Father and Son

The truth is, I am down for anything that makes my days feel like poetry.

This doesn't just apply to my afternoons with the poet.

Last night... last night was pretty fucking poetic.

Sometimes poetry is painful and dark. I'm down for that kind of poetry too. Because feeling anything is better than feeling nothing. That is a lesson it took a long time for me to learn.

Last night was not the dark and painful variety.

If I were to make a list of people I would give a kidney to, it wouldn't be a terribly long list. (Though, I suspect, it might be longer than most people's list. I am cursed with an over active sense of empathy.)

Last night I got to watch, for the first time, one of the people at the top of my list of potential kidney recipients, interact with his grown son.

I with I could capture this man with words. But even as a writer who strives to capture all of the people around her with words, I am not sure it could be done.

He has this energy that just comes off of his being. Every single time I am blessed enough to get a few hours in with him my days are better for it. My life is better for it.

It does not matter how flawed you are. He can find the beautiful parts in you and help you see them simply by being in his presence. Something about his energy just illuminates the beautiful parts in everyone around him.

And watching him interact with his boy, wow. Just fucking wow. I am a big fan of facial expressions. Body language too, but much more facial expressions. So much of our real communication with one another comes from this. The way the brow furrows, or lifts. The glint in a person's eyes that cannot really be faked. These are the things that are real.

The two of them, sitting together, laughing together....

The night had a bit of magic to it.

And, if this man was not completely and totally gay, he would have my heart to go with the kidney.

Meh. Fuck it. He's got my heart anyhow. He just can't have all of it.

And he can't have my vagina. That, for now, seems to be the territory of this poet who has firmly captured my attention. And the other parts of my heart.

The poet and his wife

I tend to maintain friendships with my exes. I feel pretty strongly that if I can be head over heels in love with a person at one point in my life, there is enough there to justify, maybe even require, an ongoing friendship.

A couple days ago I had this conversation with a couple at the local bar while we waited for the playoffs games to start. The woman was adamant that you could only do this until you started a new relationship.

I whole fucking heartedly disagree.

For me, I might actually be more attracted to a man who maintains friendships with the women from his past. It is evidence of the fact that he didn't screw them over so badly they never want to see him again.

Today I got to watch The Poet and his (very recent) ex wife interact over lunch. We all happened to end up in the same spot after he helped her move into her new apartment.

I know my reaction is not necessarily the normal one to have. But I think it is kind of amazing.

They were smiling and laughing and cracking jokes. I have this kind of friendship with many of my own past loves. I don't think it is something to be jealous of. I view it as something to strive for.

And I do. I strive for it all the time.

And this week, two days ago actually, I received an email from the one ex in my past that wouldn't speak to me. It was warm and kind and friendly.

And we are going to connect by phone in the next couple days and possibly grab coffee when I am in Colorado.

And it makes me smile that he and I are potentially headed toward friendship.

And it makes me smile to see the new friendship emergenging from the ashes of a fallen marriage between the poet and his ex wife.

Because if you can love someone with all your heart and soul I will never understand how you can turn that into nothing. It has always been a mystery to me.

Thanks, God.

I'm not one to claim a solid understanding of who or what God is. I am pretty sure he's tired of us killing one another on his behalf though.

My understanding of God can best be summed up by simply saying I do not understand. Also, I think there is an element of arrogance required to claim otherwise.

I will say this though. I must be on his good side at the moment because life is really wonderful. As I walk through the sunny Los Angeles streets feeling the sun seep into my skin and watching as purple flowers rain down from the jacaranda trees....

Life is fucking good.

Each day I give a little more of my heart away to a poet. And it's good. It's all fucking good.

It will hurt when it ends. These things always do.

But I get today. I get to live and love and enjoy and absorb it in such a way that no matter the tears that come later, today will be worth it.

Today is a gift from a god that I don't understand. And I would just really like to say, "Thank you."

Shoot me

Some memories are decades old before they can be properly written about.

I've found myself writing about my first marriage a lot lately.

Some memories are decades old before they can come to the page without the anger.

I once asked a man to shoot me in the head. True story.

When I said it, I meant it absolutely. I begged him and I cried. Just do it. Pull the fucking trigger, already. Let. Me. Go.

I think I want to write a poem about that day.

Music and booze

Twelve hours of drinking is never a good idea.

Except for when it is a good idea. And then, then it tends to be fucking epic.

The last two days have been filled with music and alcohol. Living two blocks away from a music festival does not suck.

I'm exhausted.

When Aloe Blac went on last night I broke out into full dance party mode. He was amazing. The night was amazing. The whole weekend was amazing in various different ways.

Last year I went to this same festival. My understanding is, at some point, I laid down on the ground and told my brother to leave me there so I could "take a nap."

I am drinking again. But I am not drinking like that. Yesterday we all started drinking early. But I went slow. I took my time. I was slightly drunk for most of the day but still coherent enough to enjoy and remember the artist I went to the festival to see.

And he exceeded my very high expectations.

Keep them away!

I have said many times, my uterus is closed.

I am out of the baby making business. For good.

This factory has been shut down.

With that in mind I have something else I need to say.

This is to everyone who has a daughter or granddaughter with beautiful curly hair. The more precocious, the more I must emphasize this.

Please keep your curly headed girls under the age of six far, far away from my uterus. They confuse my uterus. They make my uterus think things like, "If I could have one like that, maybe I could do it again."

No! Damn it, Uterus! You cannot.

What my uterus doesn't understand, but my head does, is the job is not done when they stop being precious little princesses with pretty locks. The uterus is all finished working in nine months, but I would be stuck with the job forever.

And I don't like the sound of forever at this point in my life.

Most of the time other people's children can't get me past the "Wow! So fucking cute. Glad they're not mine though," phase. I'm fine with that phase. Me and my uterus agree on most little kids. Cute. But give them back.

And some people's children straight up make my ovaries cry out in horror.

But those damn adorable little girls who talk to everyone with their dimples and their curly hair, they make me want to make babies.

So, until I can save up the funds to get my tubes tied into as many knots as I can convince the doctor to make, please keep your little girls away from me.

Because this factory is fucking shut down.

Who wants a kidney?

One of the greatest humans I know asked me to be part of his one year sobriety chip/cake tonight.

Hardcore sobriety. Crystal meth sobriety.

I have my own history with this drug. It's not pretty. I didn't go to meetings to escape its grip, but I do regard my escape as something of a miracle.

I don't know all that many people that I truly view as simply amazing humans. But, this is one.

I speak kindly and often enough of this man that my brother recently asked, "If he needs a kidney and I need a kidney, I'm going to fucking die on the donor waiting list aren't I?"

And right now all I can say is, kidneys are kind of a first come, first served item. And if this man needs a kidney I would definitely be willing to give him one of mine. As long as it isn't my only one.