dream talk

had a dream i found my perfect french bulldog puppy. then when i started petting and playing with it, it turned out it wasn't a french bull dog at all.

my dreams are so obvious these days. it's like they're not even trying to be mysterious.

what exactly this is referring to in my life is a bit unclear though. we shall see!
but let's end this on a happy note while we all look at this face:

I have to say, it was a good day.

Peaceful Poetry

Walking past enough groups, I found a flat, grassy patch of Alamo Square to call my own for a few minutes on this sunny San Francisco afternoon.

Mr. For The Afternoon was with me. This would be his last one-on-one pseudo date with me. Nice guy, but no.

I looked over and saw this couple laying together under the blanket they’d brought to lay on. It was loving and sweet. Facing each other, him keeping the blanket over her. They roll away, back on top of the blanket, he’s up checking his phone. It’s Nick. The last guy I cried about.

I watched them have their sunny afternoon at the park. And I watched myself watch them. No reaction. Love. Appreciation. Comfort. Acceptance. Peace.

I had a good time knowing Nick. We were good to each other. But we didn’t break through very many walls in each other. We just didn’t go there together. For whatever reason. No love lost. Well, no love found either. Which was the whole problem, in fact.

How beautiful, though. My reaction. That’s a person I know. Who I care about and enjoy. And he looks happy. And so am I, for the beautiful, poetic afternoon.

(This is the full story, related to the poem version below)

Seeing him.

The man around the woman. The blanket around them both.

The San Francisco sun beating down still, but the wind getting stronger

She turns over and rolls out from under the blanket. He didn’t want her to.

He’s propped up on his knees, resting on his elbows checking his phone.

She’s sitting up, looking away.

There’s a pull between them. But there look, also a push.

She talks and slowly leans in. And then he leans forward as she slowly leans away.

He rubs her back, a motion so comfortable and natural for them that she barely notices.

The push, the pull. The yes and the no. The attraction and reaction.

Then she gets up leaving him under the blanket alone.

She leans down one more time to say one last thing.

She puts her boots on, she leaves.

He’s a man wrapped in a blanket on the grass under the sun, warm against the wind.

Magic everywhere

"[Eckart] Tolle recalls going out for a walk in London the next morning, and finding that “everything was miraculous, deeply peaceful. Even the traffic."