Low key weekend.
Sleeping in.
Fix cooked one of his amazing breakfasts. That man has a way with breakfast food
Gym
Catching up on TV shows.
Ended the day in the garage. San Diego is expensive and Fix usually ends up spending a few hours a week in our garage, working on bikes and making some extra cash. I play shop girl, sometimes just keeping him company and sometimes actually getting my hands dirty. My father is the least handy person in the world, which means my knowledge of mechanics and tools can be summed up in one word: Zip. But Fix is a patient teacher and if I "accidentally" smear grease on my cheek I've found I can persuade him to make out with me like we're teenagers. (thanks '80s movies for that trick).
More TV shows and a silly amount of internet vegging.
Bed.
Earlier wake up time.
Dog Park.
Ride to the beach. Well... that was the plan anyways. Fix surprised me last week with a Sportster. As it's only been a week, her and I are still bonding. A half hour of riding, California sun on my skin and crisp fall wind in my hair, reveling in all the cliches written about riding motorcycles, the freedom, the exhilaration, the pure joy and fun of soaring over payment with a partner on your left, chasing the sun.
And then Amelia (my suziki savage that Fix was riding) died.
Four hours on the side of the road waiting for a tow.
Thank the gods for smart phones
And boyfriends capable of good conversation.
Finally rescued from purgatory.
Gym
Movie with friends. "On Any Sunday" with a bunch of motorcycle enthusiasts. Loved it.
Drive home in the fog. A quick kiss in the fog.
Curl up under the covers with the cold and the fog seeping in through the window and the dogs breathing deeply in their sleep.
Happymess
Soundtrack of the weekend: Hozier
CaliforniaLiving.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Dipping my feet in the water
It's been a while. Months.
And the more time that stretches between writing
The more intimidating it becomes to type
Which is a shame. Because life has been so exciting. So calm. So many stories and so many dreams.
And I've been terrible about documenting it, let alone sharing it.
I've gotten better about taking pictures.
And tweeting snippets of moments and thoughts.
But it's not the same.
I hate to think of all the small stories, the jokes and the private thoughts that have slipped to the wayside of memory lane.
For years I wrote in an online journal. Only one or two people knew of it and had access and even then most of what I wrote was private. I hold pens wrong, I'm not sure why, I've never been able to break the habit, but it means my handwriting is terrible and my hand cramps a fter a few lines. So despite lusting for all the beautiful leather bound journals that I've run across in my travels, a handwritten diary just isn't practical for me. But typing has always been easy. And so I had an online journal. Since 2005 maybe? But last year the site changed... updated... was bought out... well something happened and everything was lost. Well, not lost. But getting my writing back was going to be difficult and honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to find it. There were a few painful years, lots of lost meanderings and heartbreak. There's always heartbreak. And maybe it's better to leave those thoughts lost in universe. Kind of a symbolic burning.
There's a lightness to my spirit living here. It sounds like hippie, earthy, bullshit. But there is. Some combination of moving away, leaving all the drama, living near the ocean, being with Fix, the exploring and the city and maybe just getting older and growing up, but it's working. The desperation to be content, the climbing the walls, being lost... I wouldn't say it's gone. But it's quiet. Sleeping. And life is a joy.
But it was hard to pick up writing again. Even if it was just for myself.
But two days ago something reminded me of a friend I've lost contact with. And I found myself mentally writing about her. About the connection and friendship and love that we had.
So here I am. Typing. Not about her, but I'm sure that will come.
It feels good.
I'll try to come around again more often.
And the more time that stretches between writing
The more intimidating it becomes to type
Which is a shame. Because life has been so exciting. So calm. So many stories and so many dreams.
And I've been terrible about documenting it, let alone sharing it.
I've gotten better about taking pictures.
And tweeting snippets of moments and thoughts.
But it's not the same.
I hate to think of all the small stories, the jokes and the private thoughts that have slipped to the wayside of memory lane.
For years I wrote in an online journal. Only one or two people knew of it and had access and even then most of what I wrote was private. I hold pens wrong, I'm not sure why, I've never been able to break the habit, but it means my handwriting is terrible and my hand cramps a fter a few lines. So despite lusting for all the beautiful leather bound journals that I've run across in my travels, a handwritten diary just isn't practical for me. But typing has always been easy. And so I had an online journal. Since 2005 maybe? But last year the site changed... updated... was bought out... well something happened and everything was lost. Well, not lost. But getting my writing back was going to be difficult and honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to find it. There were a few painful years, lots of lost meanderings and heartbreak. There's always heartbreak. And maybe it's better to leave those thoughts lost in universe. Kind of a symbolic burning.
There's a lightness to my spirit living here. It sounds like hippie, earthy, bullshit. But there is. Some combination of moving away, leaving all the drama, living near the ocean, being with Fix, the exploring and the city and maybe just getting older and growing up, but it's working. The desperation to be content, the climbing the walls, being lost... I wouldn't say it's gone. But it's quiet. Sleeping. And life is a joy.
But it was hard to pick up writing again. Even if it was just for myself.
But two days ago something reminded me of a friend I've lost contact with. And I found myself mentally writing about her. About the connection and friendship and love that we had.
So here I am. Typing. Not about her, but I'm sure that will come.
It feels good.
I'll try to come around again more often.
Friday, January 31, 2014
I keep trying to write.
So many thoughts.
So many things I want to express. Ideas and conversations and pictures painted with words.
But I'm out of practice.
Everything I write is forced
Is prattle.
The tone is wrong.
The words aren't strong enough.
The picture not clear.
So it all stays locked in my head, pushing and shoving for space.
I want to write about the way the city looks covered in fog.
And how it has forced my inner noir romantic to the surface.
I want to express how I've been feverishly reading James Ellroy and Dennis Lehane
I want to explain how their writing is so exquisite
so painfully sharp that I bleed with emotion all over their pages.
How to explain the need to sit in a dimly lit bar and discuss all the books that shaped, formed, made our character. Or talk about movies, the ones that were real. That broke us. That shattered our walls with a glance. The ones that gave us the courage to do things previously thought beyond us. Or the music that soothes us, that carries our dreams and wishes onto the breeze. The fog makes me romantic, wild, with hints melancholy.
See?
Contrived.
Forced.
But not any less true
I want to write about surfing.
About the hours spent in the freezing water, only going in when my hands and feet are swollen from the cold.
About the culture and camaraderie that can't be captured with words.
The way the sun and the waves heal things in me I had never acknoweledged were broken.
The burning desire to get better, to abandoned everything except the sea.
I want to write about the ghosts of friendships past.
Or write about future dreams that I'm trying to give shape and substance.
Hell, I could write how I almost gave up on music and then fell wildly passionately in love with it again.
But every time I pick a topic
Every time I start to write
it falls flat.
I can't find my voice
And worse, I don't know where I lost it.
It's not under the bed. I already checked.
I'm not sure where else to look. My closet by the sea isn't big enough to hide secrets
let alone something as big as my need to write. To document.
Stay with me people.
I'll find the words eventually.
So many thoughts.
So many things I want to express. Ideas and conversations and pictures painted with words.
But I'm out of practice.
Everything I write is forced
Is prattle.
The tone is wrong.
The words aren't strong enough.
The picture not clear.
So it all stays locked in my head, pushing and shoving for space.
I want to write about the way the city looks covered in fog.
And how it has forced my inner noir romantic to the surface.
I want to express how I've been feverishly reading James Ellroy and Dennis Lehane
I want to explain how their writing is so exquisite
so painfully sharp that I bleed with emotion all over their pages.
How to explain the need to sit in a dimly lit bar and discuss all the books that shaped, formed, made our character. Or talk about movies, the ones that were real. That broke us. That shattered our walls with a glance. The ones that gave us the courage to do things previously thought beyond us. Or the music that soothes us, that carries our dreams and wishes onto the breeze. The fog makes me romantic, wild, with hints melancholy.
See?
Contrived.
Forced.
But not any less true
I want to write about surfing.
About the hours spent in the freezing water, only going in when my hands and feet are swollen from the cold.
About the culture and camaraderie that can't be captured with words.
The way the sun and the waves heal things in me I had never acknoweledged were broken.
The burning desire to get better, to abandoned everything except the sea.
I want to write about the ghosts of friendships past.
Or write about future dreams that I'm trying to give shape and substance.
Hell, I could write how I almost gave up on music and then fell wildly passionately in love with it again.
But every time I pick a topic
Every time I start to write
it falls flat.
I can't find my voice
And worse, I don't know where I lost it.
It's not under the bed. I already checked.
I'm not sure where else to look. My closet by the sea isn't big enough to hide secrets
let alone something as big as my need to write. To document.
Stay with me people.
I'll find the words eventually.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
New Beginnings
There seems to be a theme in my resolutions.
Growing up.
I am nearing thirty and clearly feeling my age.
I find myself worrying about acting too young, or being one of those people that refuse to grow up.
Being old terrifies me, but being old and refusing to accept reality is even scarier.
I don't want to be in my thirties and still scrambling. Still living loose.
It's a delicate balance, trying to stabilize but not become rooted. To be steady, but not weighted down.
First, I want to look the part.
I've neglected my wardrobe for far too long. I've always liked clothes, but have always had too many interests, too many personalities to stick with a certain aesthetic. In addition, spending money on clothes was never a priority, if there was extra money it went towards adventures. Why spend money on clothes when I could spend it on experiences?
However, lately I've found myself yearning to look more complete. To look a little more polished. I'm still perfectly happy in jeans and a hoodie, but as my personality is growing up, so is my wardrobe. Or it should. Or maybe it has less to do with getting older, and more that living here has completed me. Being in Arizona made me restless and itchy and who could care about clothes when all I wanted to do was immerse myself in events to make myself forget that I was unhappy in my location? But here, here I find peace. The proximity of the ocean soothes my soul and acts as a balm for all that is restless and wild in me. It's still to be seen if this is a permanent fix, but now that I am no longer thrashing about I can look around me, look down at me, and realize that I want my outer appearance to match my inner.
Second, I want to clean up the clutter in my life.
This covers a few things, financial, daily, emotionally and physically.
San Diego is expensive but I make good money and if I can stick to a budget it's more than doable. So. It's time to buck up and start keeping track of where all my money goes. My daily life is such a whirlwind. I have plenty of time to do things. Yet I am either very lazy and do nothing, or going nonstop. This is silly. Although I detest routine, I need to plan things out just a little bit better. Fit everything in. Working out, fun, cleaning, grocery shopping... there is time for it all, I just need to budget my time. As far as cleaning up the clutter emotionally, basically I think writing will help with that. My job is stressful and if I don't empty my head a few times a week, it builds. Writing, whether publically or privately, needs to be more of a priority. Plus, I have all these unfinished storylines of friendships and relationships and even though most can't be resolved, writing helps sort and put some of those stories in perspective. The clutter in me physically is the most important and the easiest to fix. Stop eating junk and work out. Eating junk is expensive and bad for my body. I need to start to grocery shop, cook a few times a week and stop making excuses.
So for 2014 I have three words that sum up what I want to focus on.
Immerse: In water, in experiences, in life. Put the phone down, dunk myself in salt water weekly, stop isolating and engage in all relationships. This year I want to really focus on immersing myself in music and fun and peace and breathtaking sights and danger. No wait, I mean excitement. and danger.
Stabilize: Time to be a grown up. Stabilize a budget, time to workout, writing time, and basically clean up the clutter in my life.
Document: Write more, take pictures. I have this amazing life and all I have is a bunch of pictures of my dogs. Which, while adorable, does not sum up my life.
How's that for a new years resolution?
Growing up.
I am nearing thirty and clearly feeling my age.
I find myself worrying about acting too young, or being one of those people that refuse to grow up.
Being old terrifies me, but being old and refusing to accept reality is even scarier.
I don't want to be in my thirties and still scrambling. Still living loose.
It's a delicate balance, trying to stabilize but not become rooted. To be steady, but not weighted down.
First, I want to look the part.
I've neglected my wardrobe for far too long. I've always liked clothes, but have always had too many interests, too many personalities to stick with a certain aesthetic. In addition, spending money on clothes was never a priority, if there was extra money it went towards adventures. Why spend money on clothes when I could spend it on experiences?
However, lately I've found myself yearning to look more complete. To look a little more polished. I'm still perfectly happy in jeans and a hoodie, but as my personality is growing up, so is my wardrobe. Or it should. Or maybe it has less to do with getting older, and more that living here has completed me. Being in Arizona made me restless and itchy and who could care about clothes when all I wanted to do was immerse myself in events to make myself forget that I was unhappy in my location? But here, here I find peace. The proximity of the ocean soothes my soul and acts as a balm for all that is restless and wild in me. It's still to be seen if this is a permanent fix, but now that I am no longer thrashing about I can look around me, look down at me, and realize that I want my outer appearance to match my inner.
Second, I want to clean up the clutter in my life.
This covers a few things, financial, daily, emotionally and physically.
San Diego is expensive but I make good money and if I can stick to a budget it's more than doable. So. It's time to buck up and start keeping track of where all my money goes. My daily life is such a whirlwind. I have plenty of time to do things. Yet I am either very lazy and do nothing, or going nonstop. This is silly. Although I detest routine, I need to plan things out just a little bit better. Fit everything in. Working out, fun, cleaning, grocery shopping... there is time for it all, I just need to budget my time. As far as cleaning up the clutter emotionally, basically I think writing will help with that. My job is stressful and if I don't empty my head a few times a week, it builds. Writing, whether publically or privately, needs to be more of a priority. Plus, I have all these unfinished storylines of friendships and relationships and even though most can't be resolved, writing helps sort and put some of those stories in perspective. The clutter in me physically is the most important and the easiest to fix. Stop eating junk and work out. Eating junk is expensive and bad for my body. I need to start to grocery shop, cook a few times a week and stop making excuses.
So for 2014 I have three words that sum up what I want to focus on.
Immerse: In water, in experiences, in life. Put the phone down, dunk myself in salt water weekly, stop isolating and engage in all relationships. This year I want to really focus on immersing myself in music and fun and peace and breathtaking sights and danger. No wait, I mean excitement. and danger.
Stabilize: Time to be a grown up. Stabilize a budget, time to workout, writing time, and basically clean up the clutter in my life.
Document: Write more, take pictures. I have this amazing life and all I have is a bunch of pictures of my dogs. Which, while adorable, does not sum up my life.
How's that for a new years resolution?
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