Somewhere between NY & SF

“The experience of creative awakening I felt this afternoon reading a blog that was more of a photographed window into the jubilant, sunburst outlet of a mind I felt so close to was thrilling. That and reading an essay by a writer who did everything but give up on herself, and all because her brother beckoned to finish the story she felt destined to write. Mental photographs written using the ink of determination; so many of us fear scratching the itch of inspiration based on ignorant fears that what we have to say bears no more merit than any one else’s work. The time, we tell ourselves have come and gone. Dressed up anxiety masked as logic fueling our inaction until years later we spend lofty moments wondering what we were actually afraid of.
I moved here thinking I was alone in the world and thus had nothing to leave behind. The feeling of limbo was freeing in that respect.
Then I moved and found a small peninsula strewn with doors I had every option of walking through. Intimidation set in. Every sort of distrustful, guarded thought came to caress my insecurities, and yet I remained steadfast drawn to the slow moving mass of people – artists – driven more by creative cunning than the desire to be wealthy. Its been a year and I’m no longer intimidated. Hungry and aching for more is all I am and all I ever want to be.”

The sky I fell in love with

I wrote this past April, nearly a year from the date I relocated to San Francisco without much aside from determination. I needed to fall upon this moment this evening, as I slumped out of my writing workshop class carrying a particularly heavy load of self-doubt. A colleague told me, her smile held firmly between both ears, that she loved the rush she always took with her following class. She said she knew that she’d begin writing the minute she was home again. I was glad to hear that too. Told her it meant the class was doing it’s job, beginning the new week with our bodies set to plant firmly in front of the page.
I seemed far more secure than I felt. Peeled an article from my purse on the ride home, and skimmed it for inspiration until my stop came, followed by a steady trot uphill. That’s when I realized where I was going, and what I would do when I got there.
I changed my clothes, got comfortable and carried my laptop from the rug by my bed back to the desk where it belonged. Three hundred words meant thirty minutes had passed, and a plan was made where two hours was the minimum I’d spend doing the same thing every single day.
The journey causes my joints to ache at times, much like the sprawling hills I’m forced to walk up; no way to get home without braving them.
The first friendship I made here, was with a roommate. Sweating and pacing, unable to stop until his heartrate slowed, he told me the hills never became easier to bike. Told me the pain just became expected, hurt less by keeping the muscles accustomed to the journey.
Why should writing be any different?
I’m still hungry. Plagued with fear, I step forward, one foot before the other until a pace is set in motion and I fail to stop because I know just how much it will hurt to start again. I know it will never get easy, and I definitely know the pain of it won’t fully disappear. But I also know it’s worth it, because it’s what I always wanted, who I was before I knew; what I will spend my life earning the aches that come with flexing the muscles only I can see.

One year and a half ago, same shy smile.

I dawdled in feathers and cotton – my bed – and soon climbed the brittle ladder from my fire escape to my roof. I brought a window curtain meant for winter. Sturdy and thick, it would be my shelter from a possibly scalding roof floor, or an additional layer for my naked calves. The dress I wore was silk, and without a closing I tied it in a bow beneath my arms. It wanted to slide down, and several times before I went up, it did. I clothed my arms in a white sweatshirt, and loaded my backpack with water and books. The moment before the climb is always cautious. I take a quick glance upwards, nod in ascension and step high onto the ledge; my boost onto the ladder.

The Sun was stilling the wind for awhile. I felt fortunate to be there, warm and safe. A pigeon landed near me and strolled, it’s gaze wary. I turned over onto my stomach, opened my journal and thought. I listened to the delicate suburban part of town I live in. My thoughts fluttered aimlessly, and soon my chin was resting on my forearm. Naps come so easily.

Nevermore

A soft call woke me up. My watch told me it was a short nap. Clouds swarmed the sky and the Sun, leaving me to turn my curtain blanket as an extra cover. An hour had passed on that platform, and within a couple short hours, my bones seem to have reformed. I smiled because Time seemed to be relaxed, just when I needed it to be.

Now, time for a walk in search of the perfect avocado.

Note on subject line: Stephen Elliot’s Daily Rumpus emails are always worth subscribing to.

What I knew but wouldn’t admit to, was that every job I had would likely instill the same sort of anxiety, and that peace would only come once I was ready to sit in my own skin. Having thought the nasty habit of relying on the opinions of others to speak for my own was put to rest, I’ve proceeded throughout the last year or so to fall into restlessness. It has made those the closest to me uncomfortable and without words.

It was curious to me years ago how wonderful friends of mine could be satisfied with just what they had.

Accepting the limits of time, how fast it generally moves, neither for us or against us; this is a lesson I have to learn.

It’s a memory I am committed to growing from, the one that recalls me telling someone I love of my sadness, and responding to the reminder that I am equally loved and valued with a sunken stare.

There is so much strength in every living thing. At this point in time, I’m thinking the time of ingratitude has reached its end.

No matter the outcome of a given day, I intend to celebrate the fact that I’m still living it.

Its raining today. A man just delivered coffee on his bike. I apologized for him having to ride in this weather, and he just smiled and shrugged.

He said, “I’ll be home soon.”

What a wonderful outlook.

Smile

Yoga was a ritual I obeyed with gratitude, feeling my body take flight along the usual path home from class. Coming home to a hot shower, and a deep sleep  gave me courage in facing the unknown of a new day. On nights when rest seemed so difficult to achieve, poems dripped gradually and then quickly the closer dawn came.

Cycling was also a new sort of awakening. Having only learned how to ride not two years ago, it felt bittersweet to discover there was nothing to fear. This morning I rode my bike to work.  This bike, a beginner’s bearing comfort in weight and nicknamed, ‘the bus,’ made my thighs ache. Coming home, a cold shower became undoubtedly necessary.

Here in my dewy sleeping neighborhood, in an equally active nap loving city, I sit upon my bed with a plush stuffed bunny in my lap, and a warm cup of tea -my third- on a makeshift desk. It’s hard to stay awake lately, but today I feel as if pain has given me the gift of bravery.

I’ve lived with Crohns Disease for nearly a decade, and today I started in on my new treatment of home injections. Tears spilled at the sudden abrasive sting of the first shot, especially when I failed to hold the syringe down for the instructed ten seconds.  Then came time to pinch my other thigh, and withstand the second sharp sting. My beloved made me take four long deep breaths to cool my nerves. A brave moment sent my thumb upon the plunge, but another urge to pull the needle out was quickly averted by my love’s hand upon mine.

Tomorrow there will be two more injections.

When it was over, holding cotton squabs upon my naked thighs, I decided to seek warmth.

So now, I still sit. A blanket around my shoulders, my belly full of tea, and Neil Gaiman’s brilliant reading of The Graveyard Book arriving at a very exciting point in the tale of Nobody Owens. I realize that while I quite enjoyed my solitude, finding balance between that of me as me alone, and me as me plus so much companionship is a rewarding adjustment to this life formerly lived as a loner.

I’m thinking that perhaps I’ll ride again in the morning.

Friday has arrived, and this story has just gotten to the good bits.

Its been quite awhile. I’m summoning – with every shard of ambition – the energy I had prior to moving across the country.

Writing for contests, but refraining from sending because it, ‘just isn’t right yet.’

Kissing the ass of the corporate world wearing a necklace that’s the shape of New York does add an interesting flavor to my sarcasm.

Yet, there are no true losses. Well, one issue; I need a driver’s license.

Avoidance is key in this matter, and I’ve been running from the shadow of oncoming drivers for a lifetime. I never saw the point, and now there is one, which is quite central. Getting the hell out of this sleepy town once in awhile.

I mean, seriously, how many times do I have to wake up super early looking for an open seat on a weekend road trip. Answer: every damn weekend.

License study begins right now.

While I do that, read my review. Or these.

Letters are also nice. Short ones, long ones. Letters!

See, I’m getting that energy back already.

Cute & Gross; best combo

My hat is made of corduroy splashed with flowers and a wide bucket brim.

Sporting a t-shirt with a hare as machine, entitled, “full speed“,

…there are children at every turn.

Graphic novels fanned across the table, a bitter latte cooking the path past my tongue. The Sun is out and it’s a moment illuminated with meditation. It’s the best of worlds for a girl who paid a visit to the burn unit after a failed attempt to operate her super swag french press. It’s been a week, and all you see is new skin. A tad young for a chemical peel.

One day prior the boy and I were celebrating his move in date and found myself out with all the old roommates having sushi.

A simple breakfast is sometimes complicated.

There is an acceptable amount of predictability each moment in life is assigned. Only so much can actually be prepared for.

So how this continues is at the same speed that it began; gradual.

2010, you gave my brain razor burn, but damn if I didn’t learn first hand how enduring are my strength and will.

In four months I’ll have been a west coast resident one year.

My old roommates, the family they’ve become, my job a blessing, my man on his way to stir the pot and lovingly drive me crazy with his appreciation for comic troupes and R.P.G.‘s.

Soon, more visits will come, and just in time as my home continues to change and transform.

There is one song that I’m left with on any day. One that never ceases to draw smiles.

Mark McGuire, thank you…

Live from Noe Valley, see you so soon.

YES

This album has been covering the walls of my imagination with layers upon layers of gauzy, dreamy madness; and its been awesome. If you can’t already tell, I highly recommend picking it up. Just in time for Thanksgiving, something to dream to while all the food soaks your innards, leaving you to sit out the evening…with a plate of pumpkin pie, because whats this holiday without excess!

I want to share a dream I had with you.

I listened to this album and imagined looking back into my past standing right where I was, and finding only the city’s fog to greet me, quickly washing away the moments, great and small, I’ve shared with people.

Lovers, friends, they disappear into nothing, and suddenly that same fog begins to tunnel it’s way around me, wrapping. It’s because I couldn’t help looking back, slowing my pace to meet it with my backside; until it responded. Enveloping me in a circle of fog, my face and body somehow untouched.

A thin pathway appears beneath me, sweeping me down back into the ground that is the very street I stand upon waiting for the bus listening to this album, waiting.

The fog had swept me down, the tunnel led me down, back into the same space at the same time.

The bus finally arrived. It did. This was last night.

Then the following track began to tell an entirely different story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes dreaming, initiates a whispering of answers to questions we ask ourselves.

What’s worth looking back upon? This fog urged me to reconsider slowing my pace to meet it.

The Sun, though now shrouded in a cloak of chill, is never too busy to help you see the way forward.

More writing to be done. See you soon.

The beauty of the life I’ve been given  is its capacity for change.

Last week I signed a lease, and today I measured my new digs. In spite of all the exciting elements regarding my move -friends transforming the living room into a mural, having a seemingly rad landlord, and sweet neighborhood- it fails to be less of a daunting debacle; me living alone, no roommates remembering to water the plants for me, or remind me to take out the garbage.

When the search was still going strong, I wrote this:

Apartment hunting is a prime casualty of modern living.

What we derive from the search for the perfect personalized pod is how to see the beauty from the peripheral.

I think what I meant is that when searching for something that will not only satisfy your tastes, but also immediately makes you feel comfortable, requires skill. The ability to see the beauty beyond an empty space full of glass, plaster, and in my case, wood. Even the lovliest, sunlit spaces have remained to feel empty until I imagined the life I’d lead within them. It’s an interesting excercise, apartment hunting.

Strolling around the block I shall soon reside on, feeling out the little restaurants, boutiques, and meat markets; I took pictures.

For someone who only 3 months ago moved to the soft city of San Francisco from the edgy New York, I am the sort who flinches at the oncoming of change. My shoulders may hunch forward when crossing the street in preparation for something a friend once called, ‘street chicken,’ but my nerves still jolt and fizzle when stress approaches.

The good news is that by engaging in the process of living each day for itself, I may actually be learning how to endure and persevere against change. It’s just a playful theory, but perhaps being afraid and facing it is simply the best way to beat it; fear.

I started off writing, hoping to make a strike a strong  note of optimism. My life story, however,  is currently being written with an internal compass steered by my feelings. This makes things more fickle, and so the end note is one more realistic and grateful.

“You’ve done so much!” my mom tells me, and I nod silently thinking of all that’s left to do… because there always will be.

My present credo: Create, Love, Inspire, Embrace, Live.

One day at at a time. This is such a beautiful city…

*I’ll always be thankful to www.twitter.com/everydaydude for introducing me to it. Look at his photos to see the city’s colorful underbelly

I’ll miss it all; these people, the floorboards, the color that’s found behind doorways and under eyelids. I will dream, as I build a home of my own, of that sunset graced by the callings of a raven named Cupcake, the flowering blossom of smoke my roommate’s joint creates, washing over my face of loneliness, which is really just fear of hesitation, of remorse, of progress.

Try coming from a dry witted city to a smoothed out, significantly greener one and see how quickly your sarcasm drains from the bone.

My point is, while living in a room that belongs to a rasta, in a house with 4 adults, a child, 5 fish, 1 frog, and ongoing visitors; it becomes easy t o lose perspective.

Those trees are my remedy.  Acknowledging the random and natural swaying of some trees Iremember; mostly how to breathe.

Take a step back and sway away the trauma of another day in a very awkward person’s body.