Posts Tagged ‘to thine own self be true’


October 6, 2015

This is how I feel.

I thought about it for a minute.

“Well,” he paused, on the other end of the phone line, waiting for me while I thought hard, while I pulled my thoughts together, when I got honest.

With him.

With myself.

“It doesn’t feel right,” I said.

“As soon as you said “disingenuous” I knew,” he said, “it’s not about what he wants, it’s about what you want and being a 42-year-old woman who is working full-time, in recovery, and going to grad school, well, sport fucking doesn’t suit you, now, does it?”


Damn it man, when you say it like that, I suppose not.

I have been in a quandary.

I have been on the fence.

I have been holding my counsel and keeping things tight to my breast.

I have been keeping them tucked between tongue in cheek.

Hidden between the corsage on my label and the heart skin under the velvet sheath dress.

“I don’t want you to write about me,” he asked.


But then.

When do I write about me?

How does that affect me?

When does not writing about him influence me.

Am I writing for an audience?


I am writing for myself and I may rue this blog.


That blog.

Or the other one over there.


I am restricting myself in my lack of not writing about what has been sitting on my chest.


I have been seeing someone and I won’t say who.

That is private.

I have been dating.

It’s been fun.


It’s been more than fun, like when my face hurts from laughing so long and so loud or I find myself inadvertently snorting, gah, I wish that would not happen, but it does on occasion slip out, when I make the sushi face in front of a man, when I am myself times fifteen, when I am vulnerable and me and silly and seen.


After awhile I have to start writing about some of it.

Some of what lies in that dark night of my heart.

I feel that ache there, just underneath my skin, that pulsing and pulling.

The nerves.



He reads my blogs.

Hi you.

I know, I know, I can hear what you are saying–you my friends and fellows–don’t put your heart out there, don’t write about it.


That’s like being in Paris in the rain and not writing about walking the wet streets with shoes soaked in water and cold toes and cold nose and the umbrella bought at a book shop is not holding up and you go into the Pompidou and see Kandinsky’s Accent en Rose and you don’t write about that.

I get art high.

He gets me high.

Laughing high.

Sweet high.

Delirious and sweet and soft and goofy and me.

And the gift is that we are friends and the gift is that we are not naming it and the gift is that we are dating but not in a relationship.

So what’s the problem?


Dating other people.

We are adamantly not in a relationship.

This is agreed upon.

There is not a bone in my body that says I have to be this man’s girlfriend or that’s it, it’s over.

There is so much more to it than that.

A romantic relationship is off the table.

Although the signifiers are there and I argue that there is romance and sweetness and grace and goodness and moon eclipses over the city and moon sets on the beach and the hand holding are all signs for romance.


I like being courted.

I like being pursued.

Who the hell doesn’t?

What I realize that I can’t do.

What I realize that is disingenuous to me.

Is that I don’t want to date other men, it’s not about the non-exclusivity clause or the I want to be claimed or titled or anything.

I am happy with the present moment.

It is a gift.

He is a gift.

My life is full of gifts.

So much so that I sit in awe just looking around my beautiful little studio, the colors and the light, the framed Marilyn on the wall–it’s up!

Finally, the amazing Sturteveant “Double Trouble” print of the Black Marilyn Monroe that I got at the MOCA in LA months ago.

it is so gorgeous and dreamy and rich and luscious.

So like my life.

And my life is rich and wonderful because I am looking deeper inside my heart at every moment that I can stand to.

I realized in talking with my person this afternoon that it does not matter what he, the man, or the men, or whomever in my life wants, even when it seems so important and so tantamount to me making a decision about what I want.

In the end what he wants doesn’t matter.

What I want does.

I don’t want to date anyone else.

It feels wrong.

It feels like not being present to the unfolding magic.

It doesn’t feel right.



I know.

I am free to change my mind too.

But my mind and my heart are not on the same page.

My mind says, great! Date everybody!

Go out and get it girl!

And then.

Write about it!


Let’s get titillating, shall we?

I’ve done that though.

It doesn’t serve.

It may not mean that it doesn’t serve others.

What others need is not my business.

I have to stay inside my own hula hoop.

I don’t feel right taking another man into my bed when I am seeing someone else, regardless of the title of what that relationship is or lack of title, I know what my heart needs and it’s not to sleep around until the person I want to be with is fully available.

He’s perfectly available for what I have to offer.


The best thing.

I don’t have to do anything about it.

I can not date other men without having to make a big deal out of it.

I’m not about to go running outside and tell all the neighbors or put it out on Facebook, I’m in a relationship with so and so.


I’m his friend.

He is mine.

And I am open to there being more, but I have not expectations.

That’s the change.

That is the big deal for me.

I don’t have expectations.


There are desires.

I am 42 and woman and well aware I desire.

That’s well and good.

My heart desires more.

And that is good too.

All hearts are allowed to desire more.

Whether or not the more is down the line is ultimately not my business either.

What is mine is that I can’t go out and date others, I have committed too far in my heart, there’s too much there to ignore it.

Potentially lonely.

Perpetually human.

Suspended and open.


With what ever risk that involves by being out there.

I am happy putting it out there.

I am ready to fly further out over the dark seas and tie my heart-strings on the tail of comet flaring out over the ocean, a bright streak of light, my precious time on this plane too short to not honor my feelings.

Not his or his.

Or his either.


All mine.

To thine own self be true.

I remind myself as I finish and lay the poetry on the table, the sheaf of my hair falling in my eyes as my heart aches already with words and feelings.

And love.

So much damn.


Who knew there was so much?

To Thine Own Self

January 19, 2015

Be true.

That’s what it says on the metal coin I was handed this evening.

I like that.

I spent a lot of time doing that today in small ways.

I slept in.

I ate my favorite breakfast.

I read some things and said some things and asked for another 24 hours of sobriety.

I meditated.

Outside, in the sun, fourteen minutes.

I had set the timer for twenty minutes, but a neighbor started having a very loud argument with someone on the phone about how she was going to “fuck them up” and that sort of disrupted the meditation.

However, it was really nice to sit, to be still, to let the feelings come.

I had more feelings today than I did yesterday.

I was so busy yesterday being busy that not too many of them managed to sneak in.  I did, however, realize they were there, although I tried to keep a cap on the lid.

I am not very good at suppressing my emotions though, they tend to flow over and that’s alright, they are allowed.

I received some very sweet messages, texts, phone calls, and e-mails regarding my relationship status returning to single this morning and that sort of brought on the waterworks for a moment, but then passed.

Which, fyi, I am grateful did not get blasted all over Face Book.  I remember quite well the last time I was in a relationship and then turned it back to single and everybody in the entire world chimed in.

There was not a peep when I went back to single.

Just maybe a few sad squawks in my heart.

I deleted the photos, took him off my news feed, and deleted our text message history.

Which in the moment was easy and now, well, now I wish I had read them one last time.  There were some extraordinary messages he sent me that I wouldn’t have minded perusing another minute or two.

But that just prolongs it, I know that it does, so it was best.

I have to delete the messages on Face Book as well, but for whatever reason seem unable to do so.  Although I was able to remove him from my instant message feed and to not look at his page at all.

I have to stay away and let the feelings run their course.

I also got to be true to myself by taking out my scooter, starting her up, and going for a ride to the Castro where I had a meeting with someone near and dear to me for an hour and a half.

We’re not suppose to meet that long, but he made me talk, and talk I did, and acknowledge that I was walled up and tight and did not want to open up.

I knew I would be crying at some point today, that’s what I do, so I wore no eyeliner, but I had some mascara on and despite it being waterproof it still flaked off onto the tops of my cheeks.

I got to be present and sit and talk it out and then do some reading and talk some more and let myself get talked into staying in the Castro–I had parked my scooter next to Most Holy Redeemer and knew I needed to stay put.


It was the best thing a heterosexual girl going through a break up could do.

I was safe, I knew I  could just wander around and look at pretty things in pretty stores and window shop and eventually I got a book at Books Inc and then sat in a coffee shop with a big cup of tea and read for a few hours.

I cannot remember the last time I did that.

I kicked through a good portion of the newish Stephen King novel, “Doctor Sleep.”

I love me some Stephen King.

I also bought my best friend in Wisconsin a Valentines Day card.

We exchange those and I saw one that reminded me of her and then I got walloped with emotion.

Valentines Day.




I don’t want to think about Valentines Day.


And then a quiet voice, a still voice, the voice of reason, was like, sweet child, stop.  Get in the moment, you’re in a bookstore, one of your favorite places to be, enjoy it.

So I did.

I walked around and browsed and smelled the good smell of new books and I got the card and the new novel and left feeling quite happy about getting back into a book.

It made me realize that there were a few things that fell away when I got involved in this relationship.

First, the blogging, then the reading, then my voice, then I got small.

“You sort of disappeared,” my friend texted me last night.

“You got so quiet,” another observed.

“You were mute,” he said to me across the table, “and then you weren’t.”

And then I wasn’t.

Things happened exactly how they are supposed to and I won’t stop being grateful for that.

But I did have some other feelings come up.


That surprised me.

I realized I was mad, that I had wanted the ex to work harder at the relationship, that I, oh.

There it is.


I want.

I need.

Do it my way.


I got to bring it right back to me and see where I was in the wrong, where I wasn’t vocal about some things, and where I get to have a voice in my next relationship.

There will be another.

I am getting back on the horse.

“What I noticed with __________ and also with _________ (the man I dated a few times before hooking up with my ex) is that although you approached them, they ran with it really fast, I mean, really fast.”


I need to slow the roll.

I do have the disease of faster, faster, more, more; but it has to be tempered and slowed down.


Coffee dates.

And walking dates and lunch dates and getting to know the person and keeping my autonomy and being me and being fabulous.

That was the other thing that was nice about being in the Castro today, feeling fabulous, yes subdued, but still fabulous, in my red lipstick and curly pony tails and red leather vintage letter man’s jacket.

“I know you from somewhere,” she said to me as she was walking out of the gated entrance to a walk up on Castro Street.  “Are you a drag queen?”


But I play one on tv.

I might be too much for the average boy.

But I am just perfect for me.

To thine own self be true.


Be Strong, Be Still, But Above All

January 20, 2013

This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!






Of course I was not being true to mine own self.  I was being true to a part of myself, that part of me that lives in fear, that which does not ever have enough, despite the warm bed, the full stomach, the art about her, she still fears.


I did a lot of writing.

I did a lot of thinking.


Then I did some more writing.

Then I stopped thinking and I started to listen.




“Don’t go.”  She said, simply, “don’t go,” she repeated.


Her words rang in my ear.  And eventually those words drifted through my blood stream, into my heart, into my gut.


“Follow your fucking bliss, what ever that is,” he said.


His words shouted out from the screen.


Those words sank through my eyes and seared themselves over that patch of fear in my head.


I sat.

I meditated.


I walked.


I sat and I listened some more.


To thine own self be true, was reiterated again.  And then again.


I turned over the 8 year piece in my hand, stamped with a Paris emblem, 8 ans Paris, I wiped the tears off my cheeks, I sat with my back flush to the radiator, warm, and still, I listened some more.


You are not making a mistake.

Even if you are making a mistake, you are not making a mistake.


That part of me that wants to be secure and know everything that is happening and not be surprised, because all surprises are bad right?  Did not want to hear what I was hearing, but my heart did and it blew the thoughts away.


I am not going back.

I am staying.


I can breathe again.


I have to follow my bliss.

I am supposed to travel more.


I am not about to give up yet.


“Time, takes time,” he said.


I breathed in again and felt the tear melt well up in my eyes.

No, sir, I am not crying, that is a snowflake caught in my lashes.




But it did snow again today.  Cold flurries, nothing that stuck, not like the fall that happened last night.  I had not realized that the snow was sticking and when my room-mate came in covered in snow I realized I had to go back out.


I got out of bed and got dressed.  I took a phone and my camera, my house keys and my muffler, and set out into a wonderland.


It was deliriously beautiful.


I wanted to walk up and around Sacre Coeur, but I got an unwelcome “tourist guide” who would not stop following me, I cut my walk short to escape the unwanted attention.


I did, however, feel softly sweet and safe in the crush of snow, the few cars about going so slow you could cross the street without looking both ways.


I turned down job.

I turned down the fear.


I said yes to the great unknown.


I said, ok, you got me this far, where do you want me to go next?




Maybe, I have always had a desire to travel there.


I might stay in Paris, I may go South, I may go where ever the wind blows me.  I may be poor as a church mouse, but I will be rich in experience and abundant with self-love.


When I say yes to trying to stick it out and no to that which I know, then I really am in faith.


Tonight that is what this feels like.




Sitting in the dark—literally—the electricity went out about a half hour ago and no, I can’t figure out how to get it turned back on and my room-mate does not have a clue and go to the store and buy candles and get into it.


Fuck you, I want a cup of hot tea.




Yeah, go to the store and buy some candles.


Sure thing, boss.


I have a dream.


I am living it, I am going to keep living it, and when it no longer makes sense, and I cannot find my way, I will just fall down the hill and maybe instead of grasping out for things to stop the inevitable, I will just surrender and fall.


Just because I am falling does not mean I am failing.


My sweet neighbor just gave me a candle.


I don’t have to dash to the corner store.


I do not have to freak out.


Everything is as it should be.


If it’s meant to be I cannot fuck it up.

If it’s not meant to be I can’t manipulate it into happening.


I believe I am meant to be here.

I am going to stop trying to fuck it up.


I am just going to let it happen.



*I wrote this blog last night on a dying battery, in the dark.  The electricity blew when I went to put the kettle on.  And the heat went out.  And it’s cold here.  In case you were wondering.   The guardian fixed it this morning, but this was my first chance to get it posted.  Another blog will follow later today.

%d bloggers like this: