Ends and Feelers

Isn’t it interesting how I manage to write about things I don’t put in lists?  I meant to jot this one down, but it escaped my increasingly perforated mind.  All I wanted to say here was Tuesday night, the night I went to the art show, was one of times I wish my mom was with me.  She would have loved it.  Everyone, save for 3 people, was filipino.  Everyone (else) spoke Tagalog.  She would have fit right in, and I would have asked her what everyone was saying.  She would have talked to everyone, and she would have had everyone laughing.  She really would have liked Lucia.  I really, really missed my mom just two nights ago.  It’ll be great to see her again, even though I saw her back in June.  

I made some friends at this art show.  A couple happened to wander in, a filipino man and his caucasian girlfriend.  Sometimes they drop by the consulate to see what events are going on.  The guy started talking to me in Tagalog about the food, and of course I didn’t understand him.  Anyway, the three of us hit it off, and we ended up leaving together and  walking up 5th Avenue to Rockefeller Center, where I saw the Christmas Tree in person for the first time in a very long time.  Well, maybe in two years.  So we talked about different things and exchanged cards.  So now, I must direct you here.  Take a look at her photography.  I was very much impressed.  I hope we continue to keep in touch.

Oh, some good news.  I had a therapy session tonight.  And we ended, meaning, it was my last one!  I mean, I updated the therapist as usual, but when it came to wrap things up, [they] asked how I felt about meeting next time.  So we agreed we were done.  Of course, our relationship as therapist-client will remain open, and I’ll call the therapist whenever I need to sort through things.  Like work.  Or the process of going to Austin.  Or tragedy.  Or relapse.  Heh, the therapist told me I couldn’t relapse.  [They] said it in a joking tone, so I joked back, “What?”  We both know I’m not going to relapse.

So, I’ll miss that quiet office and that white, textured couch, and other things I won’t mention that would give the person’s identity away, and I remember the first time I sat on that couch, and I remember documenting the first time I sat in that office.  That’s right: I still fidget.  But the things that I utter while fidgeting these days are extremely different than what came from my broken heart and soul nearly two years ago.  So yay.  Yay!

I have a writing project I need to work on.  There’s a deadline of December 31.  I’d better get hopping.