Snapshot

It's about 1am on a Tuesday night. Until an hour ago it was Daniel's birthday. And so, I spent the evening in a bar surrounded by jazz musicians (I think I truly am the only person he knows who is not a musician) among whom the birthday boy was easily the handsomest and also, unexpectedly, one of the people I love most in the world. I got to wear a good dress, drink some gin, eat some pizza, and speak some French. And then, when it truly wasn't reasonable for a girl with a day job to stay any longer, I stepped back outside only to find that it was raining. A light, warm rain such as we don't usually get in San Francisco. The air smells green. I walked in my loud boots and purple coat right down the middle of the glistening street, partially because it's less creepy than the sidewalk at this hour and partially because it's more fun.

Every so often your life looks just like you always hoped it would. When that happens, it's best to notice.

Perhaps I should concentrate on my breathing

Recent experience suggests that I talk too fast to conduct business on the phone with the Zen Center.


That may be why I so much love the yoga segment on Jonathan Goldstein's WireTap. Go here, scroll to "Lew Wasserman." Really, I urge you to listen to all of it (and then listen to every available episode), but if that seems overwhelming and you just want the yoga part, it starts at the 18 minute point.

I'm not that great at being a Californian. And I'm a native.

Parking: The scourge of my life

I have lived in my apartment for more than twelve years. Among my favorite things about it are the two huge windows in my living room. Aside from the obvious resulting brightness, they allow me to be inside (and you know how I enjoy inside), but still feel part of the neighborhood goings on. Sunday mornings I will sometimes sit the table with my tea, NPR on the radio, and just do some serious window gazing.

Last night when it got dark, I got up to close my curtains and was very surprised to see that a "No Parking" sign had evidently been installed sometime during the afternoon. It's an official sign--a "No parking 8-10am on Fridays" sign. It is tall. And ugly. And framed quite neatly in the middle of my window. My view of the world is now bisected by the DPT. Had they installed it four feet up the street, it would be in front of no one's window, but they don't care about that sort of thing very much. Curiously, that block has been a Friday street cleaning zone for the past ten years. Why the sudden need for a new sign at all?

I shouldn't be so saddened by a street sign. Rationally, I know this. And yet, when I see it, it kinda makes me want to cry.

Sundays

I feel the most single on Sunday afternoons.
Funny. You'd think it'd be Friday nights.

Vive la revolution!

There is a classroom directly over my office. On some afternoons it sounds like 18 or so people are playing tackle football up there. Plenty of yelling and running and crashing. One time it proved to be the hip-hop dance class that had been ousted from their usual ground-floor practice space. Today I wasn't so sure. But then I believe I heard the mighty roar "Three shouts for freedom!"and I figured it out. What's happening over my head even as we speak is no less than a fight to the death against a fascist regime.

It's also a musical.

But I guess they're planning to rehearse the songs after they finish practice-killing each other.

Oh...wait. Here comes the guitar...RIGHT NOW.

Ah, high school.