Posts Tagged ‘this too shall pass’

Sun Burst

August 18, 2019

They left their car behind in the Pan Handle of Florida.

Broken down along the side of the road.

Tin can from a Chunky’s Chicken Corn Chowder soup barely holding

Together the rotten muffler.

Love.

Flashes like heat waves rolling up from asphalt

Pavement, as smoke eddies and drifts from a lit

Pall Mall filter Gold Light 100, grasped like a lifeline into

Another time where glorious naivety

Flexed in her 19 year old calve muscles.

Feet strong and unweary, propped on the dashboard watching the

Moss dipped trees roll along outside the window while Jethro Tull blasts from the radio.

These stories written in the power of youth and the glory of

Summers wandered through decades ago.

Her skin tattooed now with narratives and bygone memorabilia.

Literally.

She, her, I, wears her heart on her sleeve.

(Left side inside wrist wreathed with cherry blossoms)

She, her, I, has not forgotten the sunshine splash of freckles

Constellating his face and the desire badgering her heart to kiss each one.

Love rises like mist in a swimming pool at night in

Saint Augustine awash in humidity and the susurration of wind in palm leaves.

Song of flash pan memories born on the wings of cicadas,

Bark of a worried dog, crackle of fire on the edge of night,

Embers glowing on her (my) face, fronting strength under the curious

Gaze of heroin junkies and good ol’ boys with running mates and prostitute

Companions holding bent Budweiser can carburetor crack pipes.

She, her, I, will dance, never the less, none the less, dance now, dance then

Beneath the swelter of stars, amid the whispers of sexy, sexy, sexy

Spilling from the mouths of men unable to grasp her, attain her, hold her (me).

Love, lost like a plasticine slipper in the dusky playa at sunset.

Burnished with desire to kiss the bottom lip of his mouth and vanish into the

Streets of the Mission District, oh my sweet San Francisco how unexpected

Summer night strewn me with ghost kisses of fog being sucked in over Twin Peaks.

She, her, I will climb the hills back towards the sea, remember her (me) her face

Aswirl in dark curls, your face writ with awe, once again in her (my) hands.

Oh bluest eyes

Peering back into mine, this blissful fantasy a phantasmagoric feeling all

Ephemeral and moon washed will haunt you, I, me no more.

For yes, oh yes,

My darling.

This too shall pass.

Listening To Johnny Thunders

January 21, 2018

Great big kiss and trying.

Fuck.

I am trying to not cry.

I just feel floored right now.

I don’t know how to talk, how to discourse, how the fuck to write.

I am in so much pain I cannot breathe.

And when I do it is just to cry some more.

Great big ugly cries.

Stupid in public in the school cafeteria crying at lunch with my best girlfriend.

What is this?

Highschool?

Can’t be.

Despite the high color emotions I never would have been able to born this pain.

It feels like something has been ripped out of my body.

As though some piece of my soul has been torn out and dragged away.

Eaten by the heart monster.

Came for me in the night and ripped me to shreds.

Opened up my chest pulled out all my organs and crammed them in its mouth.

I have walked around all day feeling like an open wound.

I don’t know how to express the pain and i don’t know how to get away from it.

It comes and goes in waves.

Big rolling thunders of it.

When I am least expecting it.

Kneeling and saying my prayers and smash.

Knocked over, bowled over, thrown over, tossed onto the floor, if I wasn’t already on my knees I would have fallen.

Peeling a hard-boiled egg and there, out of the blue, another blast of it and I’m bent over at the waist with silent cries careening out of my mouth, I don’t know how I ate today, except out of habit and ritual.

I still didn’t finish my full lunch.

Too busy sobbing on the proverbial shoulder of a friend.

Grief.

Eaten alive and spat out and stepped on and smashed down.

And sad.

Just so damn sad.

Then to top it off, I got out of school to go to the dentist and have my permanent crown put in.

The process wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t horrible either.

I was told to not eat anything hard for the rest of the day, soft foods, and take it easy.

Sure.

Ugly cry face, just take it easy, no worries, go read some school work since you got out of the dentist chair quickly.

Go ugly cry in private for a little while instead of underneath the blue sky watching pigeons wheel in circles above the SafeWay on Noriega.

I read a couple of chapters that will be covered in class tomorrow and a fifteen page article on research methods.

Scintillating.

Not bored to tears.

But you know.

Close.

Always just there.

On the edge of tears.

“You want something to cry about, I’ll give you something to cry about,” my mother used to say to me and then give me something to cry about.

Funny how that happens.

God took away one pain and gave me another.

The Novocaine wore off my dental procedure and holy mother of God.

Pain.

Not insufferable pain, not going to crush my heart pain.

What heart?

It’s been broken, pulled apart, torn asunder.

You think I exaggerate.

I do not.

I have not experienced this level of emotional pain in well.

Ever?

I can’t even fathom it.

It just goes and goes.

I know that it will pass, “this too shall pass,” they say.

They say it a lot, make it happen faster please.

But the emotional pain took a back burner for a while to the physical pain.

Boy howdy, that was a neat trick.

Ugh.

And I think I’m running a fever in response to the pain level.

I should just take the stomach upset that will likely occur and eat some ibuprofen.

I will say the tooth pain is not as excruciating as it was when the Novocaine wore off, so I’m hoping I can suck it up and get through it.

Suck it up.

Buck up.

Grow up.

And all I want to do is fall down on the ground and cry like a baby.

All over again.

I think I am dehydrated from crying so much.

I shit you not.

I should Google it.

Can one get dehydrated from crying too much?

Is it possible?

It is.

Well, look at that.

Thanks Google.

Google also let me know that crying is good for you.

Well, duh, Google, I fucking know that.

Crying relieves emotional stress, lets your body detox by releasing stressful chemicals that your body produces during times of emotional duress.

I had a therapist who used to tell me that tears were a sign of pain leaving the body.

I suppose so.

I had a lot of fucking pain leave me today, but there’s just so much there, I wonder when I will be done with it.

It’s lessened as the day has gone on, but I have to admit, I’m in tears now thinking about how sad this week has been and how hard the last day has been to navigate and how it hurts when someone I love hurts.

God.

It hurts.

And then I hurt and I am.

Well.

Fuck.

I am just a wreck.

Tear spatters on my glasses.

Dried tears on my face.

Streaks of salt on the on the panels of my face a window of grief a story of loss and longing for something that is out of my reach.

Like a child crying for the moon.

Did you see the moon rise tonight?

So beautiful.

Although not as enchanting as the orange glimmering thing that floated on the horizon when I saw it out the car window last night heading towards the sea.

“Oh!  The moon!” I exclaimed and I felt that pain in my heart beating, pushing at my ribcage, trying to burst through.

I could only contain it for so long.

The sadness.

The tears.

“This better be worth it God,” I cried out last night and then just prayed harder, take care of the one I love, please, just take care of my love.”

Please.

That’s all I can ask.

That’s all I can do.

Pray and cry and let the pain wash through me until it is spent and I am just a rag doll washed up on the beach of sorrow.

Waiting for the light of dawn to illuminate me and my shattered skein of sorrow.

Tears on my pillow and the light of a new day washing pearl grey through my back door window and the aspect of going through my day without you haunting the periphery of what is left of my heart.

 

*This blog was postponed from being posted by an hour because I started to cry again.*

End blog.

 

 

Yearning

May 17, 2015

This is not a post I am interested in posting.

It steers a little too close to self-pity land.

And nothing, truly, nothing, do I find more objectionable and heinous.

I had an ex in my twenties who was amazing at self-pity and I remember realizing one day how very selfish it was.

I don’t like it when my selfish tendencies arise.

Yet.

They do and when they do I just get to roll with them.

I had hoped I would be feeling a bit more sprightly today and that is not the case, the cold lingers and with it comes those feelings, oh feelings, of not being enough or doing enough or whatever it is that wants to get under my skin and rub the wrong way.

What I want is a snuggle.

Someone to rub my back and my shoulders.

Someone to cuddle with.

That’s something that I long for when I get sick and well, being a single gal, that’s nowhere in the offing.

It does not help that I have had some contact with my recent ex, nothing in person, but some lengthy texting and my fondness for him knows no bounds, but we agreed that it’s too close to the bone, too close to discomfort, too much potential for creating unnecessary wreckage that neither one of us wants to create.

I mean.

Sort of.

I know that road.

Once broken up with an ex I have stayed broken up with an ex.

With the exception of a near black out late night emotional booty call to my ex-boyfriend in my twenties a year and a half after we broke up.

I think I knew I had to see him one last time (ended up being one more time after that, which was sweet and tender and it was the last time and weird enough we went to Monty’s Blue Plate Diner the next morning for breakfast and the waitress remembered us even though we hadn’t been in together in almost two years at that point) and wanted to say a proper goodbye before moving back to the state of my birth, California.

But the tendency does tend to be no contact after a break up.

Not that there have been a whole lot of relationships since I moved to San Francisco, let me be frank, I’m a loner.

I didn’t intend it that way, but somewhere down the line, it happened, despite the longing or yearning for it to be otherwise I have just marched, bicycled, briefly scooter’ed (and with a little help from a friend I may well soon again), and danced to my own personal drummer.

I have rarely been partnered up in my adult life and I am not complaining.

It’s not on my time.

I have tried to make it on my time.

I have written reams of blogs and I used to write just the worst sappy ass poetry about it.

I mean, whatever to get it off my chest, but I know this is more a symptom of being slightly under the weather than anything else.

So.

I can weather this one out.

This too shall pass they say.

I realized I was being a bit moribund when I hopped in the shower to rinse out a freshening up of my hair dye, I picked up a pot of Manic Panic Cotton Candy Pink at the salon today when I got my nails done (the color I had in my hair was Cleo Rose, that’s what I got at the salon when I went to get it done, but I wanted to see what the Cotton Candy Pink would look like, so I picked it up, I mean if I’m going to have clown curl explosion on my head, may as well be cotton candy) and my thought was, “I wish I was going to see my grandmother with my boyfriend.”

Uh oh.

I am feeling “not enough.”

I am feeling the “another person completes” me baloney happening here.

My grandmother doesn’t care if I’m single or dating, or at least she has never said anything to the effect and I can’t imagine she cares one way or the other.

It’s me who cares.

I’m “less than” for not being in a relationship.

Nope.

I’m just me.

And me is pretty cool.

I called my grandmother today to check in about my upcoming visit to Chula Vista at the end of the month.

I had some concerns about putting any one out, she is 87 after all.

But she would not hear of me staying anywhere else.

My favorite uncle is going to be coming into town too from Nevada City and I’m super excited to see him (although we do usually have a family reunion out at Burning Man) and get to hear about his newest projects for the playa.

He’ll be staying with my grandma as well.

“You’re Uncle Boy can stay in the garage if we need to make space,” she said.

I laughed.

“Don’t tell him that!”

It felt good to laugh.

I’ve been nervous to reconnect.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just family.

And I love my grandmother.

Despite not having had much direct face to face contact we have stayed in touch all of my life and she is my last living grandparent.

I want to make the effort and I am delighted to get to stay with her.

I have no idea exactly what we’re going to do, but she did say that one night there would be a big family dinner at her home and I just had this sudden and overwhelming joy fill me with the thought of being surrounded by this family, that I know so little of, but care so much for.

I think that’s what they mean when they say blood is thicker than water.

I have made my own family out here in the big bad world.

Amongst my friends and fellows and there are people in my life, some in Wisconsin, some here, that I could not, nor will not do without.

“Yo.”

The messenger read on my phone this morning, pinging me awake, “are you planning on coming out this way, the middle part, this year?”

I want to.

I realized that I may not be able to until Christmas though.

And there it was again, that longing for a person to be with me.

The longing for someone to go with me to Burning Man, to travel with me.

I am sick.

Not sick in the head, or wrong for having these feelings, they just don’t usually get to me unless I’m not feeling 100% myself.

I can and have ridden out the feelings before and as my hair dries, it’s still just pink, the difference in colors is too subtle, but it’s fresh pink pink pink, so that’s fun, I know that I’m ok and that yearning for something is a part of life.

I don’t have to get what I want to enjoy what I have.

And I can snuggle with myself tonight and roll out my shoulders with my roller and make some tea and be cozy and rest.

Nothing wrong with that.

And be grateful that I get to see my family in two weeks.

Grateful I have family to travel to see.

I belong to these people and they to me and I am yearning, really, to be connected to as much humanity as I can be.

That’s the good stuff.

That’s the jelly in the donut.

The bees knees.

The cat’s pajamas.

The stuff of life.

I suppose you could say.

Oh.

Yeah.

It’s love.

Sweet, tender, vulnerable.

Love.

You Get Around

May 5, 2015

I do.

“I follow you on Facebook and read your blogs, it’s good to see you in person, you really cram a lot of stuff into your day,” he told me as we were filing out of the room tonight.

I smiled.

I believe I thanked him for reading.

It’s nice to know that folks read these things I put out into the Universe, so often without much thought or effort, it would seem.

Although there is always much thought.

The effort really has to do with sitting down at the keyboard and figuring out a title.

Once I have a title, I don’t need anything.

I knew I was going to be writing “Inbound to Richmond District” the minute I saw it on the NextBus app.

There was something really musical about it to my ears.

And I do get around, but I suspect, many of us do, I just happen to document the getting around.

This brought to mind all the places I have lived in San Francisco as I enter my second year of residing in one spot.

It’s about a year and three-quarters, Labor Day weekend, just after Burning Man, will mark two years here in my little studio by the sea.

I can’t remember the last time I lived in one spot for two years.

It must have been when I was up in Nob Hill and technically I did move, albeit across the hall, but that was a move and challenging in its own ways.

I also may have resided at 23rd and Capp for two years, but I’m not certain I did, it feels like it was two years.

But as I explained to my charge today, “feelings are not facts,” I said with a smile and also relayed the message that “this too shall pass, the good news is you will have feelings, the bad news is you will have feelings.”

Then I tickled the grumpy out of him.

He is just such a sweet pie.

“Carmen! Carmen! Carmen! You have a star in your hair!” He excitedly reported to me.

“I do!” I replied, “what color is it?”

“Glittery!”

Heh.

Close enough kid.

“Silver,” I said, “you like stars, don’t you.”

“Yes!” He said and picked up his stuffed cat, “Meow Meow really likes stars too,” then he began to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, replacing the twinkle twinkle part with meows.”

Oh my god.

The cute.

Stop.

Wait, don’t stop.

“Stars are beautiful, you are beautiful,” he continued, “you must be a star.”

I just about fell out of the bed.

I was waking him up from his afternoon nap.

“You must be a star too,” I said and squeezed his little paw in mine, “Meow Meow is definitely a star as well.”

“Meow!” He said and kissed me.

My job might tire me the fuck out, but it is surely satisfying, yes, yes it is.

We had adventures to the park, both Dolores Park–in the morning, and Mission Playground in the afternoon, plus a trip to BiRite and to the market on the corner.

It made me remember when I discovered all these places when I first moved to San Francisco.

All the sites, the personal treasure map of love that San Francisco has imprinted on my heart.

The first time I went to Dolores Park was before I lived in the city, so that must have been in 2000 or possibly 2001.

Or The Elbow Room.

Blondie’s.

Casanova’s.

Kilo Watt.

Dalva.

The Roxie Theater.

When the New College was still the New College and I could still go to Osento and take a hot tub.

I still say I need to go to Osento sometime soon and then realize once again that it is gone.

It actually, or where it used to be, abuts the property of the people I work for.

I might have been naked on the roof of the spa soaking in the steam on a wood bench catching twinkling stars in between the clots of fog moving over the courtyard, the two wood barrel saunas, the outdoor shower, and the cold plunge–my current boss in her backyard hanging out on the other side of the fence.

I remember times when I was the only person there.

It was lovely.

You may have gathered that I lived a good portion of my time in the Mission.

My first residence in San Francisco–Labor Day weekend–it’s like my personal version of New Years, was a two month sublet at 20th and York.

I stayed past my two months and when another woman moved out of the room downstairs, I took it over.

I think I was paying $650 with everything included.

Granted there were five ladies living there, but we each had our own space carved out, technically the house was a three bedroom–all three upstairs–but one of the girls had carved out a weird little bedroom out of the kitchen pantry and then there was the studio/inlaw in the basement that I had.

It was great.

Until the house was sold and there was an owner move in and in less than two months we had to all get out.

I think it was actually 45 days, it happened so fast.

I found a room on craisglist, for less than I was actually paying at the house with all the girls, on 22nd and Alabama with a wild woman from Northern Italy who had been living in the house so long that she basically paid her rent by collecting from the two room mates and turning around and paying the landlord.

I could have cared less.

I was paying $500 a month for a huge room and access to the kitchen, bathroom, the gigantic glassed in back porch, where I spent three agonizing weeks drifting in a hammock, sleeping like the dead, out sick from work with Mono when I was 31.

MONO.

At freaking 31.

And it was my second time having it.

I had it the first time when I was 17.

Good times.

While I was living at 22nd and Alabama I had a friend turn me on to cocaine and his dealers number.

After some months of battling a rapidly growing habit, I decided, like a truly rational addict, that I should move out because I had the opportunity to move into a big beautiful house on 25th and Potrero (you would have never guessed how lovely the house was from the facade on Potrero–wood floors, Italian marble, skylights, pocket doors, fireplaces in two rooms, an office, two bedrooms, one and a half baths, laundry in the basement and the prettiest garden in the back) for $1100 a month.

That’s what my problem was!

My rent was too cheap!

If I just moved somewhere that was more than double my rent then I wouldn’t spend as much money on blow.

That didn’t work out so well.

But I did subsequently hit my bottom.

And the rest.

Well is his (her) story.

And I got around a lot after that as well.

Living at the following places:

Kingston and 30th.

Potrero and 26th.

Palou and 3rd.

Capp and 23rd Street.

Washington and Taylor.

Not once, but twice–the infamous move across the hall.

Homeless for three months couch surfing when I quit my high paying nanny job and went to work at bike shop in the Mission (crashed in the attic of a former family I nannied for on 25th and New Hampshire, “housesat” for a month at a friend of friend’s house that I met only once at a wedding, where I did her make up for the ceremony on a tiny side street at the bottom of Bernal Hill, and then on the couch of my friend who lives in Nob Hill on Clay Street) making half the salary I had been used to.

Then a teeny tiny box of an in-law in the Mission on 22nd and Folsom.

My bathroom was my kitchen was my garage (I hung my bicycle on a rack above the toilet).

After that.

Graceland in East Oakland for two months.

Then Paris–Rue Bellefond–in the bobo (bohemian bourgeoise) arrondissement, the 9th, just between Square D’Anvers and Cadet Metro Station for six months.

Then back to East Oakland for two, maybe three (?) months.

Can you say culture shock?

And finally.

Here.

46th Avenue between Judah and Irving Street.

And yes.

I moved in right after Labor Day weekend.

Where the hipsters meet the sea and the surfers rule the coffee shops.

And one wild woman with curly hair (pink!) rides out each day (well five out of seven anyway) six and a half miles, right back to the Mission, on her sparkle-pony whip of a bicycle.

I may be living in the same spot for a little while.

But.

I still get around.

What’s Going On?

April 8, 2015

He asked.

He took my hand.

Of course.

I had worn black eye liner today.

“I LOVE your eyeliner!” The Guatemalan lady at the check out register said to me today.

She is always so very sweet to me.

I am in the market a lot.

A gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, a lot of black beans.

I made a double batch of chili today–one for the family and one for another family, origins unknown, who are friends of the families and just welcomed a new baby into their fold.

My family, the one I work for, is slated to bring food for them tomorrow.

I made an extra batch of chili, vegetarian, and a batch of corn muffins.

Then did the same for my family, or did them concurrent, I can do that, except I made my employers meal with meat.

I wanted to ask for a bonus.

Double the work, double the pay.

But I was more than happy to accept that today I was of service to my family and I enjoy cooking, and I make a mean pot of chili and corn bread muffins, despite me not eating them, do smell lovely baking in the oven, and I did have a big bowl of chili with the boys at dinner.

It is nice to work for a family where a lot of my meals are taken care of.

Because, although I am making an hourly that is higher than any that I have made as a nanny before, it is all above-board, all taxed, every penny accounted for.

And I work a lot.

“I’m tired,”  I said to him, as he squeezed my hand.

I”m always tired.

“You need to sleep more, take naps, lay in bed,” he said to me.

He wouldn’t let my hand go and my eyes got leaky.

Of course I’m wearing eyeliner.

I did think of it too this morning when I was applying it.

But a lady can’t do her make up contingent on whether or not she believes she will be in an emotional state later in the evening.

It looked hella good.

I wanted to wear a cat’s eye and purple eye shadow and so I did.

I smudged it up a bit with tears, but so it goes.

I’ll just call it my “smoky” eye and continue forward, face into the wind, stars over my head as the Southern Constellations move across the horizon and now Orion is in front of me when I ride through the park at night instead of just over my left shoulder.

“What I am hearing” he said, after I had checked in a moment or two, and sipped some of my tea, “is spiritual malaise.”

Uh yeah.

I get up I pray.

I eat breakfast.

I write.

I work.

I do the deal.

I come home.

I write.

I pray.

I crawl into bed and fall asleep, mostly, without too much chatter in my head.

But the chatter is still there.

And what it sounds like is.

This.

Is this it?

Is this how it’s going to be until I go to school?

(Ah, yes, the disease of wanting more.  I so have it.)

I feel like I am marking time.

Not a feeling I care for.

Too much on the self-pity side of town.

“You need to connect with the women in your life,” he said.

I do.

But you know.

My favorite ladies are all as busy as me, if not more so.

And none of us live next to each other anymore.

My best friend lives in Wisconsin.

My best girl friend here lives in Castro Valley, my next best lady is in North Berkeley about to pop out a baby, so I won’t be seeing her for a while.

I have been having a challenging time socializing within the fellowship.

I feel like I am hearing a lot of the same same same and not enough solution and suddenly, I am sitting in the corner acting like a fucking bleeding deacon.

I’ve got ten years people, I don’t have that much time.

Yet.

I feel untethered.

There, that is better.

Not that I am marking time, just that I am a little adrift and I need to connect with people.

I feel that this has been a bit re-occurring, but also, I know that it has to do with changes in my social life in general, changes in where I go for my daily solution, getting fit into the proper get right with God mode.

I have friends that are no longer in my social sphere and that is ok.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

In that spirit, in the spirit of tired and I know it, but wiling to change, God damn, it is always the change, there is no resting on my laurels.

I have haunches to sit on, but no laurels to rest on.

I told myself I would RSVP yes to a  party in May to hang out with some acquaintances that could easily become good girl friends given the time cultivating them.

As well as giving some consideration to going to the Steampunk Masquerade Ball at Nimby on April 18th.

I have no idea if I’m really going to go to the party in the East Bay–no wheels to get me there, do I want to be on BART in masquerade, but I wanted to say yes to getting out there, I mean it looks fantastic.

I also need to connect with a good lady friend of mine in the Mission who has suggested I do some celebrating of getting into graduate school and I would love to catch up with her and sip a tea and a have a lady catch up.

Especially to discuss all things Burning Man.

I’m always up for discourse on that.

I’m not marking time and the world is not here to entertain me, boredom is the sign of a shallow mind, a selfish, soul sucking shroud of ego, being bored, asking you to entertain me, is just not where it’s at.

It just means getting out of my comfort zone a little bit and reaching out to make new friends.

By the end of our tea time I was feeling much better, smudged eye make up and all.

He hugged me tight and we walked over to Our Lady of Safeway and after an hour of that, I felt better still.

The stars wheeled bright above my head as I cut through the cold air on my bicycle, the smell of pine needles in the park, the tart undertow of a wild tangerine blooming in the air, the wind biting, but I was covered in my windbreaker and hoodie and gloves, so it felt refreshing and invigorating as I let my body warm up and become one with my vehicle.

I came home a drift on the smell of a bonfire on the beach, renewed and refreshed and ready to wind down.

“Hello house,” I said and smiled.

I am right where I need to be.

Secure in my heart that change is happening.

And.

That this too shall pass.

It always does.

Fast Times

March 27, 2015

At my house.

Not at Ridgemont High.

Not also the fast times you are probably thinking.

In approximately half an hour I will be having my last snack of the day and then there will be no more food until probably 3:30/4p.m. tomorrow.

I am having to fast.

I do not want to fast.

I do not like to fast.

I am not one of those ladies (or gentleman, I have known a few guys who will) who do that whole cayenne, maple syrup, lemon juice Master Cleanse thingamabobs.

Nope.

I like my food.

I am not a undereater.

Never have been.

Probably never will be.

Although there are times I wish I could be, which is not healthy, and is just fantasy, but there it is.

I shared tonight that one of my first fantasies when I was a kid was not a sexual fantasy.

No.

It was a fantasy about going to the grocery store and eating whatever I wanted.

I mean not just being in the grocery store, but being alone in the grocery store, aisle after wonderful aisle, all to myself.

I would sleep there and eat there and I would fall asleep at night dreaming about what aisle I would start in and how long it would last.

Most of the time I never made it past the cereal box aisle.

Oh cereal in a box, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

Honeycomb.

Cocoa Puffs.

Captain Crunch.

Cocoa Pebbles.

Rice Crispies.

Corn Chex.

Wheaties.

Corn Flakes, but only for a minute, they lose their crunch too fast.

Grape Nuts.

Corn Bran, Quaker Corn Bran Squares, don’t know why, but love them.

Raisin Bran Crunch.

And I am sure I am forgetting a bunch of them.

I haven’t eaten box cereal in such a long time.

And I really don’t hanker for it.

I don’t fantasize about supermarket aisles or candy aisles or beer and wine aisles, either.

I stick to the outside aisles of the store if I’m at a SafeWay, even at Whole Foods–although they have become sneaky with their placement of the hot tables and prepared foods daunting you near the check out lines.

There is a sound psychological reason for the fantasy, scarcity and poverty.

We just didn’t have the much money growing up and my mom comes from a family that also went through the Depression.

My grandparents had a huge garden at their home in Lodi, Wisconsin.

And I remember with much fondness all the wonderful things that grew there.

I miss that garden a lot.

And although my grandparents are many years gone now, I still have this unwavering belief in the existence of that garden.

It is still there and I can go to it some day when I go home for a visit.

Not that I see myself in Southern Wisconsin any time soon.

There is not much left for me there.

Some memories, and a few acquaintances, but my best friend lives in Northern Wisconsin just across the river from the Twin Cities in Minneapolis.

Should I head back to the land of all things dairy, it would be to go up North, not to Southern or Central Wisconsin.

My family subsisted often times on food stamps, welfare, school lunch assistance programs.

Government cheese anyone?

Ramen noodles.

Hot dogs.

We never had sugared cereals, it was a huge deal.

Popcorn was a big treat.

Or my mom might make a cake or when I was older I might bake a pie, there was ice cream when there was a special occasion-Mitchell’s Frozen Custard if it was a really big deal.

I remember though, my mom would eat bags of Lays Potato Chips and drink bottles of Mountain Dew like it was water.

I never really liked Mountain Dew, but I could and would drink it when it was offered, mostly because I liked peeling the label of it and making weird origami like designs in the bottle with the paper shreds, which I would stuff back inside the empty.

I fantasized about food because there wasn’t enough.

I also fantasized about food because I am a compulsive eater and that was a way for me to check out.

I could make six pieces of cinnamon toast and eat them all.

If given the chance I would over eat and I never really understood why.

Now.

With time and patience and love and recovery, I don’t.

But fasting.

Well.

That freaks me out.

Not having food when I need it.

I mean.

I just did a big bonk the other day, Tuesday, when I ran around all day long with the boys and had dinner one hour later than I typically do.

The good news.

It will only be half the day.

I will skip my breakfast and morning snack.

No oatmeal with an apple and unsweetened vanilla almond milk for me tomorrow morning, no hard-boiled egg.

I will have coffee though.

I can do coffee in the morning.

No low-fat string cheese at 10:30 a.m.

No big green kale and spinach salad.

Oh.

I had the best salads the last two days.

Yesterday–kale, spinach, raw almonds, strawberries, cauliflower, carrot, brown mushrooms, olive oil, white balsamic vinegar–so good.

Today–kale, spinach, Roma tomato, swiss cheese, chopped turkey, carrot, olive oil, white balsamic vinegar.

Both days a big Aztec Fuji apple from BiRite sliced up and dredged in cinnamon, nutmeg, pumpkin pie spice, and sea salt.

The days have been warm and sunny, hell I even rode my bicycle home with out my sweatshirt on, a true rarity.

Grateful it was warm.

I forgot my sweatshirt at work.

It could have been a miserable ride home.

I am so glad I have recovery around my food, and well, so many other things as well.

And although I am nervous about going without, it’s not because I can’t afford to eat well, it’s a doctor’s request to do a blood test (one I’ve been putting off for over a year because I didn’t want to do the fast) and I will survive.

I will also take myself out for a nice meal after.

Nothing crazy.

Mexican beans and rice with chicken chunks at Herbivore with a mixed green salad.

Then off to the Inner Sunset where the real treat will be getting done with work early to get my nails done and hit up some fellows I don’t get to see normally on a Friday.

And it will be the weekend right after that.

Fast times indeed.

The week it does go by.

So too shall the fasting.

For like so many things.

This too shall pass.

 

I’m Free

March 2, 2015

I was drifting down towards the sea on Lincoln Ave after just by passing a long line of cars on Chain of Lakes, on my bicycle, happy, happy, free.

I’m free.

I smiled so big I think I could have broken my smile muscles.

But no fear.

They still work.

I’m smiling now.

I could also entitle this blog “I Don’t Care.”

“So how do you feel about that,” he asked me over roasted herb chicken at Firewood Cafe, “about…”

I interrupted without thought, “I don’t care.”

I smiled.

I really don’t.

We were talking about the few dates I went on last week and how that was and what I was thinking about it and it just popped out.

I don’t care.

Oh my god what a relief.

I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t care if I have a date or not this next week, I’m happy.

I’m doing so well in my life right now.

Things just seem so smooth that I could care less whether or not I’m getting asked out or asking out anyone.

In fact, I’m sort of bored with it.

The asking out thing.

I mean, I am so grateful I did all that work and worked some more around my ideal, my sexual ideal, which is just a version of myself that I am striving for, I don’t expect him to come in on a white charger to save my ass.

I already saved it.

I didn’t have some wild and crazy Sunday, it was sunny, I went grocery shopping, I rode my bicycle along Great Highway and saw the ocean, I did some laundry, I met with a lady bug and talked about amending behaviors and did some amending myself.

With no thought as to the results.

I don’t care.

I took the action.

That’s where it’s at, the action.

That’s where the faith comes in.

I believe in myself and I take action to care for myself and when I looked around my sweet little studio, with my new antlers hanging on the wall (on a back board of wood in the shape of a heart), my fresh made bed, my jackalopes perched in their corners, my bunnies all arrayed in their spots, I knew that there was nothing I needed.

I have it all.

I don’t know how long this feeling will last.

This too shall pass, the good and the bad, it all passes, but the serenity in the face of the ups and downs and the passing and going hither and yon, I don’t think that is going to pass.

As long as I continue to take the actions indicated and not rest on my laurels.

When I was riding my bicycle to the Castro to meet with my three o’clock sit down and do the deal, I was reminded, a scent memory, a visual reminder, of a day in my childhood with the bright sun shining down and the carnival or circus or fair I was at with my mom and dad and grandmother.

I remember the palm trees shaking against the blue sky and the little rubber ducks that went by on a stream of water and the small, bright, balloons on the peg board, I remember holding a hand, my grandmother’s or my mothers.

I remember strings of lights over head, but they weren’t lit yet, it was still sunny, I remember the feel of asphalt under my feet and the white paint that felt just a touch tacky as if the paint was still wet.

I was in a cotton dress.

Violet or soft purple, I can’t quite see it, it flits at the edge of the memory.

I remember walking through stalls, as though at a farmer’s market, so perhaps it was the state fair, I don’t know.

But the memory washed over and my heart opened and I grinned happy to know that my life is so full and rich and wonderful.

I have a lot of memories that I don’t remember from my childhood.

That is a side effect of trauma.

I went through a lot of it.

I don’t remember it.

Thank you God.

Instead, I remember the smell of popcorn on the wind and my grandmother buying me a small plastic bird that she stopped to fill with water and when I blew on the stem it bubbled and spit a little then trilled a warbling song of childhood.

A memory of laughter caught in the plastic throat of a toy bird.

I remember my grandmother giving me a glass of coconut milk from the white paper pint carton in the refrigerator.

How sweet it was and the pulp that squashed between my teeth.

“You’re golden, like someone from Polynesia,” he said to me on Friday.

I laughed, “I’m half Puerto Rican and Polynesian, as a matter of fact.”

No wonder I love dousing myself in coconut butter lotion and hair conditioner.

I just did.

I climbed out of the shower after my day of bicycle riding and grocery shopping, of cooking (Chicken and shrimp with ginger and garlic, onions, green beans, carrots, broccoli, pea pods, cabbage, and brown rice–throw some Braggs Amino’s on that and it’s a party) and I heard Regina Spektor on my stereo and I thought.

I really am free.

Free to do what I want.

Free to be the woman I want to be.

Free to wear funky eyewear and a flower in my hair.

Free to remember the good parts and not be ashamed of the hard things and the growth experiences I went through to get here.

It’s all a gift, folks.

This life, this love.

This light.

This sunshine.

So much love.

So much freedom.

“I don’t care,” I smiled, then I laughed, I laughed so hard I almost cried, a tear slid out from behind my fabulous eyewear and I took off my glasses and wiped it off the top of my cheek.

“It’s amazing!”

“Girl, you’ve done the work,” he closed the book and held out his hands to me.

We held hands and said some words and breathed and the world breathed right along with us.

I’m free.

Sings so soft as if she’ll break.

Laugh so loud.

Because I know that there’s nothing wrong.

For on this day I’ve learned to fly.


%d bloggers like this: