the meaning of a word on a beer label

hello all,  i wrote this last summer in a notebook outside a cafe transferred it to the computer and decided to hold onto for awhile.  i let go of this man a long time ago.  and never thought he would provide me more than enough material.  writing and otherwise.  he also made me realize what i really wanted.  and for that i am thankful.  i think this will be the last piece he will be a part of. okay enough reflective words on the past.  without further ado- the meaning of a word on a beer label.  all my thanks always!

As I stand in the aisle, feet planted in the front of the multiple colors bottled with labels and letters spelled out into words, more words, into the word: Parabola. It stands before me. Boxed because its special. My eyes reading the book of beer bottles scanning left and right and left and right-typewriter swinging. Until it stops on the one word I had forgotten until it stands there with its paper colored box and the description underneath-attention beer geeks and this will go fast. And the flashback of the year earlier roams through the maze of my mind and lands on my chest. 


I pause. I pause. And think about the bottle I still have sitting in my fridge. With the same name. The one released in 2010. Sold out but I got one of the last bottles to call my own. I bought it to share. But never did I. It transferred from my old house in noe to soma to inner richmond and back and where it lives and has lived since september in the mission. I had bought this to share with someone who I'd stop seeing more than once, twice to be exact or was it three times, the last being a drift of little to no contact to calmness of the still pond.

So this most recent time and this bottle of beer. When we started again in the causal of coffee and parks and dog watching and playing. This time it was my own investigation that resulted in the meeting. My own curiosity and needing to know he was okay. Because the rumors that touched my ears didn't tell the words I wanted to believe. So I had to do what I needed, what I always felt I should and went into see for myself. The recon of inquisitiveness and instinct. 

He had told me before. People tell you who you are but we are blind and deaf and gullible and have a possible male version case of selective or the i am on my cell phone and can't hear you- hearing intensified in wanting to believe that damaged goods doesn't mean a permanence of forever. We look into the eyes- I look into his eyes and want to believe. Believe in the fairytale of trauma resolved by doing little work. That white lines were once in awhile. That him saying this conversation is over, abruptly, coldly, right now- would stop. That the fact that he wanted to die, he had, all could fade away in my embrace.

In my potential seeing grasping wanting to believe that we all could be different because I was different and I hadn't let the twists and turns of my childhood paint a dark D upon my chest. I had brillo padded and scrubbed and massaged and crossed over and spray painted it to form a S. I worked hard to keep that letter there and showed it more than I should. To anyone who might need it.  I did this again all feeling new with my glistening sparkly S upon my chest. I believed I could save him. Save him from the despair of loneliness while saving myself in companionship. 

But the pull, the tug on the fish line from my heart to his hands upon the pole, the sparkly distraction was just so tempting. Tempting to let that shiny S show again. I didn't want to save him. So I told myself. I wanted to make sure he was okay. Not too skinny. Not too close to the edge. I never thought it through what I would do with my google results of how do you tell someone has a cocaine addiction or might be suicidal? What to do other than see if these rumors are true. 


And if this man who I loved. Even if it wasn't warranted. I had to see if he lay on pieces on the ground, his potato head nose and eyes and lips and hands to feel needing to be put him back together. But with my hands. For me to help him form into completion. Into the real him. The real him he could be. It wasn’t just about him. It was about me. Me feeling I was important. Me feeling indispensable. Me saving others to make it feel better I could never help her. My mother. I guess if I saved enough people it would feel okay giving up on her. Another notch on the superhero belt of humanity might make me feel more alive. Less guilty. More alive.

So our visit at the park gave birth to more. My google searches and my own evaluation resulted in results uncertain. Uncertain I was. I needed to do more research. But objective I couldn't be. He might be broken, broken. Beautifully broken but he was comfort still, the familiarity of him, us, warmed me. The familiarity of him and me and the story of how dysfunction and addiction and missing parents can perfectly end so very differently.  My own fable of my making. 


 The park became phone calls long bubble gum outstretched ones like ones when we were in the thick of our love affair. And for a brief moment, I paused and fell back in not caring about the future but the now. Only the now. So I did what anyone who didn't care for the importance of the future. I had sex with him multiple times and once on backyard swing. But somehow our romp on that swing allowed it to end. Really this time.

He called soaked in worry that I would want to be together and he couldn't give me what I needed. I didn't. Not in a cold callus way but in a way of knowing the truth. I thought it was fun.  I don't regret it. Words falling out of me from my script I had written. I guess I should have thought this through. He would say. Surprised by the swings change in me. I should have thought it through as well. 


Thought about what grabbing onto the shiny lure would mean. Meaning. The word. Parabola. Glistening in the florescent manufactured lights above. It sits there and reminds me of the buying of it in the limbo of a beginning of summer stickiness of the heat wave san francisco summer of before. The accident of the weather and sleeping together and diving into to it again. And the bottle I bought for us to drink together.

And as I stared at the bottle- I remember we never drank it, not together, I never did drink it not even alone. And I think maybe I should buy it. Buy this new version limited edition again. I stare at it the only way you can feel nostalgia for a bottle. For a moment. I stand. And stare. And he is standing next to me again. 


For just a few moments. There was only one choice left. And as I walk away from this bottle brightly light and perfectly packaged- still not knowing what was inside but knowing more than enough. My eyes turn slowly as I span out until it is in the distance of the corner of my eyes. I didn't look back. 


 Until. A few days later when I was shopping I happened upon this aisle again. But this time I wanted to buy it. Maybe. But it was gone. And so was he. It was as if they have never been there. There at all.

one line a day in 2011

i have been writing but not posting much. my apologies. sometimes i am not ready to share. i started writing one line or more like a few lines a day during the summer. so the last six months i have captured a snapshot of my life. i thought as the first post of the year- i would share the highlights. happy new year! i look forward to another year of writing and capturing the beauty and complexities along the way. all my thanks always!

July 19- Me: Why do pigeons mate for life? 10 year old: Because there is no pigeon divorce. Good point.

July 22- I love when you put on a pair of shorts (blue corduroy op vintage variety) and find sand in the pocket. It is a reminder you have been somewhere.

July 30- I answered the door in short shorts and braless to jehovah witness who were looking for spanish speakers. They got me instead. I said lo siento, neciesto practicar and they gave me their brochere in espanol.

August 4- I am swimming in a sea of people making reservations for dinner. Outside. In the sun. Writing. Not knowing what I will eat. For dinner.

August 11- Note to self drinking too much beer on a stomach of tuna and chips and kimchi might produce tears on a bar stool and gas the next day.

August 30- Have you ever barfed in Disneyland?, asks the 10 year old upon me seeing her. Strange hello.

September 1- First date canceled. Why can't I catch I break in the love department? Best excuse ever- broken arm. He might be my kind of man- accident prone.

September 12- 8 yr old: I only did my homework so I could spend more time with you.

September 13- Overheard at school- ways to recycle, reuse condoms! 8th grader turns around in shock to see my face as I say, I wouldn't recommend it.

September 15th- Today I saw an awkward group of middle schoolers in a circle- they were staring at girls underwear on the ground. Its underwear they exclaimed. Weird I usually keep mine at home I say. Faces uncertain respond.

September 18th- Perfect morning in the sunset. We rode our bikes to the beach. She escaped death after I said something nice to her. Me on a fixie for the first time. I rode home in a bikini top in the usually foggiest neighborhood in this city.

September 25- Today I went on a date long time coming and wasn't nervous. 7 hours later. We say goodbye. With anticipation. We kiss in my doorway with the door open. Then closed. Then locked. Slammed against the wall- my leg reaching up. We devour each other while standing up.

Sept 27- I walk on clement street at a livable pace while eating a pork bun as the sun beats on me. Fog now foreign. I gave a pork bun to a homeless dude. I see it later. It lays splattered in the middle of the cross walk.

October 1- A surprise to see someone outside and together no hesitation of what has already started. To drinks then shots then me cutting line to go to the bathroom in the men's. High Five. Steal kisses in front of his friends. After hours. To I just stepped in barf. Don't worry everyone did. To kiss me on this street corner to home. No one sleeps. We just explore the maps of each other.

October 23- A sunset as my friend and sand as my bed is a nice way to say hello and goodbye to a weekend.

October 26- Learning how to tango from a 10 year old and a singing telegram from an eight year old entitled you are the best babysitter is a place I call home.

October 27- Sometimes you have to seize the day and drive across town just to see someone for a few moments. Sick or not. Note to self- if you make out with a dude with a fever- you will most likely get sick.

November 9- If you care enough to help the environment to buy a prius, care enough for humanity to stop at the stop sign when in the middle of a crosswalk near a school. I'll take a kind gas guzzler any day.

November 23- By 8 am I smell of pumpkin pie because of a pie mishap. By 9am finish grocery shopping. By 9:30 am realize i did not wear underwear with my yoga pants. Explains the smiles I got. Sometimes you are too busy for your chonies.

November 28- The game of getting it all done. Living in the library. Again. Spotted a woman missing part of her shirt and wearing a purple bra.

December 1- Death planned by my brother includes a family vacation to disneyland- no kids- no alcohol- no thanks.

December 8- There is nothing better than still be invited to a 11 year old party. And being called Kate the Awesome.

December 10- The worst time to get diarrhea is while in a squat during yoga.

December 15- What happens when you put 2 divorced people and their significant others together- you make the nanny- me- sit between the two dudes- the dad and the boyfriend. That sounds like a great plan.

December 17- I love when I run into students and they are still in college and doing well and I get free fries to boot.

December 19- The best way to end a night shift. Solved.

December 22- I go to a corner store to get re-enforcements for a road trip home. Man in a BMW comes inside to sell a tablet. A hot one. Merry Christmas!

December 27- Quality time with my dad entails him flying model airplanes on the high school football field in the boonies. He usually crashes but he didn't this time. What if I shrink you to fit inside? He asks. I would be sick. I'd go slow he responds.

untying the knot to the ship of disappointment

As I sit in this bed. The bed I had made myself. With new choices. And different outcomes. The excitement of beginnings coming now at a bearable repetition as I walk my feet down the warming pavement home. But as I lay on this bed. My own bed. I made myself. I am paralyzed. In fear. Fear I haven't felt in so very long. I had crafted and pottered walls and stairs and tree houses inside myself and all of a sudden I decided to collapse a wall or two. And let someone else climb the stairs with me or climb that tree and stare out of the window I created to remind me of what is around.

Me. See I had forgotten the fear of vulnerability. Because I stopped being vulnerable. Me and vulnerability have had a tumultuous love affair. I used to give it away unearned. I used to play and dance and sing carpe deim at the top of my lungs. Because the acceleration was always worth it. The addiction to the beginning of things as I float above myself but not for long. Until it stopped. Being worth it. And I stopped playing. With others. Instead. I became good at playing solitaire. And standing as a party of one on my mat of yoga. And building my life in ways I could grow with new walls and foundations and the final piece of my tree house with its swing. I didn’t need anyone to come play with me. Or I did. But I was waiting for someone who would stay a little bit longer. Someone I might walk with before running in a race to no where.

And as I lay in this bed. I had forgotten how scared I am. I am of the real thing. Because being alone. Became easier. No one got hurt in my own world created by myself. But now. As I lay and watch the ocean descend out to beyond I can ever see. I know the fear. Is tied to the ship of all what has happened before. I am still tied to the past of all the disappointments-all the falling on my face-all the wishing things can be different- all the I slept with someone else or im getting back with my x-girlfriend or I don't love you anymore or it will be cool to break up you with double parked or on myspace or entirely flake out. The rope is tied around me pulling me to sea to that boat. I am its anchor. The past failures and the past of me trying hard sometimes with the wrong people-sometimes- with the right magnets me out of this bed into the sand of the shore. I am tied to this past. In ways I had forgotten.

And all the therapy in the world and the success I have been lucky to have can ever erase that boats existence. Its not just the failed love. Its the failed relationship of a mother. Her leaving and never coming back. Her not ever getting the help she needed so that I could know her. Again. That is the heaviest. In the ship they all reside. The rope pulling me closer to the water. I drag my feet begging for the past not to matter. Pleading that I can create my own destiny. That I do not need to be tied with what was. I am not that person anymore.

I stop. And the knot around my waist was done by me and it could be undone. And as I begin to unknot it. Slowly. There is a pause. Can I let this rope go and still be me? I am still me. And as I stand on these rocks multiplied into a beach and stare at the water that goes beyond where I can see and where I can dream. I drop the rope. And watch the boat- it doesn't move quickly or abruptly. Its still there. But I don't have to be tied to the past as I once was.

I had forgotten about that ship. I had forgotten until I remembered that I had tied myself to it. Because of the fear of it. Of getting hurt so great. Of it working out so great. That I had to remember. Remember that I can watch it from the horizon but I am no longer controlled by it. The ship bobs up and down. I stand there for a moment. Until I feel my feet firmly in the moistness foundation of strong sand below- the waves coming in to welcome me home again. And I begin to move. Again.

rolling down the hill with eyes wide open

Rolling down the hill. The nostalgia for childhood wrapped in the reality of adultness. The feel of the pace slowly at first but reaching a speed beyond my own imagination. Me painted in oshkosh pink or green corduroys overalls and probably a striped shirt. Sometimes head first. No worries of protecting my brain or body. Other times engaging in child research of what happens when I roll on my side. For the exhilaration is the goal. And no connections of wires to worry or experience to say what happens if. The rolling down the hill of my childhood has crossed over through the jungle of adolescence and the earth turns into and through adulthood.

The roller coaster of life is now my own rolling down the hill. Into a relationship. Into a possibility of one. It has been that way since the beginning. The fast pace and not knowing what will happen next the excitement of what is to come and what is beautifully played out in my smiling expression upon my face. Just letting go and descending down the hill not knowing what will happen but it will be fun. And I might get hurt. But still chasing what was. And what will come. The exhilaration in the pit of my stomach of jumping into the water without easing in. But it hasn't always been pretty. My trips down hills of lust and love and everything in between. I have skinned my knees and stopped mid hill wondering what happened to my speed and sat at the bottom of hill in many pieces- with no one to put me together but me. No nursery rhyme to save me. Because I am no longer a child and now know the risks of rolling down the hill, especially a san francisco one, that I decided I had to stop rolling down the hill at a pace too much. It was fine. Fine until now.

As I stand before a hill. With both anticipation and hope and knowledge of what could happen as I begin this descend down this hill. Can I change how I make my way down and still enjoy the ride down? Can it happen without a trip to the er? Can I begin again without the surround sound of the past playing on repeat? Can I do it? Roll down this hill. And not let the excitement to take me over into a place where a child can only live. You got to travel down this hill. The hill onto what will be next.

But this time I stand staring over the horizon of this beautiful city, water colored into a way paint by number could ever dream of, I take it in. And think. Before I feel my head hang down and my hands touch the grass swimming in water and the excitement moves down from the depths of my stomach champanged to the top of a growing smile. And in thinking. And in seeing. In rolling down this hill. Might be at a pace. That I can live with.

it wasn't life or death. until it was and finally i wasn't scared.

Hello all, this was written in 70 something degree weather (last week) outside cafe bar from a pregnant nurse with a dog and cobb salad. she was a stranger but we shared a table. enjoy and all my thanks always!

Life or death. It wasn't life or death. I would tell myself. Out loud. Written down on reminders. Post its. Stuck. To myself. To to others. In the writing-in the pen-lines in the sand of the book of pages. In words formed in squiggles and straights and the cloud of my personal audio narrative hitting the airwaves of the soundtrack of this life/ our lives. I said it. But I didn't mean it. I said it to believe. Believe it was true. That I wouldn't die in this bar in running into someone who I was just decided to stop seeing, again. That I wouldn't die in this interview. Or in the pounding muscle of my heart in the first date. Or in this car. When I am not driving. I can see the snap of the fingers into the loss of control. Or in the confines of this plane. Across this bridge- the long ones and even the short ones. The height and distance of no return made me feel like I would die. But it wasn't life or death.

When the words- and the yoga- and the acupuncture- and the herbal remedies and the therapy and all the other coping mechanisms of anxiety failed. Anxiety predetermined in genetics and reenforced in environment. When these true and tried ways failed-I would resort to my xanax. Xanax prescribed for the confinement of planes crossed of over to first dates- just a quarter- to breakups- probably half- to first interviews- a quarter or a half to be sure. It wasn't life or death and I could believe it if I kept the safety of my flotation device in the small zipper in my red vintage purse with a bow. Just in case. Open upon emergency. Break the glass. Break into a piece. Swallow without anyone seeing. Hidden from everyone me. It wasn't life or death.

Until one day it was. It was life or death. And I stand in the water in a swimsuit no emergency prescription freedom to make it less so. Just me in a swim suit surrounded in melted snow of a lake. And it was life or death. And I was calm. No pace of my heart- uncomfortable in and out of this body. No wanting to run away. Just seeing and doing of the slowness of a firefighter upon arrival. As I looked out beyond, I knew they were in trouble. I yelled for help. And the swimming. First my brother. I knew right away. She needed help. I am not frozen in fear but I am unsure to follow or stay. Help I say and another one is moving. He moves through the water a brisk slow no splashing stroke. Gliding. I just follow. Talking calmly. Letting her know we are coming. We are coming. You are going to be okay.

The calm movement of their pace- the sail boat of them arrive to her. Turned over and floating. And all three moving to shore as one. She sits in the beginning part of the lake cradled by the bottom her toes could not find. The water visiting her. And then leaving again. It mimics her breathing. My body caresses the sand, the bottom of this lake, next to her. We embrace and you are okay and you did a great job are the only words that can be produced from this mouth. We walk slowly on the sand. Footprints in and out. Proof we are there. Were there. I need milks-she breaths.

It was life or death and finally I wasn't scared. And somehow the life of the death of it all happening really happening made all the worry and worry and work and escape and working on not being scared toss away and gave birth finally to faith. Faith in myself. Finally it had been life or death and I wasn't scared.

one of my first loves until me and running broke up

Blowing off steam. Blowing off steam has been my newest favorite pastime. I spent many good years of my life running and swimming and doing it for fun but mostly within the confines of team and invitations and flip turned into a baton hand off until I reached adulthood. I loved sports. I loved the ability to feel freedom in the pounding against my legs as I sped up at the end of every run. My father had taught me this trick that even after a jog you run fast and hard at the end. And believe you me it came in handy in the races of life both competitive or not. The wheels of myself going more quickly and feeling as if they might give out but on the brink of letting go- the freedom of speed- the freedom of myself. That I could get it anytime I needed it. And running. Running became a way to pound out the discomfort of adolescence and the way I spent my afternoons for many years of my life. And it helped that I was good at it. Not the best of the best but good enough to be choose for the relays and to place.

But somewhere in my relationship with running we became distant in our feelings towards one another. I dreaded doing it. And did it. Only for that scholarship. I didn't feel freedom anymore. When I put on those shoes to run- I felt dread. Dread for being awake so early. Dread for not being able sleep in. And dread for the practice I'd have to later that day. Running became a job. And the chore of it sucked the pleasure and flying from my bones and muscles and left was the feeling of contempt. Contempt I had for one of my first loves of my life. We had changed. We both had. So after my final season of my running career, I did what anyone would do or so I thought. I gave up exercise. I took up drinking and partying and smoking and being an undergraduate like everyone else. Reverse psychology on myself didn't work as I planned. Me and running broke up and she didn't come after me when she saw the back of my body sway back and forth surrounded by friends and the smoke of ways to forget her.

I didn't miss her. I didn't care about her. And I kept my relationships with my new and more exciting friends until one day I woke up and realized. Something was missing. The blowing off the steam. Could never be replaced in alcoholic binge drinking that left me more clueless than I began and apologetic and hurting the next day. Smoking could only be cool for so long and soon the honeymoon wore off and I was addicted. Me the athlete addicted to cigarettes. Blowing off the steam- I needed it.

I needed the release and freedom of the movement of my feet faster and harder and longer than I thought I could. I needed the pound of my chest in and out and rattling me to let go and learn again. I needed the sweat pouring down my face and head and limbs with my reddish face to remind me. That I am athlete and the blowing off the steam has always been my freedom. So I didn't call up running. I decided to try something new someone who would give me everything I had before because I was too scared to run. And that is how I found yoga. Yoga became my new love giving me what I needed in a new way. Until. One day I would find myself when I needed it most after a hard day of hearing others pains of life from the adolescents at school that I did the only thing I could and laced my shoes up and ran. Again.

my drug of choice is success, at least it used to be

The first time she saw it this way was after a lifetime of conversations and pondering and wondering and putting herself under the microscope of why do I do the things I do. Some people never do that. Reach your hands and arms and other limbs under the glass to be held there and reviewed and examined. Oh I see here what we have. It was when she sat there wondering. After a conversation, a conversation she has had many times. Almost always the same. The undertone of it. Facing a different face. Similar words. And other than the task of being present. She couldn't help but wonder. What was her drug? Drug of choice. What was her way to escape?

And as she sat there in the others culmination of running away and being sent away and experimentation at a youngish age. It was the first time she actually understood as she examined the cells and movement of herself as the scientist and the sociologist and psychologist. Her own personal. Research. It is somehow easier to understand others than ourselves. So as the light shone down on her own white irish skin of “winter” of san francisco. It was there- success was her drug.

Success was her drug. Not in a way that she pushed small children and dogs to get on the top. But the addiction to success being successful and smart and capable were her escape were her drug. Her own success was so paramount she would give up sleep and drink buckets of coffee and run hard and fast from jobs to school to research projects maybe grabbing a drink of relaxation on the way. See as she, as I stood on the path on that crossroads of life in a childhood that made a lot more nonsense than sense, her body, my body moved to the side of running hard and fast towards success in school. In life. In jobs. No one could tell me no.

I didn't frolic with the drugs or the sex or the not going to school. The typical rebellion of teenagers multiplied by responsiblities and missing parents and new step parent which complicated it all. It is hard to find yourself amongst others for everyone. I don't know, know, when I sat at the crossroads or how I made my decision. But praise was mine breakfast, lunch, and dinner in assignments with student body this with captain that with church youth group leader on top of the heap of successes. Then college acceptances and scholarships rolled down the belt. I stopped looking at them and barely soaking them in and just discarded them in the pile next to me. Look at me. Look at all my success. How important I must be.

The drug of success inspired me to do much and to do it well. But without my own protection of anxiety and empathy and finding the new gift of failure I don't know who I might have become. Today. Although grateful for not having to release in the typical escapades. I did escape in a way. A way that did make me successful. But also made me move too fast and too hard and make being the best a price too high.

My drug and my desire for it is still with me as I breathe in and out and walk around this street, in this city, in my school, in my grad school, in this coffee shop. My need for it exists. Another hit of it would satisfy that little girl at the crossroads of life. It would make her happy. I still look for it. But in finding failure, I found what real success could be and it isn't the cookie cutter life I thought I had wanted all along.

almost ending up in an unexpected place: a white rappers music video shot

The unexpected. The unexpected sometimes happens. You plan for something and end up somewhere else. And there you are requested the pull down to stop the train. Next stop please you find yourself yelling down the crowded car of strangers. The destination is not where you want to go. You need to get off and fast. But the distance between the stops grow. And the triage becomes faster and faster in your brain.

I found myself in the unexpected recently. I found myself on a way to a music video shot. A music video shot for a white rapper group. I am pausing to let that one soak in. How does someone end up on the way to such a place? Someone who by day counsels kids and helps raise kids by night be going to music video shots. Good question. The quick answer is alcohol and maybe hanging out with someone who pushes the limits of who you should spend time with. Some people need to stay in the dark of the night and never should transfer over to the day. It might have consequences. Like this.

The long answer is I started the day off hoping for some day drinking, eating, followed by some sex. And then meeting up with my friends for another beer night event. I felt my expectations were low. Little did I know I should have dreamt bigger. So as I pick up the gentlemen for the afternoon. I had never seen him in daylight except in the light of the day in the morning. As I pull over and wait. He comes into the car and kisses me on my lips. Alcohol breaths into my clean mouth. Its 3 in the afternoon and he still stinks from the night before. Nice. He is cloaked in clothes from the night before but he doesn't want to change. Just want to keep going. To the next place to start again. I was thinking late brunch and then back to one of our places. He was thinking of relieving his hangover and another bender. This might be why talking might be good.

As we travel in my car from my home into an unknown territory. I realize there might be a problem when sober conversation makes me want to drink immediately. The rain beats against the car when two people relative strangers talk about life and leaving and roaming and illegitimate children and things he admitted when drunk and not having feelings. The windshield wipers clean so I can see but the wetness comes again and blurry vision is all I have. But then the translucent eye to the world and I can see again. Again and again. See he says I am numb to everything. I don't have feelings. This type of dialogue means one thing he has more feelings than he would like to admit. But instead of pushing it. And pulling it out of him. To make this arrangement anything but what it is. I think that is interesting you would be attracted to someone like me who has more feelings than I know what to deal with.

See I can say it was unexpected that I almost ended a back up dancer in a rap video. But it wasn't. Not with this man. Too much alcohol fueled me to be in a place with someone I probably shouldn't. Not for a night. Not at all. As I sit on the bar stool hearing of the plans of the next stop. I wonder what the fuck I am doing. And how did I get here. But I thought the same thing as we drove here sober.

Loneliness is a strange hunter. It is hard to follow the rules all the time. Its hard not to find yourself in these place at night. By day being someone else. But although funny. My time is not. And I excuse myself. From the club. The club in the middle of a bad neighborhood. And watch the two self proclaimed southern gentlemen- him and his friend- who open doors and pay tabs watch me leave by myself no offer of walking me outside or hailing a cab. As the rain pours down on me. I have never felt happier to be alone. The cab waits for me right out the entrance. I open the door and go home. And watch the windshields as the rain washes over us again.

alcoholic bones: inherited but still mine, without stopping i remember i ain't no winehouse

Without stopping. I hadn't had one of those without stopping nights in awhile. The one that the motion propels you through with the help of alcohol and banter and the next place until you wake up the next morning to your head feeling as if it might explode. You write a letter: dear head, please don't fall apart. Not now. Love, me.

See I used to have without stopping nights all the time. In my younger years- the debut of adulthood and experimentation- I wonder if I mix these three alcohols will I hug the toilet later. Oh most likely I will. A weak stomach. I do. Have. Later in my working years. When I had cash to burn. Burn and a job I didn't like. In a group of friends. Who all seemed to follow suit. Or when I was depressed about what I wanted. My only solace was the pouring down of the medicine ordered by me. It felt so comfortable. It felt like home. For it was.

Not everyone has a bones such as mine. These alcoholic bones originally believed to be from my descents- my grandfathers or great on both my irish sides. No closer in my body these bones made a tight fit around the joints. Closer to me. Around the veins and organs and the pulsing in and out. Not just my grandfathers, and maybe a few cousins, and maybe a few aunts or uncles but the closest you could get. My parents. Both. Of. Them. No one told me. To watch out because of my parents. No watch out because of those far away folks, they said. No one wants to say. Addiction you have inherited and dysfunction now not distant relative but your sibling. Living in your home. No one says it. For denial is the way you go on in the island of my family. So it has been. Until. One day you realize. These bones. These ways. Are part genetic. But part learned. And feel like home. It is scary to admit aloud in someones eyes but dysfunction is my friend and alcohol could be the only home you've known. Comforting things not so comforting.

But it changed for me. Not in meetings. Not in saying aloud my name is kate and I might be alcoholic. Hi, Kate did not reverberate against my ears. Not in my dad checking me into rehab and me saying no, no, no. No intervention. No I walked the line the best I could. Until I had to slow it down. I wasn't figuring myself out anymore. Binge drinking became less cool. And so did the throwing up. And wasted days. I was running away from who I was. What was too hard to feel. So now I don't drink like I once did. I go out regularly and might have a beer or two. It might be because I am happier. It might be because I thought about it. It might be I never wanted to be a drunk. Destroyed and broken.

But as I wake up in this brightest room in all of the mission. My head ripping apart and my fear of my stomach release. I can't help but think without stopping nights are still part of me. Even if they don't happen as they once did. Even though this hadn't happened in almost a year. I will always have these nights a piece of me that wants to keep going and not caring. Until the am. In the brightness of this new day. And I realize I can dabble in the without stopping nights. But I am not built for them as I once was. I turn over and will my head to stay in one piece and roll into an embrace. My head will stay in one piece. I got to keep my heart in one too.

i just had a good argument with a punching bag

A good argument. I just had a good argument with a punching bag. I can say I won but let's see what happens when I wake up tomorrow. Will I be able to move? Will my hands stretch above me for the awaking my body to the morning? Will I lay there thinking maybe the wrapping of the hands in yellow and putting on the gloves too big for my tiny hands wrinkly the same make as my mother and brother might have been a better idea than reality.

I had a good argument with a punching bag. I won. For I can still move this am. And it felt really good to just take my fists into something heavy and hit hard. The jab and the hook. Sometimes more powerful than I expected sometimes weaker than I thought acceptable. My friends face on the other side cheering me on but I still fear I might sock her. You are supposed to dance around the bag. You are supposed to block your face. You are supposed to wait for the buzzer. You are supposed to call out the numbers. You are supposed to do a lot of things. But a good argument with a punching bag. That should be prescribed. A great way to get out what you can on an object that can't fight back expect for a swing your way. I guess you could fall over. But still the risk or pretty low in a world where we unload our truck or empty are bucket on the wrong person all the time. Sublimation at its best.

I used to be scared of punching. Well let me take that back. My father used to stand in front of me on the grass in front of our yellowish house next to my tree swing and have me punch his hands-left and right left and right-for I should learn how to punch and I should not punch like a girl. Strength I felt in my chicken arms as I pounded against the weathered hands of my father.

This was before I feared punching and fights and the temper that lived inside my father. My father the sweet man he was, he is, had been raised in the don't ask don't tell of baby boomers so many emotions trapped inside and anger and sadness and desperately shy at one point all mixed into the perfection of him being a fighter. My dad used to get into fights. Street fights. I don't know when it all started. But I do know there in the story telling there was always some type of justice. That guy called my teammate the n word. Or that guy stole from the store I worked at. But somehow the justified crossed over to someone cutting you off in a car, to little league, to a nephew during a drunken poker night. See there might be justice in fighting in protecting but some fights are not about the punching of the opponent. Its the punching of ourselves.

I learned early on. To try and calm my dad down. I learned early on how to break up fights. One of my first memories of college was me breaking up a fight between two soccer players one from Berkeley the other from oakland. They all had a few lbs on me. But I jumped in. I learned early on that I was scared of anger. Scared of anger and fighting and punching. I learned early on not to touch it or taste it or play with it because it would lose control. But tonight. As I punch this bag. With my wrapped hands and red gloves. I pound out anger. Anger in a way that doesn't scare me. Only scared party is that bag, of the hook. And as I end class I can't think how much I want to call my dad. He would be proud I could punch and not punch as a girl. We all get to choose how our family lives inside of us. As I punched that bag. And had a friendly argument, a good argument with anger.

please change the reel

written from the quick write shadows. have a great weekend! and all my thanks!

Shadows. The shadows grow from the ground, the pavement, the grass into full formed features growing into a person. I look and see. Quickly. Take my diagnosis in and keep walking. Walking. Away. Down. The street. Home. But sometimes its hard to shake the shadows of my neighbors , of my friends. The shadows of people and the what they might do. What they are doing. Makes me want to turn off the film reel in my head. It makes me want to stop seeing. Because once I see. I can't help but think. Think about that shadow of that person. The darkness. The sadness. In what could be.

The other day. I had a day at school. A day full of running up stairs and meeting of kids and learning things I would rather not and keep going up down the stairs across the hall and the listening and supporter of dreaming and planning and shaking of hands and hellos along the way. Hi Ms. B. So as I leave my day. I need some quiet. Some solitude. A pause from the reality that is. And sometimes I get. At a cafe. With a trashy mag and sun beats on my face. Or walking. Walking to the next thing. The world somehow looks different and so am I. In pausing. I see tv slowly around me as I walk into it more real than reality tv or a sitcom crafted. And I don't long to speak to anyone. Which is for me the rarity of all rarities.

As I picked up K from school. From guitar. Excitement to see his face still dosed in exhaustion of giving to others. We walk down the street. Home. To get the car. And I glance ahead and to the left to take in the scene. What me and K with his new glasses and guitar upon his back might be walking into. I see a group of man on the corner. Typical for my hood. And as I glance to my left. I see a shadow. A shadow of a man. A glimpse of a family. The woman seems upset and is lifting her child up the stairs who still resides in a stroller. She is speaking to her husband or boyfriend. Some reassurance. I look to this shadow of a man. And he has a knife open. Open in his right hand. He is upset. I look once and twice. And his shadow is growing. Growing on his porch with his family. In front of his house. My face might not have stayed street. I tried not to look shocked that on a Tuesday afternoon most people hang with their fam with a knife open. All I know is get out of here fast. For K is attached to my arm.

So we walk hard around the corner. He didn't see the shadow. But I did. I exhale once we turn the corner. Open the car. K runs to the car. I get in. And sit there. I didn't want to see what I just saw. I never what to see it. The shadow of a person's potential haunts me. I close my eyes. Breath from the bottom of my legs. And turn the ignition. And keep going. Going home.

what if i let this what if die?

Death. I have written about a death of a name. How can a name die for you? Good question. Just get involved with a few guys with the same name and they seem to let you down in a heart and gut wrenching way. So much you begin to wonder there might be a tragic flaw in a name. I vowed to never date a man with the name C. I shake a hand with someone attached to this the name. And I cringe. Inside. I hear someone say the name from afar and I stay there. I stay away from them. From those C’s.

After I fell for three men with the same name- I let the name die for me. I ended up being left with a doubled park dumping and an almost broken nose (my doing from a drunken night of debauchery-aftermath due to the break up-see previous blog entry). I was left with a bad highlight job of blonde- I needed a change and some lady I didn't know made me blonde to forget. I was left with him showing up on my doorstep with a b-day present months after he dumped me. And me not wanting him upon my door. He left me with one final email. I never responded. Later I heard he had gone off the deep end. At least I wasn’t left with that.

Another. He left me with one less book on my shelf- my favorite book Unbearable Lightness of Being and wondering what would have ever happened if he had really took a chance. He later found me. And came to give it round. Kissing me upon my doorstep. Anticipation of years made me feel faint. For the first time. But he ran away again. Left me wondering.

For years, I did. Wonder. What ifs from the beginning stages of life sometimes we hold onto to them too long. Until he almost died. And I had to tell him. And wonder until. I couldn’t anymore. The last time I saw him was in hospital room. He might be healthy now. His body. But a fatal flaw of a man who would rather be full of potential than fail is not a tragic hero but a sad estate of affairs. If death doesn’t breath life into your bones into your body nothing will. Needless to say. He let me pass through his life again.

What ifs. Were better for him. He stopped being a what if. After one last summer of living out our past college days of infatuation. I walked down that hall of the cold clinical hallway and pushed the button to the elevator. Wanting to run down the hall and say goodbye. Or just say no. Don’t die. Not now. Because as I walked slowly and purposefully. I never wanted this what if to die. I wanted it to grow and flourish into something. But it had. As it lay lifeless inside of me. In that hospital. The elevators door open. Two faces appear before me. I hesitate. Not sure. If I can. Walk away. For good. I find my place in the elevator as the doors close in slow motion. Closing my view. Smaller each minute. Until it disappears. Dying. The death. Of me wanting it to work. He didn’t die. But we did.

taking a field trip to the marina- no dancing tattoos to be found

It was familiar, yet it seemed strange as I walked in to this yoga studio. Away from home. Neighborhoods beyond my reach beyond my comfort zone. I enter the yoga studio on union street. I walk slowly up the stairs unsure of what will be the scenery at the yoga studio faraway from my mission home. My roots of home easier to stand upon that mat. There. So as I find myself in the population of unfamiliarity, I find myself there because of a friend and a great deal. I couldn’t pass up. Great deals allow us to forget the rolling eyes and annoyance that can exist for the dislike of what a neighborhood of pleasant richness ville that is so cookie cutter you feel something begin in your stomach and move up. They welcome me and I sign up. But they give you freebies here unlike the studios I call home. Free towels. And oranges.
I walk into the room. I am in lake of blonde. I have never seen so many blondes in one place in years. I feel safe among my fellow brunettes. I don’t dislike blondes. But I do hate so blonde. So blonde. Platinum. There is still warmth that exists from the class before. It is like walking into the steam of someone else’s shower or entering a room after someone else’s romp. It being your own shower or sexcapade it doesn’t feel foreign but walking into someone else’s heat makes the humidity of a stranger unbearable. Many ladies in this room are small child make. Skinny here is not like skinny elsewhere. The chatter shakes among the voices of predominantly white folks, mostly females, a token male here and there. They seem less gay then the guys I see at the mission spots. White and female I can’t pretend like that is an oddity. The privilege of practicing. Shouldn’t be. But is. Still.

There is a loud noise around me. And for once I want to sit quiet. Breathing in and out my back pushes into the mat as the mat presses into me. My feet find home on each other and my knees reach for the distance beyond me. The air travels slowly from the bottom part of me to the top. The noises of the radio of others dims. At least for now. Me the talker quiet. Quiet. The rarity. Exists. But really I am usually quiet during yoga. Don’t speak. I once sat next to a couple that kept on talking in yoga and I almost laid into them. Me the non-stop talker. But even I need breaks. And yoga is one of them. I am upside down and seeing my fellow yogis. No tattoos dance around their parts as my home. I am usually the odd man out tattooless. But today. Today in this new studio. I just move. Move and pretend I am home.

rewind- don't call me baby, call me snowflake.

The first time as I walked home, walked home when I was in 6^th grade down the curvy bike path towards my F section home, in my suburb of Rohnert Park, someone started to honk, someone started to yell at me in the four wheel truck motor vehicle. And I was startled. I didn’t know was going on. But little did I know as I begun the brink of adolescence, through my teenage years, and into adulthood, that this thing would never change. Never. The catcalls never have stopped. It didn’t matter if I was a kid, if I didn’t even have boobs or a period. Men began to yell at me. Fucking perverts, I thought. Still do. I used to get really angry. In my head saying is that how you would talk to your mother, your sister, your aunt? Your female in your life that might matter. Matter to you. I remember the first time because I didn’t know what was going on. Anger is now mixed in a cocktail with amusement shaken over the ridiculous.

Now I’m prepared for it to happen. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t showered in days. It doesn’t matter if I am in my PJs. Awfully matched PJs. It doesn’t matter if I am riding my bike and sweaty with my dorky pink helmet, actually the sweat might help with the calling. It doesn’t matter if I’m crying, baby just smile, baby don’t cry your beautiful. Excuse me as I barf. Am I beautiful while I hurl? Probably. It doesn’t matter what I look like, not really. It’s more about power. It’s more about it working one out of million times. I sometimes wonder who would be drawn to the hey baby, hey sexy, hey beautiful, so much they hail over their car and stop for the construction worker or the guy and provide their number, their address, or much more. I think it might be fun to play along and call their bluff but truthfully I’m just too fearful to do it. Part of me thinks it must work or why would they keep trying, trying again and again to no avail. But is it about working or just doing it? Doing it.

So here are some of the highlights over the years:

Animal Noises: Barking

Until last year the only place a man had made an animal noise at me was in Marin County. That made it more interesting that in living in 4 urban cities the only place an animal noise was directed to me was in Marin County. Who would have thought that such harassment would ensue in one of the wealthiest counties in the country? While I was walking my aunt and uncle’s dog, the middle aged man with grayish hair pulled over his bike perfectly helmeted and basketed and said roof, roof, roof, slowly and seductively. Seductively. I couldn’t help but bust up laughing. That being said I told him if he had pegs, I’d be down for a ride. No I wish, I just laughed and walked away. Later I told my aunt who was outraged- that someone in her neighborhood- in her neighborhood would do that. What a travesty. Take notes- there is more.

Animal Noises: Meowing

So then the animal noise happened again. Years later, I was walking down the street in the Mission. The cat calls, the snickers, the clicking noises are pretty frequent in this hood probably because the dudes are actually as taller than me. Probably because of many a reason. As I walked by a man who sat in the storefront window, he said meow, meow, while mimicking a cat's mannerisms and blowing kisses. I felt special. I felt pretty. I felt important. I skipped the rest of the way down Valencia.

Snowflake:

While living near Harlem, I got a lot of attention when walking to work probably because I was the only white girl in the 10 or 20 block radius. My whole life I wanted to be exotic growing up in a predominately white suburb I was the norm and guess what finally I was. Exotic with my white clad skin. Yes! Little did I know what it would entail. Hey snowflake, hey panda, can you be my white panda bear, can you be my snowflake. Hey snowflake, the first time it happened, I looked around, I guess since I was the only white girl it must be me. Me, snowflake. At least it was creative. At least it was more creative than the animal noises or grunts or the sexy baby bullshit.

My Response:

No, I am not here for a modeling convention. No, I can’t smile for you. No, I am not moved by the trivial attempts at your prehistoric noises coming from your mouth. Yes, I have a boyfriend. Yes, I have a husband. Yes, I have a wife. Yes, I have an overprotective father and brother. Anything to make you go away. Go away.

My Unsolicited Advice:

What happened to hello and a smile? So here’s my advice men, men of the world, either make it witty or stick to the standard hello and smile. Don’t’ call me baby, call me snowflake or don’t bother at all. You will go a lot further with that one. Mark my words.

Oh Shit:

My words- still as I stand on this soapbox of femininity, I wonder what would happen to this woman (me) decorated in degrees and pretty enough to be yelled at if as I walk on the catwalk of life it was cloaked in silence. Would the silence be deafening? Would I long for the noises of the populace as I stroll along welcoming me along the way? Is that cheer enough to make me believe I am pretty enough, I am desired enough, I am wanted? Maybe it is easier to complain when men harass you. Maybe it would be harder if I was invisible. And no one could see me. As I melted on the ground falling lightly away spreading into a tiny speck of water. A snowflake forgotten or maybe never seen at all.

happy holidays- time travel back to slamming doors

i found myself on a by accident hiatus based on fatigue from school from fatigue of a cold then flu but i am back. i hope you all had an amazingly great holiday and will be having an epic new years. thanks as always for stopping by.


I found myself acting out. Acting out in the middle of the mountains. In the middle of my parents. In the middle of my family. In the middle of not my adolescence but the beginning stages of a supposed maturity of the 30s. But somehow when I come back here. Here. I find myself teenage again. In my antics. In my ability to respond. By yelling. Pounding my legs down the hall. And slamming the door again. Again. See this is the way I behaved before. It was the norm of me. But never do I anymore. Until there is something about the bringing to together of the family. That makes my younger self re-submerge into me. I drop a few pounds, my hair lightens to a blond and lengthens, my jeans expand to boot cut, flannel tied around my waist, womanhood not budding enough and there she is. I am time traveled back to my old school abilities to cope. In dramatic ways. I am well behaved mostly. In my life. But sometimes even I need to act out.

Somehow in the equation of my father- trying to be caring as always, trying to be the strong one although diminished by disease and age and injury plus my brother-who worships money and power and spews it upon us in his tirades, we wipe our faces but it still stinks and a momentarily sweet pause plus my stepmom-trying to balance the job of peace maker knotting her belly into two, she is the keeper of my father plus me-the one who talks, talks too much, and has learned the boundaries I must draw to survive equals into the mess that we only can know as our own.

Time. I am late. Late I am not with her and haven’t been in years. But through a misunderstanding of time. Reconfirmed by a father unable to now keep time. He lives in the abyss of the fox, of the morphine, of the cloud of poker and airplanes on his computer. Are you going to be ready? Her face distorts and words are not needed for her to inflame my wound of a 15 year self. No I am not. But I will be in a few minutes. Dad told me. Now dad sitting in my face, Kate you should get moving. Shit. I am usually the well behaved and hounding they are me. But my brother and dad make everyone wait all the time. But no time out for them. No lecture. Just me. Done. Pounding and slamming. And father coming. And I am saying leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. I am not myself or am I. I walk down the hall of my own childhood to be like the teenagers I work with. Heart starts pounding against my chest the adrenaline of years past pump into my system.

Now my brother is coming in for round 3. Kate what’s your problem. I am sick of you. Leave me alone. I repeat. I do one thing and now it’s the apocalypse. I am sick of being well behaved and somehow she is here as I stare at her in the mirror. The girl I left behind. T you do whatever the hell you want and never make an apology so leave me alone and get out of here and close the door on him. Him.

I guess it doesn’t matter how old we get, or how we work on ourselves to play well with others out in the real world because when you return, return to your roots of home. You are once again. Again as you were. At first very adult, but each adultness layers chips off and fails to the fall, I watch it drift as leaves of the tree. Just as the pimples reappear and my confidence begins to sink. And I am again slamming the door. Door. Running away from them. Running away from myself. Running away from the fact, we can’t grow up when others remind of us of the piece forgotten.

Happy holidays-you say upon your signs and cards and in words or smiles unspoken. Me I cross my fingers and make sure to have prescriptions and see if this year I can make it sober. Sober without the help of numbness. No one wants a drunk teenager. But a slightly sedated one. Maybe. But there is a part of us one before the weathering of life and the tempering occurs. Our younger self. She likes to make appearances. Sometimes. Never with your family. Just with mine. Here in the mountains. But always when I least expect it. But now I walk down the hall. Slowly. I remember. I remember to say sorry. And try again. Next year.

your nemisis is waiting in the line at the bar of underage drinking

hello folks-


a quick write from the word nemesis about me walking into my old undergrad bar of beginnings.
enjoy and thanks always for stopping by!


Nemesis. My own nemesis might not be a spandex clad villain trying to fuck up my ability to do good and fight evil on this earth. No, that might be left to the simplicity of super heros and the story lines in their confinement. No, my nemesis might be me. Me. You wake up, you roll over, you open your eyes to a younger version of yourself. You think you have evolved so much that you now have somehow changed and transformed into a more liberated non-caring this is me kind of lady- take it or leave it.


But one day. One day you walk into a bar. A bar of before. Before. The earlier you. That has exited before. The bar might have a new name. But the smell of beginning adulthood still musky particles of years past drift up to your nose. You breathe in and smell the smell of you. Your younger self. The one who had to underage drink before. In this bar. The room changed. Now with animals heads upon the wall. Expanded -walls taken down. The physical bar-the same-stretches long like the years past. Years. But living in a way right now. Right now. Food now available not left to the confines to the pizza line next store. It stops now. The flooding of what was and drifts away as I order no bud light or heineken or mixed drinks of my younger self. Kahula something-vodka this-all swallowed down in one sitting. Now instead. A more sophistication order of black ipa and a tecate. For I am driving. Shots, shots, spatters around us. No I don’t do shots. But before I did. Did in a way that killed me. Later.


But I was in the midst of figuring it out. Figuring out how to be me in the middle of this bar. In the beginning of being my own. Figuring out how to be. Without apologizing later. Or right now. Time passes quickly away. Away this night. And then its time to go. Go. This would be the first time I left this bar without the non-sober of drunken sway. I walk back up the dirtied wooden floors up the ramp and touch the bathroom door. And as I place my fingerprints upon the green smudged door and press my fingerprints, weight moves it open with it, against it, a downpour of it all comes back. Back. The lines. The lines I stood in. I am standing in again. The dress. The obsession of how to dress. The how to get in. And the nervous-forgotten. The waiting in line in this bathroom I had spent so many moments waiting. Waiting. Making sure to look pretty. And skinny. And happy. And not too bitchy. And not hurl. And not pee. And smile enough but not too much. Waiting in that line. But there is no line. Not now. No line for me to try and dance in and out of and through.


I walk straight to the stall. And lock the door with a bolt. The lock is new and heavy and hits the stall door hard. Hard. It shakes. I hover over the toilet and remember. Barfing here. And peeing here. And crying here. And as I flush, stall door slamming. Wash my hands. Clean. I walk out the door. There still isn’t a line. I didn’t have to wait like I did before. Before. I was thankful. And somewhat relieved to have visited her here. Now. Because there was no line of acceptance I had to wait in. Not again. Not in this bar. Not ever. Again. The line of waiting lived inside of me. I just stopped caring how I looked while I stood there. As I glanced at the mirror out the door. Back into the bar.

ode to the wimpiness of the this californian still yearning for a real snowfall, just one of course

this is dedicated to my lovely roomie who provided me with a british make hot water bottle for my bed to heat up. i was reluctant to believe as well. but it worked. also to all my friends who held my hand through my borrowed east coast winters. thinking about you always. based on the quick write for heating up! enjoy!

Heating up in the warmth of my covers and personal heater and layers. I am frozen. Mostly because I went outside not equipped for this now impending winter. It was 70 something a few days ago and now I am reading mid 50s. I couldn’t warm up all afternoon- all evening. I heated up soup and tea and myself in this bed and nothing seemed to work. But soon I was fast asleep in this cocoon of heat. I did wake up sweaty and realized I was defrosted again.

I am wimp. I realize that I am the northern Californian make and snow angels and snow days were not mine until adulthood. By choice. I was shocked the winter lasted so long sometimes 6 months. I was shocked it snowed on my birthday every single year I lived on the east coast April not too late for snow. I was shocked to learn about wind chill and scarves up your neck with just your two eyes out. I was shocked to leave my house quickly and land flat on my back. Laying there in my apartment parking lot. Not knowing what hit me. Because I was naïve. I am a Californian. Black ice and wind chill and snow storms were left to the movies. Were left to other people’s lives. Hats were for style not for luxury. Winter jackets- never really did I need one. I had to prepare for this new life I was embarking. Buying my first down coat. Heating up.

But even in the chilliness of months I did find things that heated me up. A snowball fight of childhood lived as an adult. Laying on my back snow angels mine for the first time. The movement of the sand of my upbringing now upon this snow. Back and forth. The walking in the snow before anyone else had. Your foot slowly begins its descend toward the bottom of the pool, the tub of the ground. Days when the snow didn’t get cleaned in time and New York City would slow to a halt. A city yearning for a pause. And walking up and down Amsterdam, people now as cars. Cars not running, no buses, no hustle, no bustle. Just the soft noise of the snow slushy against our feet. And warmth inside and around. We are walking on a New York City street. Where usually you might need a prayer just to cross. To the park. Snow everywhere you can see. The beauty of the whiteness before the cityness gets to it.

I complain about the cold. But I do miss the winters I borrowed for a few years. I do dream of a snow fall outside upon my San Francisco street so I can feel the sand of snow now at home and hear the quietness of sound of my foot steps on the pillow of the snow. The slowing down and the happiness of it when it first falls that would be my request. One good snowfall and back to my cold enough winter in the 50’s. Teasing me first with a few 70 degrees days before it decides to make its entrance. Again.

image: courtesy of life magazine. http://www.life.com/image/56831621

a block and a half walk down memory lane reminding me i already threw that sandwich away

Try cleaning house. Cleaning house not in the 1950’s housewife manner now planned in between events and meetings and extracurricular but in a real way. Cleaning house of yourself is easy to avoid. You become a prisoner to others wants and desires and live in other things and somehow you have been forgotten. You might wake up one day singing a bad country song out that window and realize I got to clean this house. Not in my bestowed womanly duties but in the reality of the clutter of life, of family, of loves-lost, shared, or desired-are starting to make you look like a serious pack rat. Cleaning house as an adult is hard to do because you have programmed your patterns so perfectly that you think they are yours for life. But what if you did it different? What if developmental gains were not only lost to the younger counterparts? What if you asked what if I was different?

Cleaning house not many people do it. It is easier to keep going on the hamster wheel fast line with or without passengers on the freeway than stop and ask what am I doing. What are you doing? In the cleaning you find the forgotten sandwich, in the brown bag, in the cotton bag, in the plastic bag, in the growing mold of lack of light into the stench of there is not forgetting this sandwich. You held onto to it. Because a lover made it. Because he made it for you. You held on hard and then tossed it to the side. You will throw it away later. You say to yourself. Not now. Now I am not ready. But then you find it months later. Years later. And think I should have cleaned this, cleansed this of myself earlier.

The other day straight out of yoga, I was soppy with sweat and release and contentment and I ran into someone that once upon meant something to me. He sat on one side of the crosswalk and me the other. I said his name and waved. He walked towards me in between the white lines faded and nothing happened. No butterflies grew into a colony in my stomach. My heart didn’t pick up the pace to match my mind. I reached out to hug him. Warning him of the moisture upon my cotton clad body. And he was like you are sweaty. Most men don’t mind touching me sweaty or not. Laughter and then the walk by side. I had forgotten he was so tall. I had forgotten he walked so propelling himself forward. I had forgotten he was selfish. So selfish not to ask how I was. One and half years or so had passed since I had seen his face near mine. Not a how are you or how have you been. Nothing.

As we walked that one and half blocks- I listened and nodded and realized the gift of a short walk with someone who you thought you knew, someone who you thought you could have loved. I realized I was thankful for the eco-cleaning supplies of therapy and the prick of the needles of acupuncture and realizing what I could agree to before could not now. I turned that corner. Thankful for cleaning my house. I didn’t care about cleaning his. My house was the only thing that mattered. I had changed. In a way I could see. What I wanted. Wanted in a way I hadn’t before. Before. A walk so brief. A love affair so brief. A cleaning of the house. Sometimes you find more than a forgotten sandwich. This time I did.