Posts Tagged ‘ulloa’

What Are You

January 11, 2016

Going to do with the rest of your night?

“Read,” I said.

But there was a hitch in my voice and my friend heard it, “you think you really need to read more tonight?”



Cuz mama done did a lot of fucking reading today, yo.

Fuck load.


In fact.

I finished the reading for my Psychodynamics course, my Multi-Cultural course, and my class on the Clinical Relationship.

I also got half way through the reading for my Professional Ethics and Family Law course.

I am in fact.


Done with the reading for tonight.

What do I want to do?

Rub one out and take a shower.



Don’t mean to hurt your tender mercies, but fuck, I could use a little stress relief.

I could also do a load of laundry and yes, of course, I will write my blog and perhaps take a shower.

I am singing too and I was dancing for a little while too.

I can’t just sit on my ass all weekend and read.

I did get out a tiny bit today.

I rode my bicycle to the SafeWay and back.

Of course it rained.

I had to laugh.

The only time I got out of the house was when it rained.


I got all the things I needed to get me through the week and into the school weekend.

The only thing I didn’t do was get my readers.

I will be calling Copy Central in the morning and if they’re ready I’ll hop on my bicycle and jam down before work.

I don’t necessarily need them, now that I have done the reading for the classes–the professors put it up on my student account–but I could stand to have the readers since I’ll want to review things before class, terms, etc.

Plus, I do better reading on paper, I just do.

The relief that I have for getting the reading in, though, it feels pretty grand.

I feel like I’m on good footing for the beginning of the second semester of classes.

And also that I am finding the time to take care of myself and do the work to such ends.

In fact.

Get this.

It is unethical to not take care of myself!


One of the ethical principles in my Professional Ethics class is literally self-care.

A person who is in what is considered a “helping profession” has an ethical responsibility to take good care of themselves.

To have boundaries.

To know what they need.

For self-honesty.

Which means I need to experience balance.


I won’t do more reading tonight.

I don’t have to.

I do need to sing.

I do need to dance.

It wouldn’t hurt to chat with a friend.

I did meet with a lady bug and we did some reading and relating.

I did go to my spot up on Ulloa and 41st.

I got a ride from a new friend I met there last week, which is nice, getting to know ladies in the hood.

I unexpectedly had lunch yesterday with another woman in the neighborhood.

Friends are good where I live because my best girlfriends live across the bay and sometimes a gal has got to see some friends, if just for a moment, if just for a hug before or after meeting to do the deal.


Towards that end.

I also cooked for the week.

In fact, I cooked extra, so I have food for every day at work and for the three days of classes on the weekend.

I am a little concerned with the weekend, although, not from a scholarly perspective, that will arise I am sure, but I feel pretty confident with the work I have done so far.


My concern is the weather.

It’s forecasted to rain.

All freaking weekend.

I don’t want to be on my scooter in the rain.

I don’t want to be on my bicycle either, but I feel like it’s a safer option, than riding the scooter in the rain.

At least I’m used to riding in the rain.

I could take MUNI too.

I just loathe the thought of having to get up earlier to accommodate MUNI schedules.


I don’t have to worry about it now.

Worrying about weather days before class is not helpful.

Hell, worrying about anything days in advance, in any area of my life, is not helpful.

Granted, I do like to be prepared, so it’s in the brain pan, but it’ll work out.

I am sure.

I will get to and from class however I am supposed to and it will be just fine.

I am just fine.


I am.

I had a spot of sadness last night, after I had done my nightly check in, and it caught me a little off guard, but once it rained on my face for awhile, it passed and I was able to sleep super well.

I treated myself last night and watched a romantic indie comedy.

I don’t often watch romantic movies.

But I was feeling it and after all the reading I had done yesterday I figured something light hearted and sweet and romantic was needed.

It was.


I cried.

I got caught up in the mythos of the movie, which is just what it is, myth, fantasy, supposition, story telling, romantic notions and trivialities.

I got swept up.

That’s ok.

I tell myself.

I don’t think I am the only person who has ever watched a romantic movie to get a little cathartic relief.

I think I was just surprised by the feeling of sadness that overcame me.


As I have been practicing, having the feeling and letting it go is helpful and I forgot until I was writing that I was sad last night before bed.

I was also held and warm and safe and loved and my heart was full and I knew it was all ok, too.


And self-knowledge.

Changing ideas about who I am.


Constant, serious, ethical, self-care.


Practicing these principles in all my affairs.

I’ll get there.

Where ever there is.

The journey is the point.


The lesson is to let go and keep moving.

There is more to see and love and be.

Go forth.

Sweet psychology student.


Not perfection.

That is the modus operandi.

Show up and the rest will follow.

It always does.



All the Pretty

September 19, 2013

All the pretty, for you my sweet.

My heart just soared tonight as I crested the hill at Ulloa Street and 41st Avenue in the Outer Sunset.

The light.

It was pure gold.

Literally standing bathed in the golden hour.

I felt like it was mine for the taking and I am so glad I slipped my camera in my bag before I headed out.


Sunset, Ulloa Street at 41st Avenue

Especially as I had lunch with a new friend in Cole Valley today, let me stop and give a quick shout out to Zasie, didn’t know you had that cute little patio happening, I will be catching more action there. ┬áSo lovely, especially on a day with no fog and warm sun scattering the leaves along the sidewalk.

I love Indian Summer in San Francisco.

I felt pretty.

They sky felt pretty.

The sun felt pretty damn good on my skin.

Heck, I just realized that I ate outside twice today, dinner with my friend and her daughter on the patio behind the house, and lunch on the patio at Zasie, not bad for San Francisco.

In fact, I have dined al fresco more meals since I moved here than I have any where else I have lived in the city.

Maybe I will take my lunch down to the beach tomorrow.

I have the day off.

Anyone want to go to the beach?

I will be taking more photographs.

I did not have my laptop with me to share the photos I was approached about while I was at Burning Man, but we did sit at Zasie and then later at La Boulange, and talk about Burning Man, photography, art, artists, New York, LA, Paris, the art scene, photographers we both admired.

I got the gist for the project he would like me to tackle and we will be setting up another time to go over my photos and have him choose some for the site.

I am quite excited.

I am also feeling some nice validation.

The way he spoke, the way he spoke about how I witness my world and my art, I felt like I was being acknowledged as an artist.

Which I am.

Yeah, I know, y’all got that nanny thing at the forefront of your minds.

But I am a creative and I do create and I told myself a long, long time ago that I was not the one with talent in my family for art.

You betcha.

She’s a smart one, that Carmen, but her sister’s the artist.

And the pretty one.

Today, well, I felt pretty, how could I not, swaddled in the light from the sun, that golden orb swinging low over the sea draping the world in a blanket of flaxen light.

Sky Light


And I felt like an artist.

I spoke about what I do, how I work, where my inspirations come from, how I frame my shots.

I am an amateur and there is a long road ahead of me with the photography, with the writing as well, but how nice is that?

I have a long road to meander down, pointing my camera at the world.

My favorite French film is La Petite Voleuse.

There are things about it that captivated me when I first saw it.

It tasted like real popcorn hot and drizzled with real butter fat, and sweet Pepsi in a paper cup chock full of crushed ice, and a Lindt dark chocolate bar, they sold the Swiss chocolate at the Majestic on King Street in Madison, WI, where I saw the movie.

I was seventeen.

I wanted to be the little thief, not necessarily the life that she came from, it smacked a little too close to mine, but the escape, the romance, the taking of photographs.

The heroine rides off on her own into her own sunset, along the coast, with a camera from a shop with promises to never steal anything else again, but the images she takes with that camera.

I imagine myself as that girl.

Riding along, perhaps not in the sidecar or a vintage motorcycle with my debonair, skinny, French boyfriend (although I do find myself whistling the little snatch of song he whistles to her the first time he presents her with a pair of sunglasses he has swiped from a street vendor while she sits in an outdoor cafe sipping from her white bowl of cafe au lait), but on my bicycle, taking photographs of the world.

Just like I did not know where I was going with this blog when I started it, I don’t know where I am going with the camera, but it does something to me, something gets inwardly re-arranged when I frame up the shot and something comes over me when I look back at the image and I edit it down.

I cannot quite describe it, but it feels right.

So I feel pretty with possibility and light and the gold dusted sand dunes on Ocean Beach which beckon to me to walk them and take more pictures, take more images and see what comes of it all.

Nothing may.

If only for the pure enjoyment of it all.

Which is ultimately what artists do, right?

I don’t write this blog for you.

I write this blog for me.

I look everyday at the stats and who is reading what, but I don’t write for the audience, that you are along for the ride is a thrill and a pleasure, but the stories are mine, the images too.

I create for me.

I love for me.

I love me as an artist.

I love that I get to be an artist.

I still may wake up tomorrow and doubt the veracity of it, but as I hear it said more and more and I type away every night, and scribble away every morning, as I point what ever camera I have on me toward the image that captures where I am exactly at this moment, a kind of poetry, I confirm it with in.

I am just a channel.

A conduit.

Another way for the beauty to come out and across from somewhere and something unknown, a core of unrelenting power and love.

My truth.

My art.

My words.

My photographs.

My pretty.

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