San Francisco heat wave. It's 10:30pm and mid April, but if you closed your eyes, you would think it was an East Coast summer night. It's actually HOT. Just two nights ago I was sleeping with my windows tightly shut, and even the sleeping bag draped over my duvet for added warmth. Today I am reeling from Vitamin D Delirium, and so I came up with a new nickname for sunstroke: Vitamin Delirium. It feels so good......until it feels so bad. Yesterday was the same way.
It was brilliantly sunny, blinding. It felt well over 80 degrees, the sky was cloudless, the grasses looked parched, there was a distinct summer buzz in the air. Everyone was out. We walked along Crissy Field, by the water and marina, bikini-clad bodies burned and browned themselves and somehow people were crazy enough to do sports in this heat- running, volleyball, frisbee, I could barely get myself to keep walking. In the car, DJs, in their famously smooth voices, made comments to their listeners about making sure to stay cool in this heat wave. I love when DJs play "cool jams" to take some of the simmer off the summer.. it reminds me of when I was in Taos New Mexico and a bolt of lightning struck the mountain and started a forest fire- and for twenty four hours the DJs only played songs that had the words "rain" or "water."
After lying out in Dolores Park, full of unemployed or springbreaking sun worshippers, we devoured ice cream. Jarema got the salted caramel and honey lavendar. I am relegated to sorbet, always. We walked and walked, with the heat rising up off the asphalt... it's so great having Jarema here, and imagining walking around the Mission as if it were only my first couple of times. It does feel like a small town, and in some ways, I do miss the anonymity of New York, and in other ways, that was one of the things that always made it so easy to leave.
I bought two beautiful succulent plants. I cannot rest my feet enough. I just wanted to tell you, simply, how hot it was today. Jarema loved it. I found it oppressive. I'm not siding with papa on this entirely, but there is something about the cold I crave on a night like tonight.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
9-5: Workin the Grind
I steal out of work early, it feels covert, exciting. I'm leaving at 4:50, skimming ten delicious minutes off the hour. 9-4:50 sounds so much better than 9-5.
And yet, I'm not home til 5:45pm. It's nearly six, and the weight of the day is heavy on me. I come home exhausted. Part of me, the part that listens to the heaviness of the limbs, wants to flop into bed and feel the tension drain from each isolated muscle, taut with its own tension. The other part of me sends quick messages to my collective being, to rally, to generate internal momentum, to salvage and redeem the day. Pluck the remaining hours from the dark hand of night! Get out and do something!
I loathe to think that what I enjoy of my life must happen between 7-11pm. I always think, this is when I should focus on my writing, since I'm in two writing groups and about to fall behind in both. But it just feels like another chore. It feels like I need to be outside- or if I'm not going to be outside, I need to be at least outside my mind. Before I started working, and I was writing my memoirish pieces, there would be whole days devoted to digging through the recesses of my mind, unearthing the humor and pain, traversing those psychic seas with bravery. Now, I cannot imagine mustering that energy- to steer through my memories with focus and direction. The thought of it overwhelms me, I'd rather just go and get an icecream cone and watch the sunset from my periphery.
My favorite after work activities include: tennis, ice cream, pizza, movies. I feel like I am happy simply, with these ingredients, sports, sugar, cheese, an engrossing moving image that distracts me from the petty drama of my own life.
Speaking of sugar, I saw an incredible film by the same name. It follows a fictional dominican baseball player pitching for the dream, a chance to play pro ball in the US. With beautiful and honest feeling cinematography it traces his journey from the island to Iowa, where he starts out playing for the minor leagues. Iowa is a perfect place to capture the stunning rural landscape while evoking the cultural isolation a Dominican would feel in a place like the midwest. I usually find baseball so intolerably boring. This movie reminds me, there is the symphony of suspense in all things- if examined in a particular way.
I write a lot for my job but when i come home I have lost the inspiration for my own writing. Today is a rare exception. I think it's because the nice spaced-out guy at the cafe made me a regular latte instead of a soy chai, and my mind is zooming with a vague dull throb. I know that sounds oxymoronical but fatigue+stimulant= mental run-off trapped in heavy fingers, words spurting out, little aim.
I want to write in a new language. I'm reading the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It has tons and tons of reviews, critical acclaim. Only fifteen pages in, I know I like it, I like the author, I like what's happening in my mind when the words tunnel into. But sometimes he's talking to us, as readers, too much, too gimmicky. And I think,who am I to say? I'm the one trying to pass off personal emails as essays I want published in the Paris Review. I need to start over, or somewhere, or at least sometime soon.
Words can fly, I know they can, but it's kind of gross and sad, I see clipped wings all around my feet. Working on sweeping it up, working on it.
For now, I release these words and jump in the shower. Wash it all away, and start again.
And yet, I'm not home til 5:45pm. It's nearly six, and the weight of the day is heavy on me. I come home exhausted. Part of me, the part that listens to the heaviness of the limbs, wants to flop into bed and feel the tension drain from each isolated muscle, taut with its own tension. The other part of me sends quick messages to my collective being, to rally, to generate internal momentum, to salvage and redeem the day. Pluck the remaining hours from the dark hand of night! Get out and do something!
I loathe to think that what I enjoy of my life must happen between 7-11pm. I always think, this is when I should focus on my writing, since I'm in two writing groups and about to fall behind in both. But it just feels like another chore. It feels like I need to be outside- or if I'm not going to be outside, I need to be at least outside my mind. Before I started working, and I was writing my memoirish pieces, there would be whole days devoted to digging through the recesses of my mind, unearthing the humor and pain, traversing those psychic seas with bravery. Now, I cannot imagine mustering that energy- to steer through my memories with focus and direction. The thought of it overwhelms me, I'd rather just go and get an icecream cone and watch the sunset from my periphery.
My favorite after work activities include: tennis, ice cream, pizza, movies. I feel like I am happy simply, with these ingredients, sports, sugar, cheese, an engrossing moving image that distracts me from the petty drama of my own life.
Speaking of sugar, I saw an incredible film by the same name. It follows a fictional dominican baseball player pitching for the dream, a chance to play pro ball in the US. With beautiful and honest feeling cinematography it traces his journey from the island to Iowa, where he starts out playing for the minor leagues. Iowa is a perfect place to capture the stunning rural landscape while evoking the cultural isolation a Dominican would feel in a place like the midwest. I usually find baseball so intolerably boring. This movie reminds me, there is the symphony of suspense in all things- if examined in a particular way.
I write a lot for my job but when i come home I have lost the inspiration for my own writing. Today is a rare exception. I think it's because the nice spaced-out guy at the cafe made me a regular latte instead of a soy chai, and my mind is zooming with a vague dull throb. I know that sounds oxymoronical but fatigue+stimulant= mental run-off trapped in heavy fingers, words spurting out, little aim.
I want to write in a new language. I'm reading the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It has tons and tons of reviews, critical acclaim. Only fifteen pages in, I know I like it, I like the author, I like what's happening in my mind when the words tunnel into. But sometimes he's talking to us, as readers, too much, too gimmicky. And I think,who am I to say? I'm the one trying to pass off personal emails as essays I want published in the Paris Review. I need to start over, or somewhere, or at least sometime soon.
Words can fly, I know they can, but it's kind of gross and sad, I see clipped wings all around my feet. Working on sweeping it up, working on it.
For now, I release these words and jump in the shower. Wash it all away, and start again.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Once in a Blue Moon
late this afternoon, 5:45pm
A rainbow had the whole bus excited, pressed to the left side window, taking photos on our phones. A communal joy in witnessing and capturing a rare natural splendor.
There was something very prophetic in the atmosphere, something revelatory, the kind of moody air where i imagined if ever there was a loud voice to come booming from the clouds, or a bird to crash into my window with a message in its mouth, this would be it. the sky was dark when i awoke, despite the arrival and passing of dawn, and it rained half the morning while at work. it had this earth-quenching effect, after this endless string of sunny days, i could feel the rain was sorely needed, a sort of universal thirst had taken hold, and was being sated. and so it rained and rained and the sky had that seasoned edge to it, after a storm, low powerful clouds, thick and lined dark grey at the bottom, and like a Wong Kar Wai film shot in mostly a blue hue, the day had taken on this surreal and painterly charge. the sky felt weighty with implied importance, like the last verse of a poem. i guess it was the final chapter of the day, before evening sets in.
Now it's night, and in my window I see the moody drift of clouds passing over the light of the moon. My room is a theater of the Moon- I watch her rise over the horizon, lifting higher and higher, til the highest corner of my window. All from my desk, as I surf the internet, contemplate my next steps, I watch the Moon's gliding steps upwards, a direction I hope I can follow.
A rainbow had the whole bus excited, pressed to the left side window, taking photos on our phones. A communal joy in witnessing and capturing a rare natural splendor.
There was something very prophetic in the atmosphere, something revelatory, the kind of moody air where i imagined if ever there was a loud voice to come booming from the clouds, or a bird to crash into my window with a message in its mouth, this would be it. the sky was dark when i awoke, despite the arrival and passing of dawn, and it rained half the morning while at work. it had this earth-quenching effect, after this endless string of sunny days, i could feel the rain was sorely needed, a sort of universal thirst had taken hold, and was being sated. and so it rained and rained and the sky had that seasoned edge to it, after a storm, low powerful clouds, thick and lined dark grey at the bottom, and like a Wong Kar Wai film shot in mostly a blue hue, the day had taken on this surreal and painterly charge. the sky felt weighty with implied importance, like the last verse of a poem. i guess it was the final chapter of the day, before evening sets in.
Now it's night, and in my window I see the moody drift of clouds passing over the light of the moon. My room is a theater of the Moon- I watch her rise over the horizon, lifting higher and higher, til the highest corner of my window. All from my desk, as I surf the internet, contemplate my next steps, I watch the Moon's gliding steps upwards, a direction I hope I can follow.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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.
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.
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