The Sound of Waves

I woke up to the sound of waves in Indonesia today.  I laid in bed, listening. Where am I? What is that sound? It was still dark outside.  I rolled over and fell back to sleep.

I woke up to the sound of waves and birds in Indonesia today.  I laid in bed, listening, unclear if I heard a radio, or traffic, or people talking. But it was the birds. Dawn was coming. My period was coming. I felt the cramping in my uterus, working to push the blood and tissue out. I rolled over and sat up.  I got my bearings in my beach front bungalow. The blackout curtains kept the small room dark but for a faint light under the crack in the front door.  I am bleeding.  I can feel it. I got up and stepped out the back door to the open air bathroom to clean myself up. It wasn't too bad. Just a spot on my bright blue underwear where the blood dripped down the curve of my body. I returned to my sleeping hovel and drew back the curtain to let the morning light in. I crawled back into bed.

I woke up to the sound of waves in Indonesia today. I laid in bed, listening. The birds have gone. The sun has arrived. I sit up in bed and look out my window. I see a green tree, a wood shade hut, a bench, and the ocean. I woke up in paradise today.

Sensory Memory

I recently participated in a Ripe Fruit writing workshop, and it pushed me into uncomfortable territory. It had an effect on me that I didn't see coming, and it hit me like a freight train.

Six women participated. We started the morning off, sitting in a circle in the Greenhouse of the Imagination, by sharing why we were there. Easy enough. We were also asked to describe the landscape we were born into, the smells, the colors, and the light. Much tougher.

As the five other women described their landscapes, the red kitchen, the smell of pine trees, the muted sunlight dancing on the white carpet, I began to feel emotion in my stomach and cheeks. My turn was coming up and the tears where creeping to formation. My throat was getting tight. My chest was getting full. I had no memories of the landscape I was born into. What will I say when it's my turn? Where is my home? Where do I come from?

This isn't the first time I've struggled with this. I can't remember my childhood, shuffled between houses, flown between coasts, angry and confused by my broken home. Have I suppressed it completed? Where are my memories? They are fragmented. They are flashes of moments, intellectualized.  Where is my inner child who lived my life?

I'm up next. It's my turn to share. I can tell them why I'm here. "I'm exploring my writing voice and I wanted a new perspective, a new growth opportunity." "Great," Leslie affirms. "Tell us about your childhood landscape." My chin quivers. I breathe deeply. I look up. I can't make eye contact with any of the women. The quiver rises to my lips. My eyes water. I apologize for being emotional and squeak out, "I have no memories from my childhood."

I said it. I've never said it out loud before. I am shocked at my own confession. I pull out the kleenex from my pocket that I had grabbed in the bathroom just moments before. I'd taken a pee break to relieve my coffee filled bladder, but also to find relief from the emotional cliff I accidentally walked out on. I thought that if I took a break to the bathroom that I could suppress the emotion building deep inside, shake it off, flush it down the toilet. But my efforts had failed. I became a blubbering mess with choked up words and waterfall tears.

They watched in silence as I wept. They gave me time to collect my thoughts, collect me tears. They did not try to fill the void. They listened to it. I think each of them wept a little too, through me. But I wasn't off the hook just because I got emotional. "It's ok to cry. Memory is emotional. And memory is sensory. Think of any time in your childhood. What do you see?" I focused on Leslie's calm words of encouragement. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. "The ocean," I sniffled. "What color is it?" "Turquoise, with white foam." "What do you hear?" "Seagulls, and waves." "How is the light?" "It's foggy, grey but not dim." "Can you smell anything?" "I smell the salt and the seaweed." I smiled. I do have memory. I do have sensory memory.

Serendipity

I love weekends in the City when I have nothing to do but follow the wind of my whims.  The strangest things happen when you float through the day, moment to moment, open to the universe as the sun shines down on your face.  Like maybe a big red parrot lands on your arm.

Seriously, this can happen. It happened to me just the other day...

I walked out of my house on a Sunday morning with only one thing to do - meet my good friends Rosa and Russia for breakfast at Mission Beach Cafe.  They were in town with their son for a Cub Scout adventure at the Academy of Sciences.  They had the pleasure of an overnight retreat in the famous museum whose mission is to explore, explain, and sustain life.  In fact, they slept next to the upside down jelly fish, along with the 400 other scouts, siblings, and parents.  I went to college with Rosa.  He was a history major too, plus we travelled to Oaxaca, shared a house, and did a lot of growing up together in our twenties.  After school, he went into the Peace Corps and met the lovely Russia, whom he married and moved with to the Sierra Nevada foothills.  But they miss the City life, and a good bikini waxer, so they pop back into town every six to eight weeks for a visit.

Breakfast was delicious, as expected, and the Sunday morning sun felt warm on my pale winter skin, so after dropping them off at the N line, I meandered home through the Castro and up to Dolores Park.  I'd bought a pack of menthol cigarettes on Friday night, in a (seemingly too regular) moment of weakness, which I'd stashed in my purse "just in case" I found a nice moment to savor one.  I found that moment on a park bench over looking the sleepy City.  To my delight, the park go-ers were starting to take hold and mischief was beginning to brew.  A joint sparked under the branches of a low tree, three hipsters stashed a 12-pack of Tecate haphazardly under a blanket, a nearly naked man lathered suntan lotion over his bronzed leathery skin, and a crowd of wide-eyed children and parents gathered around a man and his two parrots.

He stood at the top of the bright green slope, a large red parrot perched on each shoulder, dutifully answering questions about his mates and posing for photos.  And when I say large, I mean that the body of each parrot was taller than his head, and the tail feathers reach down the length of his back. I stared in fascination, the way children stare, without shame. After the novelty of being so close wore off, I spaced out back over the park crowd, letting my gaze drift off to the distant East Bay hills, when I heard an "oooh aahh" over my right shoulder.  The birds had taken flight.

They danced through the sky, rising in circles above the park but staying close to each other as their wings opened in free flight.  A women parked her stroller and sat next to me on the bench. We watched in wonderment and silence as the red feathered creatures frolicked in the morning sun.  They reached high into the sky over Dolores Heights before their owner called to them to stay closer.  I watched over my shoulder as they heeded his call for return.  To my surprise, they soared down close to our heads, and we bench dwellers both ducked as they circled back down and around.  The smaller of the two cut right and back up to her owner's arm.  They larger male took his time, soaring out over the playground before circling back up to the hill.  He came in low towards the grass, almost out of sight and then popped up directly at us.  In less than a second we were staring eye to eye and he was coming straight for me.  My instinct was to duck and cover, but as I bent forward with closed eyes, my left arm extended outward, creating a perfect perch, where he landed with ease.  I. was. terrified.

I was so terrified that I couldn't even look at him.  I felt his weight. I felt his talons. I felt his aura. But I was scared shitless to look him in the eye.  I searched for his owner's gaze.  He was calm and called out "just shake him off." Just shake him off?  Um, ok. So I carefully gave my arm a gentle shake.  Nothing.  "It's ok.  Do it harder.  He won't hurt you." I leaned forward, took a step off the seat, and gave my arm a harder shake, with the motion of the wave hip hop dance move. He took flight and I collapsed back onto the bench.  I took a deep breath and regained my composure just in time to see the parrot land on his owner's shoulder with agility and grace.  He smiled. "You did great." I smiled, awkwardly. I was shaking with adrenaline and disbelief.

Strange things happen in the City. Thank you sunshine and serendipity.

[And thank you random Latina mom bench dweller who snapped the photo and shared it with me.]

The Perpetual List

I am a list maker.

They are never that long, but they are a way to collect all of my thoughts. They are full of things to do, places to go, books to read, stories to write, people I want to become.

I have been a list maker since I can ever remember, or at least since college. I don't remember specifically doing it in high school, but I was young and life was much simpler back then.

Often, my lists get formed in the Saturday morning hours of a long weekend.  A weekend when I have loads of time on my hands and no actual plans.  This is the environment most ripe for a good list - a list full of achievables and pies in the sky.

This past Saturday, President's Day Weekend, I listed the following:

-bike ride to the beach
-yoga
-glasses adjustment
-ironing
-The Artist's Way writing
-blog
-groceries
-finish library book
-bills
-dates

Some of these are achievable, likely even inevitable (bills), and they get added to be sure I have something to show for my weekend.

Some of these are on every list, (blog), so that I can stop feeling bad about them swimming in my head and not actually getting done.  I feel one step closer to completion if I put them on the list.

Some things are self-improvement activities that have no real deadlines, (bike ride to the beach), but I like to put them on the list to remind me to practice life for myself, for fun, for health.

And some things are pies in the sky that I often have no control over, (dates), but they go on the list because I want them for myself.  If I put them on the list, then the law of attraction might kick in and send them my way.

I am rarely able to cross off all of the things on my list.  I have multiple journals of unfinished lists. Journals of places I wanted to go, things I wanted to do.  The transcript of a life still under construction.

I always thought I liked to make the list so that I could cross things off of it, but then I realized something about myself - I'm a perpetual list maker.

Two weeks ago I did a Myers-Briggs assessment. I found out that I'm an ESFP, and Ps are notorious for their perpetual lists.

Typically, one might think of a J as a list maker, and this is true.  They write down lists to stay organized, but they don't actually need the list to get the work done.

The P is also a list maker, it just that our lists don't keep us organized or track a course.  Rather, the P list is a list full of possibilities.

Instead of the "to do" list, it's the "could do" list.  It's open to possibility, and leaves room for spontaneity.

It's a list that doesn't end, and rarely gets completed.

It's a list of things I could do, places I could go, books I could read, stories I could write, people I could become.

It's a list I know I've written hundreds of times, and will continue to rewrite equally as many times more.

The Winning Ticket

I fell off writing, a little, but I'm getting back on the horse.  To help inspire me, I'm trying to engage my mother tongue in a variety of ways.  Most recently, I got free tickets on Goldstar to TMI Storytelling at La Pena Cultural Center last Thursday.  I invited my writer friend Special Peeps to join me.  We met in a writing class a couple of years ago, which spun off into a casual writing group, which disbanded a couple of months ago because I got tired of managing the logistics.  Once again, I felt like the tree with the roots trying to hold everything together, but that's for another story. Special Peeps and I hadn't seen each other for a while so we met at the cafe to catch up with our lives before the show began.  It was fantastic.  I enjoy her company so much, and love that we have writing in common.  Of course neither of us have been writing since the group disbanded, but that's totally ok.  There is no judgment, only mutual goals of furthering our craft and coping with our lives.

After a handmade empanada and a ice cold ginger beer, we shifted seats into the adjacent room to see what this storytelling was all about. I admit I had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into. I'm new to the storytelling scene, and have mild aspirations of being brave enough to share a story on stage.  Ok, my aspirations are more than mild - I want to get to that point, the point when I can, with confidence, just get up and tell people a really good story.  But alas, all in good time my dear.

The room was fairly small, intimate, but not like an AA group small.  The elevated stage was maybe the size of two queen beds, and the eclectic collection of chairs amounted to about 5 seats by 20 rows deep. There was just a microphone stand on stage. Waiting. Waiting for Gina Gold to get up and start the show.  She was a great host, comedian, and storyteller.  The theme of the night was "Go Hard or Go Home." She warmed us up with an emotional roller coaster of a story about her pregnancy, when she was hallucinating from the nausea medicine and running from invisible Nazi's. I couldn't quite tell how much was fact verses fiction, or embellishment, but it doesn't really matter... that's the beauty of a good story.

The next couple of storytellers were ok, but not as good as Gina Gold.  One was downright bad, I think he was drunk or something, and the other was just not that inspirational.  By the third one, the energy had picked up, and he had the crowd laughing, empathizing, engaged.  On this high note, Gina broke for intermission and the raffle.  When I'd checked us in, I was handed two tickets, which I had given the Special Peeps for safekeeping while I munched on the empanada. We'd forgotten about them, but she dug into her jacket pocket to unveil the raffle numbers. "199775!" Nope, not us.  A younger man worked his way through the cheering crowd to claim his prize. "199738!" Special Peeps and I peered down at the two red tickets, still stuck together from the giant ticket roll.  O.M.G. that's us! We looked at each other, and then back at the tickets, and then back at each other. "Do you?" "No, you." I popped up from my chair. "I won!" I shouted with glee. I never win. Other people always win.  I can't even remember a time in my life that I had the winning ticket. Like Tigger, I bounced with delight onto the stage.  Gina Gold gave me a big smile and walked over to the box of goodies.  "And here's what you won! A dildo!" A large, pearl-colored dildo, with a bullet vibrator insert. And by large I mean, the size of a baby's arm large. I grab my prize, wave the firm silicone shaft it in the air at the cheering crowd, and grin my bright red cheeks from ear to ear. Go Hard or Go Home... I think I'm going to like the storytelling circuit!

Baseball

With game 6 of the World Series just hours away, I was reflecting on the start of the season which, for me, began with a laughter filled trip to Scottsdale Arizona with my two favorite baseball fans - Montana and Leggs.  We squeezed in four games in three days, although the rain and hail cut three of those games short.  Despite the thick pellets of hail and menacing thunder and lightning, and thanks to our trusty emergency ponchos, we still had a delightful time. 

Here's a little expert from my journal I jotted down on the plane ride home... Memorable Moments

The whole first game! Giants vs Dodgers. We got up with the rain, headed to Starbucks for coffee, Albertsons for sunscreen and ponchos, Einsteins for bagels and a new travel mug, then found good parking, close, and headed into Scottsdale Stadium.  The rain came first, so we doddled around, into the Team Store for Giants gear (for Maddie) but the lines were madness, then out into the stadium hallway to browse the baseball paraphernalia  There were concessions, and famous players from another year, like Gaylord Perry and Rollie Fingers, but there was an uproar from around the corner. We meandered over to see what the fuss was about.  Montana smirked.  It was "Mystery Baseball."  A fundraiser for the Giants Foundation community fund - $80 for a chinese take-out box with a Giants sticker on top. Inside was an autographed baseball, which could be a random or could be Buster Posey.  Montana turned to me, "I'm gonna do it." "Do it," I cheered on.  She stepped up to the table, paid her $80, and turned to Leggs and I for advice about which box to choose.  We looked bewildered at each other, both thinking "I don't want to be responsible for her fate" and said "You have to choose." She looked us each in the eye and, like a child in front of a christmas tree, scanned the boxes for her choice.  She reached out, grabbed a box, and greedily scratched at the sticker.  The Foundation staff began the drum roll on the folding table.  The box was open and her long skinny fingers searched for her prize.  Out came the ball.  She scanned it for the signature and we looked on perplexed.  What was the scribble?  Thankfully, the Foundation lady gasped and smiled and scrambled for the box... inside was a sheet of paper.  She ripped it out of the box and fumbled it open.  "Madison Bumgardner" she exclaimed. We all cheered for joy and Leggs and I sighed with relief. Montana will be pleased.  Montana was pleased.

Skidmarks in the Bathroom

About a year ago, my boss negotiated a new lease for our office.  A condition of said lease was an upgrade to the bathrooms.  We've been there for over 20 years, so it was overdue.

Upon my arrival about six years ago, the women’s bathroom had a host of handyman interventions that told the story of evolving code compliance and years of commercial businesses made up mostly of women. To start with, it had pink tile walls with a baby blue sheet vinyl floor.  How stereotypical can you get.  There were two stalls, two sinks, a large mirror, no vents, and fluorescent lights that made everyone look bad (although sufficiently bright for a zip popping sesh). The double sinks each had a countertop soap dispenser, as well as a wall mounted option, providing a weekly surprise as to which bladder the cleaning staff had filled over the weekend.  The left side, which also had a protruding motion sensor paper towel dispenser mounted adjacent to the recessed combo paper towel waste can unit mounted adjacent to an always-empty 10 cent sanitary napkin dispenser, had a rusted out hole next to the drain, which slowly dribbled water to the floor creating a workman’s comp nightmare by the end of each day. When using this sink, I had to position myself carefully to not get soapy water on my shoes or unnecessarily dispense a roll of excess paper towels.  Although once three, the two current metal stalls generally fit the space, but the installer had little regard for bathroom politics given the large gaps along the hinges that provided a full, direct view, of the female user.  One gap was filled daily with a new sheet of dangling toilet paper due to its direct line of sight for anyone entering the bathroom.  And each night, the cleaning crew threw it away.  The toilets were not much to speak of other than being so low I sometimes wondered if I'd entered an elementary school bathroom. The stall with the big peeping Tom gap had evidence of its ADA retrofit, including an ill-placed grab bar directly across the toilet paper holder and sanitary napkin disposer and a capped off toilet stub poking through the pink tile wall.  While sitting idly in that stall, I couldn’t help but ponder whether, under the right flushing conditions of the tenants in the upper floors, would the jury-rigged cap come flying off, sending a hose of waste fluid shooting through the gaping privacy divide and onto the unsuspecting woman washing her hands.  Thankfully, that never actually happened.

Needless to say, I laid rest to my waste in this bathroom without too much complaint, but was delighted to hear of the pending upgrade. After a six-week closure, and never remembering to not wait until the last might to bleed the lizard or send the kids to the pool because the elevator to the 3^rd floor bathroom was painfully slow, our new bathroom was unveiled.  To my surprise, after all those weeks of watching the hallway calamity, including the hazardous materials tents, electricians in the ceiling tiles, and masons with a stack of shining ceramics and a fancy slab of granite, the bathroom was in no better condition.  In fact, I’d venture to say it was worse. The finishes were indeed all changed out, for the better, but the individual components were installed piece meal by each trade without the end user in mind. The colors are better, cream and green instead of pink and blue.  The new green wall tiles cover up the extra toilet pipes, but they just refurbished the existing stalls so the privacy gap persists.  Everyday, the toilet paper drape is hung, and every night is disposed with pile of used paper towels. The sinks, facets, soap dispensers, and counter were replaced, and the extra parts removed.  Compact fluorescent recessed cans replaced the large fluorescent tubes, but the new lights are positioned over the floor instead of the sink so my face is always in the dark while standing in front of the mirror.  This makes contact lenses difficult, as well as make-up application, not to mention my irregular craving for extraction.  However, all in all, these are manageable for me.  The real kicker to the bathroom upgrade is the new low-flow toilets.  They nearly always leave skid marks.  They appear as little claw scrapes or as tire-sized welts, and they always emerge.  As if dropping a duce in the public restroom isn’t inconvenient enough.  As if the stink bomb from last night’s beer binge isn’t prominent enough. As if making gravy when I want to make logs isn’t mortifying enough. Now, I always get to leave a memento of my accomplishments, paying homage to my gastrointestinal tract for all my coworkers to bear witness,… unless I flush like five times.  Thank you low-flow toilet, I really think you are making a valuable impact.