more work to do.

I got up at to the sound of my alarm going off, which is unusual, I normally wake up a few minutes before, sometimes half hour or so, but today I slept all the way to my alarm.

A solid, sexy, gratifying eight hours of sleep.

It was lush and luxurious and I was startled to be awoken from a very deep sleep, it seems I could have gone on a bit longer, but the alarm was going and it was time to get up.

Time to do the deal and have my breakfast, to drink my coffee, to write my words and to do some homework.

For despite yesterday being the last day of classes for my first semester.

(LAST DAY OF CLASSES FOR THE SEMESTER!)

I still have work to do.

I have to do a transcription and another Psychoanalytic paper.

I started the transcription today.

I worked on it for about 45 minutes or so before calling a car and heading off to work.

I got there early enough that I was able to ship my mom and my sister’s Christmas packages before I had to be at work.

Which means.

I am done with the Christmas stuff that needs to happen.

I am also done with all bills that need to be paid for the month, so I do not have any other obligations to deal with financially before leaving for Paris.

I have other obligations though.

Fuck.

I got called up for jury duty.

I haven’t been called in before.

Thirteen years of living in San Francisco.

I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later.

I am being called in the week of January 11th, which aside from having a very significant date during that week, an anniversary of sorts on the 13th, is also my first week back in classes.

There is no way I can be available that week, but I don’t really have a reason that is going to stand up in court.

However, I can postpone it.

I can postpone it for six months.

Summer is a much better time for me to do it.

So that will be dealt with, but I don’t have to before I leave on the trip.

I have only a few things to do.

Work mostly.

Show up, be of service to my job, love the boys as hard as possible, cook the best food I can, love the dog, be helpful with the household and do what I can to help the family prepare for me being away a whole week for them.

The mom has got me doing food prep like nobody’s business.

I will be making a triple batch of broccoli soup, a batch of chili, some quinoa risotto, beef stew, and Christmas cookies before I leave on Friday.

Which is also my birthday.

I have dinner plans.

Although I am not sure where.

I am working and I am sure I will be kept busy on that last day until the last minute.

But that is ok.

I am able to go to Paris because I can take the time off and I have a job that pays me vacation pay and I love my boys.

I got so much love from them today, verbally effusive love.

“Carmen!  I love you to the moon and back!” The littlest guy told me today at dinner when I gave him a piece of bread with butter on it to dip in his broccoli soup.

“Carmen! I love you to the moon and back a hundred times!” The oldest boy said and spooned some chicken salad I had made him into his mouth.

“I love you times infinity!” The youngest countered.

“You guys, I love you so much, I can’t even quantify it,” I said and hugged them both.

“Infinity plus twenty hundred,” the oldest boy said with a stomp of his foot.

“Infinity plus infinity!” The youngest said.

We all giggled.

I have such a rich, wonderful life.

I am so lucky.

And no, I don’t speak Spanish and I don’t know where I’m going, and often times I’m not too certain how I got where I am now.

I suspect it’s something called Grace.

I definitely have been graced.

Dipped in it like a gilded flower of love.

Daisies in gold.

I am.

So.

Very.

Very.

Very.

Loved.

To the moon and back.

Infinity times infinity.

Well

August 10, 2015

It’s official.

I am a graduate student.

I have gone through the introduction, I have made it here, I did not turn around, although my ride jokingly did make the offer as we were headed onto the bridge.

“Last chance!” She said as we passed by the last of the San Francisco exits before the Golden Gate Bridge.

She was a total peach and saved my butt.

My original ride got a hold of me 45 minutes prior to needing to leave–not one, but two flat tires on his vehicle.

Fuck.

He was so remorseful about it and so wanting to help he offered me the option of calling an Uber and paying for it.

I happened to be working with someone when I got the text, so I had my phone off, and I wouldn’t have seen it, that text until after she left if it weren’t for the fact that we were trying to reconcile schedules for the next time we can meet.

My schedule, is um, ah, ahahahaha, a little full right now.

I picked up my phone to check my calendar and saw the text.

My heart stop beating and I just cringed.

Oh shit.

I told my ladybug that I was processing the text and I don’t know what exactly I said, maybe, probably, “oh fuck,” as I was reading it trying to discern in my head what was the next move, could I do Uber to Petaluma, what time would I get there, would there even be any cars available since Outside Lands was making a disaster of driving in my neighborhood.

“I’ll take you,” she piped up.

Oh my god.

Thank you!

And she did.

She left to go get her car and a cup of coffee for the road and I made a quick-lunch that I had prepared yesterday.

I had gotten up early, showered, did the trash and compost, watered the plants, checked in with the housemate to let her know I would be gone, ate some breakfast, drank a lot more coffee than I normally do, packed my bags and organized my books, notebooks, and readers.

I also packed up the two readers for the two classes I am NOT enrolled in and brought them with in hopes of being able to sell them–at cost not trying to make a profit off my fellow classmates here–when I arrived at the retreat.

I posted a quick e-mail to the class list server and I got two offers right away.

As of a half hour ago I was able to hand off the two readers and two books to a fellow in the other cohort who happens to be bunked in the same dorm building as I am.

Speaking of.

But not very loudly.

I either don’t have a room-mate or she hasn’t arrived yet.

I am so hoping that I don’t have a room-mate.

Please, please, please.

It would be such a gift to have the room to myself the entire time I am here.

I am a creature of habit and routine and there are certain practices I have, especially with my morning routine that I was loath to even think about sharing.

Which is funny.

I am going to graduate school to get my Masters in Psychology to be a clinician, to be a therapist, to allow others to hold their own space and be a witness to and a guide and to help facilitate that move to authenticity of self, but pray in front of a stranger?

Please.

No thank you.

The thing is.

I would have.

I am just grateful, mainly for the space to stretch out.

The room is tiny, the beds are twins, there is one desk, two wee closets and a couple of communal bathrooms down the hall.

One less person in the dormitory is fantastic.

One less person in this tiny space is phenomenal.

And I like my space, I like knowing I can come and go and not disturb or be disturbed by another person.

I almost asked for a private room originally, but I would have had to pay extra for it and well, folks, graduate school it ain’t cheap, so I said I would share a room to keep my costs down.

So pleased to be alone.

I don’t feel lonely.

I just like to have a little alone time at the end of the night or to be able to quietly read in between classes.

And.

I am not the only person who did not get all the reading in or the only person who did not know how to access certain syllabi and who had troubles with the online portals.

A lot of folks did and I am sure there are a handful of students who did get the readings all done, but it appears that the majority of us did not.

There has been a flurry of activity since we got out of the welcome and introductions and the first exercises, which were really quit fun, although challenging ( I ended up getting partnered with a woman from Paris and we spoke French and that was hella fun and unexpected.  She used to live near the tattoo shop that I got my jackalope done in the Marais!) and longer than I expected.

We were let go at 9:15 p.m. and I co-ordinate with a guy in the other cohort and he took my readers I won’t be using and then I helped another student get online and navigate to the paper that needs to be written tonight, so many people in my cohort had new clue about the paper, then I looked over the schedule for tomorrow and I realized, I have as much done as I can.

I could read more.

But my brain is frizzled and, well.

I wanted to write.

This will be my bastion.

This will be my safe space.

My little nook in the hills were I can go and dump my anxiety and fears and let it all go.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be and though I can see the road is long, arduous, full of reading and writing and vulnerability, the journey is so worth it.

Not the destination.

The journey.

This journey.

Just to get to where I am at this little pressed plywood desk in a dorm room up in the hills outside of Petaluma, California.

Oh, my dear, my darling girl, look how far you have come.

My heart is full.

Overwhelmed and joyful.

Scared?

Sure.

But that’s just the way I am hard-wired.

Faithful, though, in the process of walking through.

“Just smile and be yourself,” her message said in regards to the retreat, “you’ll be amazed at how well you do.”

And I am amazed.

Before I was halfway through.

I’m A Pussy

December 31, 2014

To a point.

Once I’m moving, the cold doesn’t bother me too much.

Although my fingers feel like they are still defrosting.

It was a chilly, chill, chill ride home tonight on my bicycle.

And I argue that the weather here though temperature wise is warmer than say, Wisconsin, or Alaska, it’s still nippy out there and uncomfortable.

Yet.

There were moments in the park, in the dark, the wind whistling through my hair, the sound of my bicycle a fast low whip of feet churning and the slip of wind wicking through the spokes of the front wheel, that I felt so free and light that the cold was no more nuisance than a falling leaf.

There was more than one falling leaf however.

There were blown down limbs, palm fronds, acorns, seed pods, walnuts, scattered detritus that threatened to derail my wheel and send me flying over the handle bars.

There was just enough light in the park to avoid the majority of the windfall, but it was a winding road I rode.

It reminded me of the path, the journey, the way forward that I walk.

I realized that though there are times when I am literally the only person on a part of the path, some intrepid wanderer has gone before me.

I am not special.

I am not unique.

The most popular thing?

Yeah.

I will probably like it.

Although I have my tastes and foibles, they are often such to alienate me from the pack and isolate me, make me feel special, unique, mysterious, or some such other crap that is generated in my brain to pander to my super special ego self.

I am no trailblazer.

This is the thought that came unbidden to my mind as the wind grew woolier and the trees creaked in the sluice of air.

I suddenly had a feeling of what the woods were like, here, at the end of the wilds before the sea, the trees, the dark smell of earth and salt, the special light of moon playing over the meadows, an eery blue-white that velvet like drapes itself across every blade of grass and edge of leaf.

There was the road I was biking upon.

And there was the path, winding through the fallen leaves, sticks, boughs, branches, and various other road blocks, it was not wide, but it was there.

I was not the first bicycle through the park in the messy weather, and I  probably wouldn’t be the last this evening.

I would bet, though, that I may be one of the last folks heading all the way through the park to the wilds of the Outer Sunset at 9p.m. on a Tuesday night.

A night I had previous to today, thought was going to be my Friday.

I was under the impression that I had tomorrow and Thursday off for the holiday, and without realizing it, I had also assumed  I would have off Friday, like I did with the day after Christmas.

Not that I am being some sort of hound for extra paid holiday days, but you know, I like to know when I am working and I also wanted to co-ordinate with my guy, who was also under the impression that I would have a long weekend.

However, I was wrong.

Not impossibly wrong, but just slightly off, I will have Thursday and Friday off.

Not tomorrow.

So, off to work I go.

But with a four-day weekend in sight, I am happy to do so.

I don’t mind working tomorrow, I had a long weekend last week, and I still am going to get four days off in a row.

Plus, I have a date for tomorrow night and a destination!

I am going with my guy to Petaluma, to the Mystic Theater to see Tommy Castro.

I’m going to get some blues music on, some rock and roll, with a splash of rockabilly and I am psyched.

I get to dress up.

I get to go out with my guy and have a new experience.

I get to dance!

I don’t know swing, I don’t know two-step, all that well, maybe a tiny bit, I don’t really know anything formal, but I know how to rock out and I know how to shimmy and shake to a good blues line and I know how to kick up my heels.

My heels shall kick tomorrow night.

I’ll work until 6:30 p.m.

Hop on my bicycle, hopefully all the windfall will have been cleared up, and I will put on my swing dress with polka dots and put some fishnets on, red roses in my hair, re-apply my lipstick and head out-of-town.

We’re going to grab a bite somewhere on the road, which is fine with me, I don’t need to do anything fancy, I’ve had plenty of fancy for a while, then get to the show and hang out with my baby.

It’s nice to have plans.

It was nice to get the surprise text from my boyfriend about the show.

I didn’t know what we were going to be doing, aside from a possible party within our fellowship of friends, nothing really seemed on the menu.

And now I got a date to dance.

Pleased as punch.

And though I have sat and warmed myself up and had some tea and I am loath to wander out into that cold night, current temperature 50 degrees, I am off to Celia’s by the Beach to have a late night dinner with my honey.

Well, he’ll eat, and I will watch.

Discuss details and make our plans for tomorrow.

And do what all humans want to do when they are cold.

Snuggle into the arms of someone who cherishes them.

Nothing new to see here.

 

 

Some Of My Friends Are Astute

October 29, 2014

I received a text message this afternoon regarding my blog.

Meaning.

I got a text expressing that I had not written a blog last night, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

When the blog’s away the cat is at play.

I guess you could say I had a good date last night.

Ayup.

I really don’t know how much I want to write about it.

I mean.

Duh.

Fuck me.

I want to write my pants off.

Which, in case you were wondering, did NOT come off.

Just saying.  Just putting that out there.  Just letting my people know.

They could have however, there was certainly heat, passion, a slow steady heady simmer of a slow roil that consistently threatened to roll over the top and sweep me away.

But I get ahead of myself.

Yes.

I didn’t write last night.  Although I made up for it today, I woke up earlier than I expected considering I hit the sheets a little after midnight and I was a bit feverish and wound up, I wrote four pages long hand before work.

I remember looking around my environs and feeling like, did that just happen?

I wasn’t about to switch on my computer, fire up the laptop, type it all out in a furious deluge of words and images and capture it all for prosperity and the few hundred folks that might read this.

There was temptation to do so, to catalogue and list and wonder, I mean really wonder, how does the man have such soft lips?

Did he exfoliate them.

Do men do that?

Softest mouth, softest kisses, until they weren’t, but again, I rush ahead.

When there is no rushing to go anywhere.

He’s not my boyfriend, husband, lover, partner, he’s someone I met and connected with.

And made out like teenagers for hours, but um, more of that in a moment.

He’s a person.

I’m a person.

And there was chemistry.

Heaps and loads.

Now.

Is there, are there other things?

It does not hurt, in fact, it’s damn helpful, that we speak the same language, that we have a common experience, a common solution, a common fellowship and community of people that we are connected to and bound by.

That does not always mean sparks are going to fly, because I have dated, and not dated as the case may be, in this group of people and those sparks are often missing, and the language, though common, may be of a different accent or dialect and I have my druthers around what works for me and what doesn’t.

Sounds like I am talking in circles, let me just say simple like, we got the same brand of it.

And I really like that.

Makes a girl feel good that I am attracting that brand of man.

It also makes a girl feel good when a man who she, I don’t know why I’m speaking in the third fucking person here, perhaps I am trying to give myself a little distance for perspective.

It made me feel good to see that look in his eyes.

That look that says, I want to rip off all your clothes and ravish you.

However.

There was restraint.

Restraint of lips and mouth not so much, but restraint of other things, yes.

No clothes were removed, well shoes, but I don’t suppose that counts.

I am pretty sure my top shirt dress button came undone, but that was not intentional, I think it just got frisky and popped open.

I told him I was thinking about not blogging about him again.

He said, “why?  It’s your life.”

Touche.

I like that.

It’s my life, my art, is my creation, it’s also, let me be transparent, bravado.

And a little bit of a front, I can hear the voice of my blog in my head sometimes when I am riding my bicycle home through the park and the dark night air rushes coolly over me, the crisp yellow curl of moon rises over the trees in the park and I am flying, so present, so alive, wind rifling over me, thoughts quiet, all feeling, no thoughts and it dissipates, this person, this persona.

This bravado takes a back seat to my heart and my being and my soul.

I like to titillate.

I like to have experiences and write about them.

I have a persona, a creation, I am my blog and I am not my blog.

I am confident and sexy and strong and yet, sometimes, a wreck of nerves and shy and coltish, aware of being transparent, having no poker face, being vulnerable.

And I want to be vulnerable here.

Yet.

I want to hold some things close.

I want to keep them to myself.

There is the fear that once things are out into the world that things will change, if I post that picture, what am I saying, if I write those words, what am I alluding to, what does this line of poetry from this poet coming from my mouth at this moment mean, how can I tolerate this and not manipulate and be me.

Authentic.

I am myself I love myself I am true to myself.

That is all that matters.

Not this crafting of words.

Though.

Let me not be untrue to my art, this too, is my heart and my love and I throw things out here in this venue that I forget about until someone sends me a message about something I have written and I am awed, my words, impressed someone.

Not impressed as in they are taken by my words, but the experience is informed by something I have written.

The seal of wax on a letter, embossed with the pestle as it presses it’s mark on the wax and  the soft warm wax is pushed into a different shape.

I want with great reverence and intent to live the life of the artist, to feel, to be ruined with beauty to be broken open and have my heart impressed, embossed with experience and feeling and love.

There is so much love that is outlining the edges of me as I walk along this journey.

The information that I garnered from him, other than the visceral, the feelings fleeting, the softness of a kiss of a mouth on a mouth, the disheveled hair pulled into his hand, my thumb sweeping over the bones of his face, being swallowed into a kiss and coming out the other side another kind of woman.

The information gathered?

I am on the path and the journey is lovely.

Life it gets better and all the hard work I do pays off its dividends.

And like the gaunt prospector hoarding his gold, I must to give it away so that I may continue to reap the benefits of the gift.

I still have room to grow.

And I look so forward to it.


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