Bring Me The Money

Or at least the secret password and internal knowledge needed to figure out BMI.

My friend alerted me years ago that he had listed me as the lyricist and vocals for While You Were Sleeping, an album he put together using my poem as a framework and inspiration point for the album.

I never did anything with that knowledge.

Well.

I started a BMI account.

But I never registered anything with it.

I have no idea how to do it and I have sort of let it lapse.

However.

I keep getting e-mails from BMI and most of the time I just think, oh there’s that again, maybe I should do something about it.

Then.

I never do.

But as the days wind down and the nights get shorter and chillier, I am thinking, hmm, what if there’s a few dollars there, I could use that money to go to Paris.

I also recognized that I wasn’t investigating it because the likelihood is that there is no there there.

I mean.

It’s sometimes a nice little fantasy, that somewhere, unbeknownst to me, just when I really could use it, say in a few weeks when I fly to Paris, there’s a few grand just lying around.

Granted.

I got my grand.

And I used it.

Have you seen my scooter?

Damn she is cute.

Still parked in front of my house, haven’t gotten the permit paperwork forms from my boss yet, but they are in the works and I will get them and when I do.

Watch out!

Money comes in and money goes out.

I also paid my phone bill today.

And that’s nice.

Because that’s it.

The only thing I owed money on.

Well.

Aside from my student loans, but we won’t go there for a few years yet, ‘k?

I believe in happiness and abundance and prosperity and God will give me exactly the right amount of money to enjoy in Paris.

It would be nice to be properly registered on BMI, however, and to that end I did reach out to my friend who is the musician.

And.

Yeah.

I should get a hold of the gentleman because in a google search I just came across an Andreas Saag remix of the piece.

Nothing of my vocals, but those words.

Well.

Those are words are wrote and if there’s a remix being sold I should think that I should be getting a smidgen of the proceeds from the sales.

I was also thinking, in a less capitalistic, I better get mine sort of thing, that I would like to record again with Sunshine Jones, and perhaps record the sonnet sequence that I wrote.

Thoughts.

Random and parsed out while I type.

I am spending too much time trying to flip around websites and seeing what is out there.

I don’t know much about many things.

I am distracted with thoughts of Paris, thoughts of dating, hormones.

“You should go on a date,” my friend said to me tonight.

Um yeah.

In what time?

I will say, I am pleased with the amount of reading I succeeded in getting through this morning before work, though.

I have a big paper I have to write next weekend and all the reading is done.

Now to winnow and sort and figure out what is going to go where.

Plus.

Um, yeah.

The other three classes I’m in.

I have to do the reading for those classes too.

So up a little early, again tomorrow, and reading some more.

I just have to keep up the momentum.

And perhaps I can squeeze in a movie date on Saturday.

That would be nice.

Although the movie I wanted to see, Rock the Kasbah, doesn’t seem to be playing anywhere.

Which is a shame.

I do quite adore Bill Murray.

There’s nothing out there that seems appealing either, other than the double feature at the Castro, but it’s big time commitment: Apocalypse Now and The Thin Red Line.

I mean.

Brilliant.

But will I be completely burnt out after sitting in the Castro Theater for four hours?

Too bad it’s not the movie that was on the marquee tonight as I pushed my bicycle up Castro Street towards Market.

Dazed and Confused.

Dude.

That’s like the perfect date movie.

Seriously.

But.

Not to happen.

It’s only running tonight.

I love the Castro Theater.

I’m not going to worry about Saturday.

It will take care of itself.

And if I’m to see a movie, then it will happen.

There’s other things for me to do.

Like read and write papers.

Bwahahaha.

Ugh.

There’s work to keep me busy and doing the deal and meeting folks and just life.

Which when I woke this morning, letting myself get an extra half hour, but still getting up earlier than I needed to so that I could read, I rolled up out of bed to greet the beautiful clear blue skies, high and blustery with wind.

The sun was out.

The day was bright.

My scooter parked in front of the house.

My bicycle, my steady and faithful steed, taking me to work.

The gratitude filing me up as I pedaled up Lincoln Avenue.

The hawks circling over head, lifted my eyes to the sky and I smiled.

Deep in my body, happy in my soul.

“Happy is my principle today,” I said out loud to no one in particular.

Perhaps just to hear myself say “happy.”

And I rode.

Knowing that I had a good job to go to.

That I still can afford to live in San Francisco.

That I am sober.

That I am healthy.

That I have amazing friends.

I have community.

I have a beautiful home.

I have a scooter.

I have a Macbook Air and an Iphone.

I have so much.

I have a trip to Paris.

I have love and abundance beyond my wildest dreams.

So if I don’t get some royalties from BMI.

Whatever.

I’m still going to investigate though.

Seems the adult, next right thing to do.

And whatever happens.

I’m ok with it.

Because there is nothing at all wrong in my world.

Not one damn thing.

Luckiest girl in the world.

One Take

Damn it.

I had the whole thing, ten whole sonnets, in one smooth, seamless, gorgeous take.

Except.

Fuck me.

I thought I had my voice recording rolling on my phone.

As it turns out.

I did not.

Damn it.

Ugh.

I recited ten freaking sonnets, all my vigor, all heart, my voice nicely warmed up and lush, ready to go.

I had already read them once through, catching the places that didn’t roll off the tongue, practicing the words that are a little tricky to pronounce, getting it down.

Then.

I read them.

God damn, I was pleased.

Until I looked at the time on the recording and it said seven seconds.

Fuck.

I don’t have the energy to do that again.

The gentleman that asked me to do the collaboration with him wants me to read them to him, but his schedule and my schedule have not synced up yet.

And he’s leaving for Japan on November 1st.

So, not like there’s a lot of time.

Maybe a snippet tomorrow, a slice of minutes where we might be able to connect.

I had never used the voice recorder app on my phone, had no clue it was there, frankly, I’m not into recording myself, although I do like the sound of my voice, but we had to record for our role play on Sunday in Therapeutic Communications class, so I learned how to use the app.

It is super easy.

I should have been able to record the reading, but I did not.

I will try again.

I would love to perform the poems for the gentleman, I like the idea of that, the poems do take on a different feeling when I am reading them, I know that well.

There is still time.

And I could probably also just read them to him over the phone.

Perhaps I will try one more time tonight to record them.

I suppose I could also ask for help.

Ahhahaha.

God.

I amuse myself.

My first thought, literally, the one that just leapt into my brain, “who the hell is going to want to listen to me recite poetry?”

Ugh.

Martines.

Stop being your own worst critic.

I have been told many times that I have a nice voice, I am sure that there are people who would like to hear me recite them and if not, at least have the patience to sit and record them for me while I recite them.

Maybe I will ask the dj I collaborated with, Sunshine Jones, to do a recording of them with me.

I would like that.

It was fun to record “While You Were Sleeping” with him.

That reminds me too.

I need to figure out BMI.

I have a song writing credit on the track as well as vocal attribution for that album.

I could have money sitting there and I don’t even know it.

Time to reach out to a friend who said they could assist with that.

I put a little pinch of money in savings today and I am close to having what I need for the scooter, what if there was some money lying about that I could put claim to, I could get the scooter sooner!

I need to address that.

I need to address many things.

Reading for class.

Writing papers for class.

Time management.

Transcribing my therapy session for Therapeutic Communications.

All the stuff.

All the things.

There’s a full moon tonight and what I would rather do than read or write or work on papers or record myself again, damn it, is go down to the beach and watch the moon set, but it’s cloudy and overcast and a drop of rain fell on my face as I turned onto 46th Avenue from Lincoln on my bicycle.

There is not moon to be seen in the sky.

Anything to distract me from the work.

Although, I found, wonderfully, that I was able to reel myself in a little bit today when I was having anxiety about getting enough reading done this weekend, that I recognized I was living in the future, afraid that I wasn’t going to have enough time and it was distracting, and unnecessary.

I called a girl friend.

I got some perspective.

I called my person and got more.

I can catastrophize to make myself feel like I am being pro-active.

I am used to responding to emergency and feeling hectic about getting things done creates an unreal drama in my head, an urgency when there is no urgency.

That if somehow I manage it all better, control it all better, I will feel better.

Instead of knowing that what I am doing, steady, slow, sure, progress, reading a little everyday before work and as much as I can on weekends, is getting me by.

Not quite as on par as the syllabus, but I haven’t yet turned in a paper late and I know quite a few of my cohort are struggling with getting all the work in and done.

I am ok.

And my voice is warm.

I can feel it in my chest.

The hot tea I am drinking is not hurting.

I may try to give the recording another go here in a minute and see if I can actually do it.

It also doesn’t have to be perfect.

I am performing for a one man audience.

A person I don’t even really know.

Although I feel a connection to.

And a deep appreciation for.

I feel like I have a patron.

Jesus.

That just gave me goosebumps.

It is something special to be asked to collaborate and to be sought after for my words, it is a huge compliment and although I know I will write for myself no matter what, I am not unaffected by having an audience.

It is an honor to be seen.

And.

Heard.

So with that thought in my heart, I go forth again to record the sonnets.

Fingers crossed!

Done And Done

And done.

But.

Not done in.

So thankful to have had this day of working on all that is love and home and work and homework and heart work and everything that life entails and encapsulates.

I had a full day.

One that I wasn’t exactly sure how it was going to go off.

I insisted on letting myself sleep in an hour longer than I normally would.

Well.

I don’t know if insist is the right word, it felt almost like work, just lie here and let yourself go back to sleep.

The machine in my brain wanted me up and about and get on it girl, there are things to do, people to meet with, breakfast to cook, writing to be done, you have papers to write and so much reading, do you have any idea how much reading you have to do?

Not as much as I did this morning, but I get a head of myself.

I was able to combat the thoughts by acknowledging them and saying, might have been mumbled into my pillow as I turned over in my bed, my delicious, delightful, pinch me I’m so happy I get to sleep on it, bed, “thanks for sharing,” and go back to sleep.

It worked for a little while, I got another 45 minutes in.

Of course the next time I woke up, I was up and going.

And really.

I haven’t stopped since.

Although there have been reprieves and moments of down time today, moments when I look about me with such gratitude that I am overcome by what I have and the abundance, nay, the super abundance, of love in my life.

I have been all around the world and I have this home that has become such a home to me that I am in literal awe of what I have.

There is art and beauty everywhere.

The last piece finally coming together as a friend came over this morning to help me hang the Diebenkorn he gave me months ago.

When I look at that piece, the way it sings on the wall, the heralding of love, the colors replete and yes, matching, complimenting, extending around my room, I am reminded in subtle, and not so subtle ways, of the journey of the last few months.

Had someone said, you are going to cry this much, and feel this much pain, and yes, laugh this much, so much that you think you might pee your pants or vomit out sushi, or good forbid snort (all of which have happened in one degree or another) or that I might feel so much joy that I felt I was to burst, that I was going to see so much art, have access to it, get to bring it home and make my home even more my home, well, I would not have believed it.

Which is funny.

Since I have big feelings and the above sentence does not seem at all irrational to me when I re-read it.

Of course I changed.

My home becoming my unexpected crucible and I am replete with happiness, content in a way that I had not thought possible, though knew, really knew, was out there for me.

I have everything I need.

I have so much that I want, that the wanting is almost supplemental.

But I will tell you a secret.

Shhhh.

I am thinking again about a scooter.

I have been saving.

And I have not touched the financial aid disbursement that I have received for school.

I have gotten help, I won’t say that I haven’t, I have been gifted generously and taken care of and that has allowed me to throw a little more in my savings than I typically do.

I am feeling it out again, the scooter topic, as my knees also bugged me a bunch today and over the last week.

They buckled a little trying to help lift my bed out-of-the-way to hang the Diebenkorn and I found myself bursting into tears.

Although I valiantly tried to hide them, my friend looked at me in alarm and told me to sit down.

I was humbled.

My body, a token of constant humility.

I can dress her up, but sometimes I can’t get her to walk from here to there.

Anyway.

The scooter has been on my mind again and part of that, I won’t lie, is for efficiency as well.

How much more reading could I get in if I weren’t riding my bike to and from work and school?

What places I would be able to go to, doing the deal especially can be hard some days and I feel that a mode of transportation at night that is faster than my bicycle will be helpful.

I am hoping the little Buddy Italia in cream and avocado is still at Scooter Centre.

If it’s not.

It wasn’t meant to be.

If it is.

Heh.

Maybe I can get a better price on it than the one he offered me when I looked at it a few months ago.

Plus.

I am expecting a bonus at the holidays.

If I can hold off on spending the loan money and get a nice bonus, I maybe riding a scooter into the new year.

This is all speculation and pulls me away from the moment and the further acknowledgement that I need to give, to myself, really, I just want to acknowledge how much work I put into those sonnets–the ones from last nights blog.

I sent them off just before logging on here to write my blog.

I went through them three more times today and edited them, read them out loud, tightened them up, and then sat and dreamed on them while I wrote my Psychoanalytic Paper on Freud’s theories of Mourning and Melancholia.

Ayup.

And I used them in my paper.

Which was fantastic and outside the box and I was hesitant, but my friend said go for it, and when I consider how much work I did on them it didn’t feel like I was cheating to include them in my paper.  If anything, it felt like an acknowledgement to the professor of how much the Freudian work actually found its way into the sonnets as I was writing them against the back drop of analysis and dreamscapes.

I re-titled the work, tightened it up, and sent it out.

The collaborator poet has officially sent her poems out into the world for the photographer artist to use.

Part of me hopes he likes it.

The majority of me doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass.

I did a damn good job.

I love them.

They brought me joy.

I spent a lot more time with them then I thought I would, but I received so much in return, including a lot of insight that I extrapolated later in my paper when I wrote it.

That was my day: poetry, reading, writing, repeat.

Take small breaks, meet with ladybug, cook food for the week, do laundry, go with friends over the bridge to do the deal in Mill Valley, hang out, catch up with folks, then come home and finish all my Freud reading for class on Friday.

Thank God.

It’s done.

Oh.

Hahaha.

Don’t worry, I still have reading to do before Friday, but I don’t have any more papers due.

A reprieve.

I’m done for now.

Just now.

And with that.

Time to put up my feet.

Curl up in my bed.

Sip a cup of tea and look in astonishment at the prosperity and abundance in my life.

I am a very lucky girl.

I am.

So.

Very.

Very.

Lucky.

Quick

FAST.

Before the god damn internet goes down again.

I hate spending precious minutes trying to stand on my head in one corner of my studio to get online.

But.

Here we are and I am going to make this short.

Because they deserve to stand on their own.

Voila!

The Ten Principles

 

I.

While you were sleeping—love came and went, dancing

A triple toe trapeze tango of adoration. Spinning fast

Her heart swinging on a curled pink ribbon of gewgaws, prancing

Feet tip toeing through the cold dust float flashing past

My arms. Aching to cradle you against sugar tit breasts,

I breathe deep into the mask of Universality, while the glowing

Moon eclipses the mountains, all calico decked slumbering beast

Pushing through purpled velvet haze—God, not crowning

Michelangelo, but breathing soft the hairs of strawberries, bent

Underneath the thumb pad of kissing desires, all the plump,

Soft, smooth, cooling wonder of marble, the pursed lips, immediacy

In this plush madness of moment and soul lifting exuberance.

II.

Through the rooms filled with snow, her name went, Mathilde,

Participatory departed, like soft dusky punk pink roses on flushed

Cheeks. She chased the soul shadows like imagined butterflies, mild

With stupor across the lamplight of your lunar lit interior, hushed

To enwrap your sleep chilled fingers beneath warm curves.

She reached for you. Come with me, she whispered shivered lush,

Low, a mewling cry of desire complacent under groves

Of moon tinted shadow snow dunes painted grey blue, a thrush

Back, beneath the dewy breathe of my craving. While

I watch, wallflower like, the bent beat of my heart, harsh

Crying like wild geese at midnight flying the last mile

Blinded by the mechanic bleeding colors of erotic ash

Necrotic fallings from the sky, the embers of comets, blooming

Fireworks, which scatter, and sigh on the hot winds gloaming.

III.

And she waltzed. Mathilda and her girls twirled past,

Leaving no trace of footprints, of fingerprints, on lost patterned

Hair ribbons in the shadowy fall of mourning. The last

Lowing calls of the mysterious night, a low howling of stranded

Knowing only too well, how you would awaken in this morn,

Love lost, stricken, wicked with unfulfilled longings. Dreams

Unremitted like dead stars still shedding old light. Mourn

With me this loss as well as the supple light streams

Sleeping. I scrolled my fingers along the nape of

Lion light emanating from your slumbering soul, hesitant

To lie next to you on that rumpled golden scruff—

I curl rather, at the edge of dawn, dredging determinant,

Retiring, restrained, stopped by the wry edge of self

My strivings and reachings pulling you down off the high shelf.

IV.

Wearing heaviest brocade skirts and rabbit fur muffs,

Civic responsibility for the bestowal of the velveteen jackalope kiss.

Betwixt crimson cantina of lust and the mixture of heat, the cuffs

Fall from my heart and I dance, bewildered and remiss—

Lost, forgetful, done in, brushing the butterfly pollen from

My closed eyes, like so much sleep crust, glitter sparkled

Down from above, the father of time, and the mother grim

The lost shoe in the dust. I blow freckled kisses, speckled

Across your neck, then collecting the very essence of you, a fragrant

Flower of night blooming remonstrance, all the wishes

Candles blown out and re-kindled, the fire a figment,

This small symbol dancing on the angels delicious

Bowed head—a corona, a sunburst, a nova flung

Forward. The Universe keens and I fall, wet, wrung.

V.

They pirouetted on ice skates built of elk bone and mouse hair—

Communal effort of wilding animals, crawling from the horizon on tender bellies

Toward that dusty Bethlehem of Eros. Where the, delicate, the fair,

The chaste, the virginal, line up, nay, flounce up, to be lie

Your fingers. And like so much powdered sugar spun flung

From warm beignets, they scatter across the vast lakebeds

Flash frozen underneath the high heartless moon, they sprung,

Unlike Athena from the forehead of Zeus, out of caravans, their heads

Fragments of you, a scent bouquet I would later

Find hidden in my pockets, a sachet, a filament of you—

Relics, sacraments, the ghosting hand of help greater

Then the reality of nothingness in front of me. Dew

Shimmer, a mirage of mighty, mighty love that dissipates

On shrieking winds growling down upon lost participants.

VI.

Chuckling hot chocolate fogged breaths at your snuffling snores,

The radical self-expression of Freudian dream analysis travels

Across the night time playa in search of golden s’mores

To sandwich itself greedily with. Dusted cinnamon time unravels

From powdered doughnut holes. While you were

Wandering, lost, looped, kiting high on rings of smoke,

Tattered shreds of flowing embers flew up into the ether—

Plumes, signs, signets, signals of unconscious drives and love broke,

Intoxicated self with, when I walked this world

Alone. Reaching always. Searching always. Forgotten mementos,

Rings flashing over fingers, always grasping, only to then whirl

Towards dust devils which flicker through the ethos

Of conscious ego states. I am here. I am there.

I am nowhere. Time, oh time, precious, spills soft as heather.

VII.

Drunk on Frenet and ginger ale backs, while you were sleeping,

The radical self-reliance of ravens swooping through the air

High above the choke dust gathering, the digestive reaping

No benefit from the over consumption. I spit out fear and I care

Dream you into being. While you were sleeping I

Gathered my skirts high, hands balled into hard fists, tight

With the longings of bees heavy headed with pollen. Fly

Me to the flower of that moon. Take swift the night—

Drink your pomegranate wine and I will eat your honeyed

Self—a glance of lusted swooning infatuation, Psyche

To your Cupid, frustrated no longer, less the moneyed

Love of convenience. Moving together, bound on the aching

Heartstrings irrevocably tied to each other, a tangled

Tight rope of carnival carnality, a bloodied heart mangled.

VIII.

I came and went, dressed in love’s trappings, cantaloupe

Colored decommodification, a dress built on the shimmering

Heat billowing below the desert mirage. An antelope

Gallops a head of me like a grey hound whippet, a glimmering

Song, the forest alive, to shelter you from the suns

Heart and the minds wanderings. I lean into this wind,

Surrendering again, let go, I whisper, the moisture falls

From my eyes, sea salt sorrow melts me. I am blind.

Black Mission figs for which I so hungered, yet I thirsted

First, always, only, for you. Unable to slack this need

I search endlessly, ceaselessly, across the white flats, bested

Only by ardent sensibilities, I watch you, this greed,

My unrepentant neediness, I cannot bear to sustain, yet always

I do. I shoulder you; ever beneath the binding suns rays.

IX.

Moon beams, raindrop garters, a shift I built on the

Gifting’s of iterant wanderers, silks, and sateen’s, cotton fine

As gossamer, the ghosted kisses of love, the lunar moth

Against the palm o my hand, the silvery star shimmer line—

Rays and the moon’s philandering’s. While you were

Walking with me, beside me, hand in hand, long legs flashing

Forward, covering vast ground, I had always walked, bare,

Alone, lifted on sparrow wings fragile looking, yet lasting.

For darling, while you were sleeping, I went a hunting,

A chasing, a twirling, a spinning, with my divining rod heart,

My palmistry set in my pack, my soul tucked in bunting

Baby rabbit skin, to find a place to nestle in, part

Dreamboat, part rowboat out at sea, likes a seedpod

Flouted from cattails, the dander of fairies, and the kisses of God.

X.

Backward migrations of monarch wings, I opened wide

My arms, ardent with radical inclusion. I accept all

Your love. I prosper, now, underneath the dark side

Of the lunar landscape, I dance, ecstatic, and then fall

Sleeping, as the women came and went speaking not of

Dusty spires of ashen truths fallen along the way

Side, strewn in the ditches, lost like the tattered clothes

Of crumpled doll dresses. No. This day, my heart allay

To find a bunting to wrap my baby in. Fur

Languished with laughter, swaths of parachute skins

Colored bright as sugar spun sunsets over mountains. Stir,

Me, shake me, toss me, I float, my arms laden with sin

Full, replete, taken within, to the abandonment of loving

You. My gifted wild trumpeting, my Jericho blowing.

Fin.

Today’s Password Is

Love.

Yesterday’s was “tool.”

But that was yesterday.

“Password!  Password!” My little guy shouted from the steps.

I was laden down with grocery bags and diaper bags and my own bag, his younger brother, and it was time to get inside for dinner.

“Tool!” I shouted.

“That was yesterday’s!” He replied and grinned.

“Big guy, I need your help, I have too much stuff, you have to give me a hint today,” I said juggling all the things on the steps and reaching for my keys while balancing his three year old brother and his brothers hat and stuffed cat on his head, that is the cat was on his head, not his hat, which was falling into the bushes and the dog was inside snuffling with joy to come out and greet us and it was 5:15p.m. and I had to pee.

“Guess!”

Oh my God kid you’re killing me.

“Spaghetti, apple, banana, milk, market, JP, Dave Hale (the two favorite vendors at the Farmer’s Market that we go to on Thursdays, ie tomorrow, note to self get out the market bags), pumpkin patch!”

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

“Kiddo, I…..

I was getting angry and took a deep breath.

“Love,” he said soft, sweet, his big brown eyes luminous in his face, my little angel, my sweet boy pie, then he kissed my hand and swung open the gate.

I do live in a fairy tale.

Love.

FYI.

Was my spiritual principle to practice today.

I have no idea where the kid came up with it, just that it was all around me.

Has been all day.

All night.

I just got back from a kick assery shopping extravagance at SafeWay.

My friend gave me a ride over after doing the deal.

Grocery shopping.

Not that much of a big deal.

But.

A.

HUGE deal.

I am a bike rider.

I don’t have a car.

I have to grocery shop all the time to keep a pace with the fact that I make almost 95% of my food.

I rarely eat out, unless treated, and my restaurant budget for the month is typically $50.

Lunch out once a week is my MO.

My grocery shopping spending plan, though, is close to $500 or for this month $550, since it has an extra week in it.

That may feel like a lot for a single lady.

But.

I am a single lady in the city and when you compare that to eating out, even one meal a day, I save a lot of money on cooking my own food.

Plus.

I am a person who abstains from sugar and flour.

Aside.

You should have seen my friend and I shopping.

Hilarious.

He eats like a growing high school boy.

I couldn’t tell you what exactly was all in the cart but the highlights were an uncountable number of 2 liters of soda, Chili Cheese Fritos, raw cookie dough, and um, other stuff.

My stuff was fruit and organic veggies, edamame, organic free range chicken breasts, unsweetened vanilla almond milk, turkey bacon (my secret ingredient in my brown “fried” rice that I make big batches of and have for dinners and lunches all throughout the week), apples, persimmons, organic avocados.

I think my friend got some Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal too.

I can’t be sure though.

It may have been buried under a pile of 2 Liter sodas.

Not to say I am better than.

Just different.

If I could eat like he does and get a way with it.

Well fuck yes, hello, I so would.

SERIOUSLY.

I can’t however and that’s cool.

I love that I have such a kind and generous friend.

I am lucky.

Blessed.

Graced.

If you will.

By the amazing people in my life.

Love indeed.

I was feeling the love this morning as I put on my safety orange cord pants.

What?

You don’t have any?

You so need a pair.

I matched them up with, yes, this actually worked, a pink tank top, layered with a grey tank top that I got from Lightening in a Bottle two years ago with a white rabbit on it with colored swirls of pink, turquoise and safety orange.

I also wore a big glittery flower concoction in my hair and glitter on my eyelids.

And.

Yes.

A sparkly blue heart glitter necklace.

It sounds fucking atrocious.

Like a raver candy tripping on molly and LSD with a side of cocaine to take make it all some how disco sexy.

But.

If you do it right, and I did, I promise, it can be pulled off.

“That’s right, Wednesday, get your sparkle on,” I laughed as I looked in the mirror.

Sometimes I forget that one of the ways I have fun is to let myself dress up.

Speaking of.

I’m trying to figure out what to wear for tomorrow nights show.

I will be going straight from work.

But I am getting a ride into work, so I could wear a cute dress, something that I don’t wear too often.

Certainly not for work.

But.

Why not?

It may be time to break out a crinoline.

I dare say my principle tomorrow will be “happy” if I wear a crinoline.

I mean.

How could it not?

Life is good and full of love.

You know what else is lovely.

Aside from the idea of getting my dancing shoes on.

Poetry.

Oh that’s right.

I finished the sonnets!

I am over the moon.

I haven’t written the artist with whom I am collaborating on yet as I have not yet gotten them cleaned up and into my computer, but they are done.

I have the rough drafts of ten sonnets.

Ten.

In fact, I actually have thirteen, but I fucked up the rhyme scheme badly in one and had to toss the whole thing when I realized I had done the embedded poem wrong for that specific piece, and the other two pieces were written before I had the inspiration that led to the ten that I have written.

I used my poem “While You Were Sleeping” as a frame work to work the all the sonnets around.

I also embedded a principle, this time one of the Ten Principles, from Burning Man, into each poem.

Love is not one of them.

Decommodification is though.

Let me just say, I am going to give myself some props here, the fact that I worked decommodification into a sonnet should be noted as some sort of literary achievement, I mean, not like the Pen Faulkner award, or anything, but maybe the Nemerov, the Howard Nemerov Sonnet prize (which I have secretly coveted for over two decades).

Just sayin’.

Anywho.

I will let him know that I have the roughs and I figure I will have them all typed up in my computer by Saturday or Sunday.

Then e-mail them out and I’m way ahead of schedule and if he doesn’t like them.

Well.

He still has time to collaborate with another artist for his project.

And.

I don’t care.

I love them.

I love that I am a writer, a poet, a blogger.

A.

As a darling friend likes to tease me.

“A woman of the world.”

Indeed.

A very loved.

Woman of the world.

It’s Just Wind In My Eye

I swear.

Those aren’t tears.

It was a close call, however, to know if the prickles of tears streaming down my face was actually caused by the wind, it was a brisk ride home, or by the fullness and sense of joy I had at riding home through the park at twilight.

The striations of color were like Easter eggs gone mad and I found myself almost stopping more than once to capture the sunset on my phone camera a few times as I rolled briskly along.

I did not, however, dinner was calling.

Loudly.

Normally I eat at work, but there were adventures and play dates and bicycle rides and stuff and things and I actually left the family, mom, dad, and both the boys at the slides in Dolores Park to scoot to my next commitment at 6:30p.m.

Dinner was not an option for me at the work site tonight.

I was alright with that, I pushed my lunch as late as I could and had a late coffee, which really isn’t always the best thing for me, but then again, I did have a play date rumpus with three little monkeys, so it felt like I was actually in need of the caffeine not for appetite suppressing, but to just get through the play date.

I made it though, and tomorrow, oh lovely of lovelies, is Friday.

I’m ready.

It has been a full week.

Then again, when aren’t they full?

I’m also excited to squeak in a tea with a good friend that despite being in the neighborhood of where I work, I don’t get to see all that much.

I’ve got a date with her tomorrow after work to catch up and have a spot of tea and I’m super excited.

There’s news.

There’s always news.

But sometimes you just got to tell a girl friend the stuff and I’m excited to get to do so without the boys I take care of in tow.

I love them I do.

“We are never letting her go!” The mom said today from the sandbox to her friend who is looking for help having just had a second baby a month ago.

I smiled.

That’s always something so nice to hear.

Job security.

I like having it.

I like that I have a place to park my bicycle indoor and hang it up on a rack.

I like that I got to work fifteen minutes early today too and did my stretching before starting the day.

I am sore.

I mean.

SORE.

The stretching I do before work is about a third of the exercises and stretches that the physical therapist wants me to be doing, but I’m not getting down on the ground in front of the house to do the clam shell stretch.

It’s a semi private street in the Mission that the house is located on, but it is still the Mission.

God only knows what is on the sidewalks.

Gentrification still smells like homeless guy pee.

It just looks a little tidier in the neighborhood.

Sidebar.

The Elbow Room lost its lease.

It’s closing in November, hopefully the establishment will find another place, but I shall be sad to see it leave.

I don’t drink there any longer–although I certainly did for a period of time and there are more than one set of smashed photos from the instant photo booth in the bar, but it was one of the first establishments that I hung out in, even before I moved to San Francisco.

I will never forget how hard I danced the first visit I made there and also how I found the neighborhood a little on the sketchy side and I was very happy to be with a tall guy friend on the way to the bar for the show.

It was upstairs and it was Vivendo de Pao–this amazing Afro-Brasillian fusion band.

I danced so hard.

That show alone could be why my knees hurt, and that was over twelve years ago.

They were amazing and I thought I was in love and who cares if he has a girl friend.

He’s the one.

He’s  so not the one.

He’s married somewhere in the South Bay with a couple of kids.

I haven’t seen him in over 10 years.

I fell in love with the venue though.

And have even gotten, in sobriety, to perform there with Sunshine Jones from Dubtribe, who did a song with me from a poem I wrote when I was in my first year of living in San Francisco, called While You Were Sleeping.

I performed that and another and it was a kind of full circle.

That was the last time I was at the Elbow Room.

It’s a great place to dance, though, and I will make a point of getting to the venue at least a few times before it leaves to be replaced by another condo.

Yeah.

That’s basically what is going in its place.

The owners of the building are not going to renew the lease for The Elbow Room and they just announced to the bar owners today that they would not be signing anew.

Ah, good old gentrification, you just keep happening.

“Don’t tell anyone you like living in the Mission,” my friend told me when I had settled into my first sublet on York and 20th.

“It’s already getting a little too gentrified.”

And that was in 2002.

It’s not over yet.

End aside.

I don’t know that I should end that aside, it got pretty long, and in its own way winds into my blog about San Francisco and beauty and how I am grateful, so very grateful, deeply, truly, madly, wildly grateful, to get to live here still.

I don’t intend on moving anywhere else.

I want all the things and I want them here, in SF.

It’s my home and it can slay me with its beauty without warning.

I wound through the park as the light shifted and the colors in the sunset became more glorious and deep, smote my heart, the velvet and dusk and soft light, filtered through the pines and the tops of the trees, the silhouette of a tall Eucalyptus winnowed with orange and umber and red and then violet and indigo, the crescent moon drifting over it all.

My heart swelled and the scene at Spreckels Lake was astounding, the mirror of the sunset on the flat surface was too glorious for words.

I smiled.

I rode around the corner and past the buffalo in the paddock and the green of the hills and the soft scent of the sea the wood fire burning in a fireplace, I swear, it was just the wind in my eyes.

I do cry for joy sometimes.

I might have tonight.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

In my life.

In my body.

In my home.

In my San Francisco.

It’s the Little Things

It is the small things, the kind words, the e-mail, the acknowledgements, that show me I am on the right track.

“I want what you have,” she said to me on the phone.

Thank you.

I am doing alright.

Yes, yes I am.

I got a sweet e-mail from Sunshine Jones tonight as well.  I was not expecting it and the title alone made me want to jump up and down, pee my pants, and then, inexplicably, for a brief moment, delete the message without reading it.

The re: “While You Were Sleeping Royalties”.

I had to look at all my other e-mails first.

I had to take a deep breath and remember that he had told me that no one was getting rich off this song.  I do not doubt that. It is not a top 40 Katy Perry type of song.

But it is my song and they are my words.

Sunshine gave me the heads up that he included me as author of the words.

I am a songwriter.

I am published.

I might, maybe, somewhere down the line in another universe, perhaps, collect a few royalties.

How lovely.

It is little and small and yet positive and bright, like the smell of a tangerine being peeled, it filled me up.  Another quiet nudge, another affirmation, yes, Carmen, you are an artist.

You may be a struggling artist, you may not have it all right now, you may have to go through some ups and downs and you may feel like you are in free fall, but the Universe is watching and you have a lap belt on.

I worked on my book today.  I had some more thoughts about my short story collection.  I went to French class, where I proudly turned in my collage, to slowly watch in horror as everyone else turned in brightly colored maps of the countries bordering France.

Ah, motherfucker.

Oh well, I turned in something.  And it was nice to get out the scissors and the paste and cut up some magazines, I have always loved doing them, I started in high school, and am still doing them now.

They are a solace.

I also, actually this is a cue I took from Sunshine when I was about to travel to Paris my last trip here, he said, get a notebook, something you will write in every day and carry it around with you and get a glue stick.

I did.

I still have it.

I proudly showed it off to my friends when I was working with an Artist Way group.

I do it now.

I have filled one journal, a Christian Lacroix journal with soft, creamy paper, that Tanya gave to me, with my first month in Paris, Metro tickets, photos, scraps of things, postcards.

I have another journal started and already, two things in it.  One which reminds me every time I open it to write; write no matter what, I am a sentimental creature, and sometimes all I need is the handwriting of another to seal itself to my heart and spur me forward.

It is the address from the package I received.

The other is the top cover to the floor plan from the Musee Carnvalet.

There will be many other things in there.

Just like there will be many more words here.

So many words.

I also have to tell you I am an utter thief and a one-armed bandit, “his name was one-armed Tony, because he only had one arm.”

I laughed so loud, then I fished my moleskin out of my bag and took it.  Mine now.

A friend saw me do that same thing tonight, he came up to me, “I saw that, I saw you writing something down, one day I’m gonna read that in a book, aren’t I?”

Yes, yes, sir, you just may.

It was so apt.

“The monkey is off my back, but the carnival is still in town.”

And I have a front row seat for that circus.

Front row.

I know, however, that despite the magic and the glitter, oh, by the way you can take the girl out of San Francisco, but you apparently cannot leave the glitter there.  I go out shamelessly with it.  I told my room-mate today, I am done trying to blend, I don’t blend.

I am myself no matter where I go.

Like it or lump it.

I know that it is a circus and god damn, I want to see it.  I want to be a part of it.  I want to stand on the wooden plank and holler and stamp and dance my little sloppy soft shoe shuffle and pound on the bench and pirouette and sing, slightly off-key, and maybe for a few royalties please, and say

YES.

Yes.

Yes, I am willing to be here and go out into the cold and shiver a little and ache, well, as it stands, a lot, but hey, I am alive, aren’t I?

Gloriously alive.

Alive to see the Champs Elysees lit up like the greatest most stupendous carnival on earth.  Alive to run up the steps of the Metro with my faded Converse on, those are my feet carrying me forth, bursting into the bright cold air laced with chocolate eclair hot buttered croissant air and burning chestnuts.

It’s Christmas in Paris.

How fucking bad can it be?

Christmas Doll

Golden Dragon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Champs Elysees

Cartier

 

 

 

 

Life is a bright bowl of lights to regard, to walk through, to feel.

I am alive.

In Paris.

 

 

 

Now, go listen to While You Were Sleeping on the BMI site 100 times.

Or if you choose go here and donate a few Euro to the cause.

My paypal account–carmenreginamartines@yahoo.com

1 mille bisoux pour vous!