Jeremy: Hey Hillary, how’s it going?
Hillary Clinton: Hey J, nice to see you! How you doing?
Jeremy: Oh, I’m fine. Hillary, can we make bagels, and you’ll fix all of our healthcare problems?
Hillary Clinton: Of course, J. Should we put cream cheese on our bagels?
Jeremy: Mmm, yes. And butter.
Hillary Clinton: J, I think getting rid of the butter is going to be part of solving the healthcare problem…
My buddy Spooner and I went for a walk on Mt Tam yesterday, in the rain.
I don’t think that walking on a mountain in the rain is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t think it’s the smartest.
We stopped at Walgreens on Lombard before crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. I bought a poncho, since Spondork pointed out that carrying my gigantic blue and yellow umbrella into the woods would be dumb and “un mountain man -like.”
Right, that would be the dumb part.
We also bought a couple more of the “three dollar Walgreens hats” that we tend to buy every time we head out on a poorly planned outdoor adventure. They’re cheap, bright and goofy, and I think they are starting to litter both of our homes. I know there are at least two of them sitting on my bookshelf already.
On the drive up Mt Tam there is this ridge that actually has houses on it. It’s some weird zoning aberration that goes on for maybe a mile; as far as I know the entire rest of the mountain is National Forest and is protected from development. As we drove on the ridge and looked at the valley below, all we could see was a gray wall of clouds and rain. We passed a VW bus on the side of the road that looked like it was just one or two more gusts from being thrown off the ground into the canyon that presumably still lay below.
We got to the parking lot three miles below the East Peak and pulled in; it was so foggy all we could see was a wall of white in front of us. I joked that we were either pulling into the parking lot or we were about to drive off the side of the mountain into the abyss. Sometimes I make jokes when I am scared.
There were other folks out hiking (that was reassuring). An older couple advised us where to go, incorrectly, as it turned out. So we found ourselves on an unmarked trail alongside a rushing creek. Spondork walked animatedly ahead of me, talking loudly and gesticulating wildly.
The walking was great; I’ve been back on my game lately, so I was mowing up that hill with ease. But the roaring creek three feet below the crumbling earth that we walked on was making me nervous. Spondork started to totter as he crossed a log and I grabbed him and shoved him back onto the trail. Fucking shit. It occurred to me that it’s totally possible to get lost on Mt Tam. And, for some reason, I remembered the Blair Witch Project.
Forty five minutes and seven jumps over the creek later, we came up on a real trail, a fire road perhaps. Suddenly I could see the sheer beauty around me. The tall trees, the mist hanging in the air, the rocks and moss and leaves all around, everything drenched and sated by the water dropping out of the wind.
We walked down the big trail until we got to the part where it flooded over. We took turns peeing in the woods. And then we turned around and came back. We talked and joked and made fun of each other and everyone we know. And instead of taking the unmarked trail that we came on (we couldn’t find it again, thank goodness) we found a well marked trail with a name that we recognized and knew would lead us back. This trail was narrow and came down the grade on switchbacks. Spooner and I walked and yelled at the top of our lungs and made bad jokes and bad imitations of people we know. This is how we bond, I guess.
I’m not sure how to describe the beauty of the woods in the rain, but I think anyone who has seen the woods can imagine looking across a field as the rain comes down in torrents, hearing the water floating and dropping from all sides, hearing your own footsteps crossing through puddles, yelling and laughing like little kids and going from feeling lost to feeling found.
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We dedicated our trek to Walking Bob, our friend and a hell of a guy, who is now hiking around somewhere beyond where we can currently go. We miss you, Bob.
Years ago, my friend Elvispope moved to New York City. I talked to him after his first week there and asked how it was going. He said that he had done this and that, and that he had immediately obtained a library card.
When I was a kid the library was a second home. It may have actually been a first home, some of the time. Amid the raging chaos in my young home life, the library was a safe place, a warm place, an inviting place. And it was filled to the rafters with books, of course. My parents were readers, and the importance of literacy was instilled in me at a very young age.
I would go to the library and seemingly spend entire days there, from opening time to closing time. It was across the street from the elementary school and the front double doors opened at an angle to the street corner. I think the doors were a worn brown and the building was an older-style beige stucco. I suspect it was built in the 1920s, it had that “old enough to be old but once was new and beautiful” look.
Inside there were two wings, and in one of those wings sat a claw foot bathtub. It had been painted blue on the outside, while still white on the inside, with a wooden mast propped through the drain hole, and a small white canvas sail rigged to a thin boom. Yes, it was a sailing bathtub! And it was filled with pillows and stuffed animals and various soft and cushion-like things.
I was the captain of that vessel many a day, the sail rustling above me as I lay there on the soft stuff and read stacks and stacks of books. I’d get up occasionally to get a new book or to use the bathroom. There was a whole series of mystery books where the answer to the puzzle was written reversed and backwards at the end; I would carry the books into the bathroom to read them through the mirror.
I don’t remember the exact details of my comings and goings; whether I rode my bike (which was likely the case) or walked. I’m not sure if I was there after school or just on weekends. I do know that while it provided comfort and a lot of learning, the library was also a place to escape and hide from the difficulties of my reality. Everything has mixed blessings, I suppose. There was a lot of burden in my young life; someone had to take care of things around the house when those who were tasked with the job couldn’t be relied upon to perform, or even to show up. But for awhile on some days, I had a time and a place to be the captain of my imagination and to feel a little bit safer.
A few days ago a friend and I were out for a walk, talking and enjoying a crisp clear afternoon. We stopped at the beautiful SF Main Library; she was picking up a book that was on hold for her, so she could take it home and read it with her partner (I think it’s unbelievably cute that they read together). The library’s first floor was recently remodeled and she showed it off to me with barely contained excitement.
Over the years, as my life and work have dictated my digital existence, I haven’t been much of a library patron; I feel sort of ashamed to admit that. I’ve bought umpteen zillion books of my own, and given away most of them to keep my library from getting as big as the public one. I love books and I have to remember that I don’t need to own every book that catches my fancy, that I can read them and let them move on to the next person.
Or I can borrow them from this amazing library here in my amazing city. I was impressed by the automated checkout, the email notifications when books are due, and how much cool stuff they have.
I’d love to say that I checked out War and Peace and read it clean in an evening; I didn’t. I borrowed some DVDs, including the first season of Taxi. I hadn’t seen it in years, and I don’t know if I ever saw the first episode before (it’s brilliant).
Taxi was on TV at night back then (the theme, “Angela,” was the first song I ever had recorded on a cassette tape), back in those early days, when I’d come home from reading in my bathtub sailboat, check on the apartment, make sure everyone was accounted for and hope that I’d have chances to get back there again on other days, during the calms between the storms.
It’s 2008!
For the last day of 2007 I went to work, met up with a lunch group, came home, did laundry, called someone and made a date, took a nap and then took the bus to the Castro area to attend two New Year’s Eve parties. I met some fun new folks and marked the new year with close friends and an intimate late night. Then I walked home, enjoying the exercise, the cool breeze and the city lights. The Transamerica building is blinking its regular red light; the multicolored holiday light has been retired until next year. The holidays are over (except for having today, New Year’s Day, off, I suppose) and it’s time to dive back in to the regular day to day.
2007 was a big year for me; I have a lot of optimism about 2008. Out with the old, in with the new, positive choices, making progress.
On another note, my Mac is at the Apple Store getting a new hard drive, under warranty. I hope it’s back soon!
Travel
I did a small amount of travel over the holidays, both by train and by plane. I like train trips since I don’t have to deal with the airport, I can move around freely while en route and, most importantly, I can bring a laptop and write. Life has been so busy lately that having a day riding the rails meant I had a day to write and reflect. I wrote over 5,000 words on the train, examining my year and my accomplishments, looking at patterns I have been repeating and working out the things I’d like to keep doing and the things I need to change or stop doing. There are some hard decisions there, but that’s what taking an objective look at myself is all about. I was also able to see some amazing scenery and see how the train winds its way down a particularly tall mountain pass.
The plane ride was pleasant; I chatted the entire time with an interesting couple sitting next to me. We had a remarkably broad conversation for three people who had just met.
The silly moment was before the flight, at the security check, when they pulled my bags for a secondary search. I hadn’t even thought that my tube of toothpaste would be a problem, but it was more than the three ounce limit. I think that limit is ridiculous (as is removing our shoes), but I also know that it’s just not worth arguing about. I just quietly said, “okay, you can keep the toothpaste.” The security woman looked at me with compassion and asked if I’d like her to squeeze some of the toothpaste into a plastic ziplock bag so I could have a little with me to brush my teeth later. I thought that was nice of her, though it occurred to me later that since she believed it was actually toothpaste, and was willing to give some back, then why not let me keep all of it? I figure we were both doing our parts to act sane, within the confines of the insanity imposed around us.
Transit
I got a chance last week to ride the double decker bus that Muni is testing out. It’s nice and clean, and the view from upstairs is interesting. The ceiling on the top level is pretty low, so heads will be bumped. The bus itself felt responsive and didn’t seem to strain under the load. I did notice that it has double axles at the back; I’m assuming that is to carry what must be much more weight than a regular bus carries. I’m curious how these buses compare, weight-wise and fuel efficiency-wise, to the long articulated buses that are used on many of the routes.
I think that an electric trolley-bus version of the double decker would be needed here in SF; we should be lessening the amount of diesel burned here, not increasing it.
Weather
Someone recently said, snarkily, that I just write about the weather ere. I disagree. The weather is a handy way to mark changes, and the changes in the weather often remind me of the passage of time and prompt me to write a little something here. But the weather is in the background, helping me set a tone for the limited writing I do in this space. I’d like to think that someone who thinks I just write about the weather is someone who is not really paying much attention to what I’m saying. That being said, it’s 45 degrees Fahrenheit right now. To me that is really cold! I am so grateful for the double-pane windows, the radiator and the new boiler down in the basement, firing with half the gas consumption of the old one.
Design
I’m rooting through my list of art and design projects, looking to pick out a couple small projects I can fit in here and there, scoping some medium projects to make them more manageable and doing some preliminary planning for a larger remodel-type project that may get underway later in the year.
New Year’s resolutions
I actually have New Year’s resolutions to exercise more, eat more vegetables, lower my fat intake, rest more and pay more attention to healthy choices, physically and emotionally.
The days have turned cold and short. The air is chilly and the sun is setting at some ridiculous hour, maybe 5pm? I was on BART this evening coming back from working on the boat in Alameda, and as we sped along the tracks the darkening sky turned shades of muted purple and burnt orange. I find myself noting the progress of my life by the seasons and the sunlight. This many seasonal cycles since I moved to this apartment; that many went by when I was at the last apartment. But over time they blur some. I don’t remember the rains and the sunlight in the same detail from five years ago, or ten.
Today was a day of time to myself, time to think things through, time to not make any plans with deadlines. Today was a time to just let the day itself provide the flow to me; usually I am driven by the entries on my calendar, the days becoming collections of scheduled pearls connected with strings of sleep that are usually too short and thin to support them all.
I walked down to BART and took the train across. I walked to Alameda. I stopped for lunch and then walked to the marina. I ran the engine, charged the batteries, flaked the sails, hosed everything down, checked the bilge and sea cocks and enjoyed the clear afternoon air. Some other sailboats were out, flying their 150s and spinnakers in the light winds and gliding across the calm water. I walked back to BART. I rode back across. I dragged my weary self up the hill to my apartment. The radiator is on, the space is warm, the music is playing, the dinner has been consumed. I’m online, reading, writing and pondering.
So another Sunday night. The laundry is in the machine, the groceries are put away, the checkbook is balanced and the calendar has been updated.
This week it has been raining. Not a lot, but a little each day. The skies have been dark and down pouring, light and drizzling, clear and foggy with winds and calms and some stars poking out last night as I was walking past Huntington Park on Nob Hill. This catches my attention; I never see stars in the sky anymore. I was on my way back from dropping off a car (from one of the local car share companies/organizations) after dropping off a friend.
On the way back to the garage I had a few minutes before my car was due, so I crested the hill, over the cable car tracks (you can catch air, not that I necessarily recommend doing so), saw the beam flash from the lighthouse on Alcatraz across the dark water.
Late night San Francisco is a place of dangerously fast moving cabs running red lights and generally terrorizing the denizens of the dark. But not the one in front of me on Polk Street. That cab is moving slowly and with intent, scanning the bars and clubs for an outstretched hand and another fare.
Still a few more minutes until my reservation is up. I should have been in bed a couple hours ago; I could have put this sedan away and gone to sleep right after dropping off my friend, but I hate to waste my alloted car time. Next, a stop at the 24 hour supermarket for the toiletries I forgot to buy earlier when I walked to the pharmacy. Three giggling girls are at the checkout counter and the cashier is doing something to make them laugh. I see he is twirling a toilet plunger before dropping it into a bag and handing it to one of them. If I had been behind them in line I would not have been able to resist asking what happened that made them buy a plunger in the wee hours of the morning. I mean, I pretty much know what happened, but maybe the story would have been more interesting or exotic than just that. At this time of night, who knows what might happen.
The store’s parking lot exits on a one-way street, so I find myself going down, then over, then up, then back to California Street to glide into the garage. I am exhausted and delirious and happy and content. The wind and drizzle hit my face, my sweatshirt flaps behind me in the breeze. Three blocks, two stairs, one elevator ride, two locks, one stop in the bathroom and a crawl into bed.