Tell me why you like me.
Because I do.
Tell me. Tell me, please?
Tell me why you like me when I don’t even like myself?
Kiss my forehead, stroke my hair, tell me why you still put up with me.
Because you said you wanted that purse in beagle.
Because two years ago you sent me a picture of a little girl wearing a dog shaped purse and you said she looked so happy. And you asked me if you got that purse if you’d be happy.
I said yes.
And you said, I want it in beagle.
And the thought of you running around in your heels and flowy dresses wearing a dog purse to make you happy made me smile for days.
That’s why I like you.
Because you’re weird and you’re funny and you’re cute.
Category: Uncategorized
NPM 16: Love Poem 4
Come sit with me.
Just a moment.
Sit with me.
Quietly.
Just your body next to mine.
The warmth of your presence enough to soothe me.
I don’t want to talk about it.
What is there to talk about?
How do I explain that I don’t know. what’s wrong?
How do I tell you I don’t know why I’m crying?
Just sit with me and in the silence help me find peace.
NPM 15: Waiting
I’ve been waiting.
Waiting for a bus, waiting for a change, waiting for Godot.
Just waiting.
Waiting for money to grow on trees for once. Just once.
Waiting for the right one. “He’ll show up when you least expect it.” Bullshit.
I’m sick of waiting for the right time. Waiting to fit into that one dress. Waiting to be happy.
I’m ready to just be. To live. To enjoy.
My patience has worn thin.
2015 in review
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,400 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 23 trips to carry that many people.
Sunday Morning
My alarm goes off at 540. I didn’t get enough sleep.
I haven’t had enough sleep in the past week.
But that’s how it goes every time.
This is what it is to be a slave to your art.
I’m dramatic, I know.
I set my alarm for six. Resting my eyes for another 20 minutes, thankful that I’d showered the night before.
And five minutes later my alarm goes off again. My phone says it’s six, but my body says I should sleep more.
But it’s the Christmas performance. It’s the big one. It’s the one I tell myself I’m going to start working on in September every year when I’m scrambling to finish choreography in November.
Maybe next year I will.
But for some reason I only know how to work well under pressure.
You want something good from the dancers? Sure how about a five-minute group number for the opening act? Then a duet to follow, which isn’t really a duet, but more like two solos brought together with a bonus of three girls doing a part for the bridge.
Make sense?
No? Guess you’d have to see it to understand.
Ok ok, how about a nice solo to finish?
And how about I whip it all together in less than two months?
Ha.
I’m a slave driver and a masochist at the same time.
I spent the last two weeks, scouring the city for the items I needed to build beautiful golden arcs, for the final pieces of their costume, for affordable mini, battery operated lights and opalescent sequined ribbon.
My fingers are burned from hot glue and my body exhausted from a lack of rest.
But that’s over and done with. It’s the big day and I’m laying in bed thanking God for dry shampoo and clean tights.
I told the girls they needed to be there by 730. We go on at 930.
Two services. Four dances.
I need to dress them, do their make up and secure the crowns I designed and made for them.
A difficult task since they include a battery pack for the lights.
Yes I made them light up crowns.
Yes, you should want one for yourself.
I wash my face, brush my teeth and dress quickly.
I’m out the door before sunrise and I know that as I watch the dawn break in front of me, everything will be worth it as i watch my girls in full costume, with the music going and the stage lights up, and their hair twinkling, with the crowd enraptured.
These are the fruits of my labor and they are beautiful.





