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May the road rise with you

14 May

May the road rise with you

It was a long day. Not a bad one, just long and packed too tightly. I was climbing the hill toward home, struggling to schlep 28 pounds of laundry. My heart was beating quickly, and while pausing to catch my breath, I watched the fog crawl in. The air was cold and the sky was gray, and for a moment, there was no traffic on Guerrero. The city has had similar odd patches of silence lately. This one, when combined with the chill and clouds, threw me back to a late winter afternoon in my childhood. I remembered exactly where I stood, my motions, and the feeling was identical. Just for ten seconds or so, like eating a madeleine.

Odor of pinks

13 May

Odor of pinks

The exterior of the breast health center is, of course, pink. It’s that familiar faded blush of so many San Francisco stucco buildings, and the color probably has little to do with what goes on inside the building. (As a side note: The consumerist bent of the pink-ribbon movement has always bothered me, implying that we can just shop our way out of cancer.)

Inside the waiting room, there’s an odd blend of solidarity and self-imposed seclusion. None of the women talk with other women, and few make eye contact. Most are in their mid-forties or older; they might be there for an annual mammogram, or they might be there because there’s a problem. No way to know, but they know that women my age don’t need annual mammograms. When I catch them looking at me, they give me small, sympathetic frowns. It’s nice, but awkward because they’re probably wondering why someone so young is there. (more…)

Pontification under duress

4 May


What was that I was saying about being incompetent with web stuff? Yeah.

Since buying the USB keyboard, my dreams of becoming a famous recording artist have not exactly come to fruition. I dream of releasing brilliant songs that move people to emotion; instead, I compile trainwreck-beat Keyboard Cat remixes and awkward interpretations of Undertones songs. (Did you know that “Teenage Kicks” was John Peel’s favorite song? It’s true.)

One of the songs I’ve been wanting to cover is the above, which is one of the most triumphantly snarling I’ve ever heard. It starts out sounding like a bouncy smile, but then the lyrics bare the fangs that hide behind the beat. The plan was to finish it by May 4, but that isn’t happening. Maybe next year.

The truth as it is and as it was

3 May

The truth as it is and as it was

I turned 31, and that’s when the trouble began.

JC once said that turning 30 was easy; it’s 31 that’s the bitch. He was right. It makes sense when you think about it. At 30, you’re just barely out of your twenties. It’s a nice round number. Balanced, celebratory, a milestone. Thirty-one, however, means you’re in your thirties. That’s not a bad thing, but it definitely feels more sober. Nobody cares about turning 31 like they care about 30.

It wasn’t just 2009 that kicked my ass, it was 31. This past year was filled with strange, unpredictable, unprecedented pain and struggle. It felt like drowning, being sucked into an undertow, seeking rescue. I almost drowned once as a child; another little girl panicked while we were swimming, and she pushed me underwater to hold her afloat. When I tried to yell for my mother, I couldn’t get anything out before my mouth filled with water. The more the girl tried to scramble on top of me, the harder I fought to return to air. Twenty-five years later, I pushed and gasped again. Still not quite away from the undertow yet, but closer. Stronger.

Today was just a regular day, another box on the calendar. But it also felt different, like an opportunity to move forward. Tabula rasa and all that. I’ve never been so glad to change my age as I was today. As a wise lady, also on the West Coast at the time, once said: Goodbye to all that. And hello to 32.

You can go home

27 Apr

…kind of.

I hadn’t been home since September, and I wasn’t home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It’s strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.

For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie’s Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn’t as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn’t gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I’m a depressive. But if I can’t be sad about this, what can I be sad about?

I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don’t miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because this is where we go and have gone for 10 years. There is always a friend there. I don’t have that in SF, not even after almost three years.

One thing I’ve learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years’ time.

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