It's always hard writing the first sentence after any kind of break from the practice of writing. It's only been several weeks but once I fall off the bandwagon of writing, the feat of getting back on takes on an irrational dimension. Falling off the practice of writing, for me, unfortunately also means falling off the practicing of seeing- in the way that ee cummings said it, where you see with the "eyes of my eyes" and listen with the "ears of my ears," perceiving with an experiential depth that motivates me enough to share these experiences.

Yesterday I went to see a play called "SF Follies" with my eighty four year old boss, coworker, and coworker's boyfriend. The set was very camp, with a sparkling glitz. The show was fastmoving, overtly upbeat, a quick survey of San Francisco's history through the decades and a survey of its various neighborhoods and their stereotypic reputations. Parts were funny, I listened to the sound of my own laugh. It struck me as very odd, the way my body moved and the sounds came out when humor was triggered in my brain. I felt like I was having an out of body experience during the whole show.

It started when I was taking the bus to the theater. I was developing a bit of a headache. It was a so bright and sunny outside that everything seemed whitewashed that morning, light brushed this blinding sheen on the reflective surfaces of cars, on the pavement, on the sweat shine of people's faces. The bus passed through the Tenderloin district, I saw a woman shooting up on the street. A boombox was haphazardly positioned on top of a shopping cart full of junk, while another woman, with her hair in every direction and her large breasts sagging to the bottom of her shirt, danced. I was happy, in some sad way, to see drug addicts dancing. It made me think, maybe they are actually having a good time. Maybe in some way, they are having a better time than me. I know that is a weird way to think or perceive the situation, but for a second, that was the thought I had.

There were a couple of male junkies too hanging out in this particular cluster that I got a close look at as the bus was stopped at a light right beside them. But the one who held my attention the longest was a woman whose face had the most mangled expressions. I couldn't fathom how her facial muscles were moving in such a way, stretched taut so far apart from one another, with each feature seeming to operate in isolation- there was no unity to the way her mouth was moving with what her eyes were doing or how her head was shaking-- I couldn't make out if she was laughing or yelling or smiling or contorted with pain...it made me very uncomfortable.

Of course, in the play, it was so comedic and satirical and they made a few jokes about the Tenderloin being right around the corner. I thought of the term, "tenderloin" and it sounded soft, malleable, like meat you wanted to marinade. It didn't sound like a name for a crackhead neighborhood. Though maybe it connotes a sexual vulnerability, which in some twisted way, could be fitting.

After the play we were supposed to discuss with the producer the possibility of adapting the play to focus on Haight Street and the Summer of Love (1967) and that general era, to be performed at the B+B where I work as a kind of supper club/theater review. I couldn't hold a sentence together, I tried to smile agreeably and nod my head when I thought something productive had been said, but my headache had gotten worse and I was starting to feel like someone in a wax museum. I looked a lot like a person, but I didn't feel like a person, I felt like I was posing beside my boss as the illusion of an assistant. Fortunately, my coworker is very charming and with-it, and she exuded 100% human-ness.

When I got home my migraine took hold and I drew the curtains and kept all the electrical appliances as far from me as possible. Normally I have no qualms about having my computer screen up and facing my room, my phone next to my ear as I speak, my printer sitting solemn and boxlike on the corner of my desk. But with my migraine throttling, I became very sensitive to the unhealthy waves I was perceiving radiating out of these machines. My phone was hot in my hand beside my head, it felt dangerous--- as if it finally made sense why people wear the earphones and are wary of the radiation. The cablebox for our internet is visible from my bed, and its flashing green lights darted, blinking madly, and with my head pounding at the vaguest semblance of light, appeared as some kind of single deviant constellation that had descended into my room.

This is only the second migraine I've ever had- the first was in Colorado several years ago where even the light of the stars felt blinding, the crescent moon lshone ike a volcanic furnace in my eyeballs. I drank tons of water, slept it off, and this morning I awoke, reborn.