This Is What We Do

Hmmm, suddenly it's summer. On bicylces through the neighborhood, we waved at proud homeowners trying to tame their rosebushes, and neophyte gardeners contemplating their lawnmowers, and content renters sitting on lounges with beers and books. Everyone waved back.

In town, I tooted my horn and people smiled, high on vitamin D and the heavy perfume of wisteria. I counted arms hanging from car windows until I lost track. I saw more than a few people standing in doorways, stretching, reaching, inviting the summer in.

A Temple for Writers? What the...?

Yeah, and you know what's worse? I actually responded to the craigslist posting because it seemed like, if all else fails, I should have some sort of back-up writers' group to take me in.

Well, it turns out that this Temple is fairly exclusive, and I don't get to be part of it unless I "fit the circle." To determine my suitability in the Temple director's Venn diagram of struggling writers, I had to participate in a series of interviews. Unlike a group, where people ostensibly choose who they might like to hang with, a circle requires a massive amount of energy to construct, and all that energy comes from one woman who adheres to reality only in fits and starts.

Again, see, it's not a group, I remind you as I was reminded; it's a circle. In circles, I was told, four times, "people heal and explore and find the space to tack like sailboats across the bay of ideas." I also learned that "writing a novel is like traveling the desert: it is arid and difficult to sustain direction." Okay, and I picked up this gem: "there is no writing until there is 'conscious writing.' It is only through consciousness of the craft that the words on the page have any meaning." Or something like that.

I know, I know. I contacted the place. I chucked myself into that hog ditch and actually sat still for the interview while the circle shaper tried to "discover my inner being." Yeah, that's right, my inner being. And what's worse? She struggled with it. She fluctuated in her certainty during the exploration. First, I was a "darling" with a lovely demeanor. Then, I became "hidden and somewhat evasive." A bit later on, after some microwave-warmed tea, I "lost 10 years" and she was charmed once again. Suddenly, we were just alike, with similar histories and feelings and judgments and ideologies. As the tea became tepid, she lost me again. This time, she couldn't find my "motive or focus." Okay then. To my credit, I was hidden and evasive.

She may have had something on the motive and focus, but how was I to concentrate in that Sai Baba-looking compound? The entire house was scandalously white, but not hygienically so. Broken tiles lined the walkway to the front door but any Mediterranean flair was extinguished by the abundant exposed drywall. There were white doves on plastic columns and white swans on plaster columns, thankfully no angels, but also no marble and no crystalline waters in the distance. Inside the house, we listened to blaring orchestral music re-rendering Amazing Grace and Jerusalem.

Jerusalem is a song I joyously sang when I actually appeared at Chapel on Wednesday mornings in boarding school. My favorite line, "I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand," I belted with varying degrees of gusto directly proportional to the quality of the campus pot that week. "And was Jerusalem builded here, among these dark satanic mills?" Well, the mills were gone when I was at school, but we all got the point. It was a secular school, espousing a firm belief that faith had something to do with rising out of the torment of poverty and the despair of ignorance.

And this brings me back to the Temple. I suppose the director of the healing circle of endlessly tacking, thirsty, full frontal writers with motive and consciousness can build her Jerusalem wherever she wants. But I don't want to worship.

Looking for My Client

Today, I had the opportunity to wander the streets of the Tenderloin in San Francisco. It's not something I do everyday.

I had an appointment with a client who I am assisting with a disability claim. He is homeless, older and a bit depressed. I don't mean to state the obvious, since anyone reading this online somewhere under a roof, warm and protected from the blustering wind pushing in an Alaskan front, probably would expect that homelessness might breed depression, but then, they might not.

Homelessness breeds depression, among other things. Fortunately for my client, and for me, he is relatively calm in his depression. He worries, mostly, gets a little angry and becomes anxious when he starts to think about dealing with the many layers of bureaucracy he must slice if he wants to obtain General Assistance from the County, or food stamps, or a place to live, or his birth certificate, or identification, or Social Security card, all of which are interrelated and require each other. The absence of one of these items slides all the others just out of finger's reach. Thus, the depression, then the worry, then the anger, then the anxiety, then the bureaucracy, the depression, the worry, the anger, the anxiety, the depression. And all of this outside, in the gusts of wind picking up all the dirt of the city and swirling it around through the wind tunnels of downtown San Francisco, and throwing it down again on the drops of cold Arctic rain. Welcome home.

My client came to his appointment, and I was happy to see him because I knew from a couple sources that he had followed through on all the tasks I had given him. He had to see a doctor, start the process of requesting his birth certificate (complicated by the fact that his hometown is New Orleans, where the records are either soggy, missing or destroyed), and re-negotiate his shelter space with a Veterans' association. Oh, right, did I mention that he's a Vet? That probably went without mentioning.

I saw him in the waiting room and he smiled. He likes the way I laugh and it warmed my heart when he told me that. He's got a lot of southern charm about him; he likes to keep well-organized, he tries to remain pleasant and he always looks nice. He folds important pieces of paper up tightly so he can secure them in his overworked, but underpaid, wallet. He always looks like he just brushed off his clothes and cleaned up his face and hands when he arrives. He plays down most of his problems.

We chat for a bit when we start our weekly meeting. He tells me about some aches and pains, some new developments in his progress, some sadness he's been feeling at the difficulty of all this life he's living. Then we review his case together. I made a chart of the things we have to do to get it all done, and he likes to see me cross off our chores.

Today, I was excited to meet up with him because he had a birthday this week. I bought him a sandwich and made him a card.

I said hello and asked if he could wait a moment while I got some paperwork out. He smiled again and said, "fine, fine." I said, "how you feeling?" He said, "ooh, you know." I laughed and he laughed and I went into the office. One of the other workers, this one an actual employee, had some information to share with him about his food stamps. I watched her tell him the good news and when I looked up again, he was gone.

We think he thought that was all for the week, that he was done, we were done, happy friday and he was off. We chased him down the stairs, but we were chasing air. He has a limp and rolls a piece of luggage behind him, but he was fast. We checked a few locations but he was gone. And he didn't come back while I was in the office, despite my mental will calling to him: "Come back for your sandwich. Come back for your sandwich. Come back."

When I finished my research, I decided to find him. I thought I could find him. I walked through the Civic Center and into the Tenderloin. I walked along Market and down Mission. I walked it all twice. I saw men who looked like him, and men who didn't. I saw men sleeping on the sidewalk and women getting sick. I saw people arguing, buying drugs, pushing carts, drinking from papersacks, huddling against the wind, talking, singing, dancing, waiting, watching. I saw one man who I thought might be dying, but I hoped otherwise. Later, on my second loop, there was an ambulance attending to him. I didn't find my client.

I returned to my car and decided to try his shelter. It doesn't open until later; it's a gym in a community center that converts to a small barracks after dark. The doors were locked and the location remained in that limbo between play and sleep, as it does every afternoon between 5 and 9. My client was nowhere I could see.

And so I called off the search. I will see him next week. I'll get him a sandwich then, and maybe an apple. He wanted some codliver oil because it's a good fat. Maybe I'll get him that for his birthday. I still can't believe I didn't find him. But, really, it was like looking for a needle in a neighborhood of needles.

Heathers: One of the Best Damn Movies Ever

Every so often, I get startled, really deep in my bones, by the passing of time. I know it happens to everyone, and I know that it affects us all differently, but sometimes this bone ache lasts. It lingers. I feel twinges of pain in the different bits and pieces of me that I’ve injured and the minor uprising of my nerves brings all these different elements of my life crusading into view. And it becomes me versus the past, because I don’t want to consider all these priors anymore.

I sometimes wonder how we all make it through years of events that mark us so deeply, mold us to the form, and then we continue on into different eras with different politics and hairdos, where bolo ties and cowboy boots may or may not be cool. And we are marked again, and remodeled or recast in different boots with different hair, and we continue on. It’s shocking, as I said before, because it seems like this constant evolution needs more analysis. But the analysis is too freaky and so we move on.

This all came about because I rode my bike all day and then I watched Heathers as my husband slept on my lap. The movie came out as I finished up eighth grade at a lovely junior high school with a view of the Pacific. I had just learned how to dye my own hair and most of the clothes my mom had bought for me at the beginning of the school year had been altered and reshaped, by hand, with fishnet, black lace and safety pins. I had just completed two rounds of interchangeable boyfriends, both of whom lied to me about their ages because they thought I was in ninth grade. I didn’t like either of them; I found them dumb and mundane. I actually required that one of them make me a certificate and sign it after he asked me if I would like to go steady. I just couldn’t imagine what the point of going steady could possibly be, and I didn’t see any purpose in setting great meaning in my yes or no answer. He did. So I asked for the certificate. That way, I had something to show for the whole transaction.

By eighth grade, I had a decently stable friendship with a defiant and occasionally mutinous friend who was around six inches shorter than I was. In seventh grade, we started a relationship that kind of sort of continues today. On the phone, late at night, he would tell me his fantasies of women and I would read from Byron or Shakespeare or Wilde or Plath, depending on the year. We composed poetry together and then tore each other to shreds just before falling asleep, still on the line. While there is more to the story, it doesn't have to be told. It's enough to say that those times were some of the priors that I don't need to fight, that allow me to move along, that remind me of existence and its fine potential. It is those other things, the ones I barely seem to survive, that wreak havoc on the constantly changing circuitry and try to block the whole damn deal.

This, I suppose, is why JD blows himself up at the end of Heathers. Sorry, spoilers. And though we don't see it in the movie, why Veronica probably starts smoking a lot of pot and takes some time off from college while dating a meth-head before resuming her pursuit of successful endeavors. She'll carry that shit with her when she gets to her 30s, that's for sure.

Meanwhile, it's April

Well, well, well. Time is just cruising by. It isn't going fast or slow; it's just out for a drive. Here I am, kicking it in the passenger seat, window down, watching the lovely houses, busy bodies, dog-walkers, wet ground. I can't actually tell you who's driving. This is a question I've been considering for the last day or so... who the fuck is driving?

And yet another metaphor, (jeebus bless you for staying put for it): About a week ago, I wandered around the Flood Building in San Francisco. It's about a hundred years old and probably shifted the stability of the earth as the old-timers piled marble walls beside marble stairs that linked marble floors to marble ceilings. The building's bones survived the 1906 earthquake and maybe the addition of all that marble kept it nice and intractable. Anyhoo.

The halls of the Flood Building are like an optical illusion, except they're real. They stretch on and on in their glowing and smooth opulence, the grey veins in the rock swirl from floor to ceiling and back, then along the floor like an encroaching fog. The only reference points for the eyes are the old hardwood and frosted glass doors, lined up along either side of the hallway, repeating in perpetuity or at least until the hall zigs to the left or zags to the right and circles back on itself.

Here's the metaphor: I'm standing here, in this cloud of gleaming white and grey, staying upright by looking only at the doors to my right and left, but wondering about the scores of doors ahead as they define the line ahead of me. The doors on either side of me are closed as well, of course, because this is an indulgent metaphor that barely masks my frustration at waiting in this hall. I'm patient, wanting to get along the hall, to knock on other doors, but I'm waiting because on either side of these two doors beside me are a few people who may or may not want to invite me in. They won't tell me and I'm so peaceful in my anticipation that I stand pleasantly just waiting to greet them kindly should anyone appear to tell me what the fuck is going on.

Alright, do you want a translation? Why am I bothering to wait around for some folks who don't even have the courtesy to let me know whether they want me to do a lot of work for them for barely any money? Oh oh! Wait, did I mention that I am already working for one of them for nothing? Yeah. I like it like that.

Someday, maybe, I'm going to cruise on by those two doors, maybe in that car, that I'll be driving! I'll drive it down the marble hall of the Flood Building! I'll drive it like a girl racer, squealing around the corners and making all the doors open. And I'll drive it hard, revving loudly, crunching gears, crashing through puddles to put some marks on the marble. Yeah, I'll be the driver, mixing my metaphors at every corner! Watch out!

The Writing Experiment

For fun, or something, I'm doing this writing experiment with a nice man from San Francisco who I met for about 30 minutes at a book store. He's a good guy, a tech writer, with ambition to write a non-fiction book about life on mars and, if I remember correctly, another non-fiction about skywatchers awaiting abduction. Maybe that's just what I want him to write about. And maybe he could dress it up a bit if the people aren't really queuing up for their turn on the probe machine. I suddenly wonder if he's getting anything out of our experiment.

Well, this is what we do. Every day, we each write 500 words of nonsense and email it out without editing (obviously not a problem for me) and without review (again, I'm in the clear). Since he's a technical writer who actually gets paid for his work, I have the impression that the free write is difficult for him, and I imagine that his fingers flinch as he types himself into a corner without his Strunk and White. Not I! I'm just doing it because it seemed fun to email with some tech writer who wants to write non-fiction about aliens. Count me in.

We are now approaching Day 5 of a 14 day plan. Part of the deal requires that we each read and highlight those sentences, phrases or words that catch our attention. We weren't supposed to comment at all, but I can never hold my tongue and I blew that rule immediately. Our agreement does require only nice or positive comments, and I am finding that this makes for an automatic friendship. I like this email pal. In just four days, I sense that he's learned to trust that he can break out of his protective high tech shell. I've learned some stuff about his family and a little bit about his frustrations. Here's the funny part: while I'm usually the effusive one, I decided to try out some ideas in these quick, chaotic and messy blurbs. I have surprised myself by following a linear process of story-making that makes my pal's writing seem so much more, well, irregular. Hmm. What's going on here?

So, I am going to take it as a good thing because my personal surroundings and my general routine require neither linear thought nor precision. And someday, I may have to do something that wants a logical end to a credible beginning.

Finally, please, no worrying. It really is a writing game suggested by a teacher and this guy was a part of a class I took at a local bookstore and he scared me less than some of the other older people who wanted to publish their life stories but first force them on youngish eyes now that they thought they were just about done with them. Their lives, I mean. I guess their stories too. I'm such a bitch.

Chevy's Fun Game!

Oh wow, did Chevy really think this was a good idea? Really, here it is. You can slam all the SUVs, SUV drivers, SUV practicalities, and SUV horrors using both visuals and a couple of pretty tasteless musical options all supplied by Chevy! And then, you can submit your brilliance to Chevy and get something, I guess. I don't know what the contest actually requires or delivers, but I know that I've had a kickass time releasing some rage on this machine in particular.

I have spent the last couple of hours with my husband coming up with as many appropriate taglines as possible. The best, by my male counterpart: "My brother-in-law drives one of these; he's a total dick." I like, "Fuck Nature." I came up with that one. Another goodie: "Compensate for those smaller bits."

I guess you should see some of our magic while it's still available. I can't imagine the wizards at Chevy will allow this one to stick around for too long. Isn't it interesting when an easy target has no idea anyone wants to shoot?

Here's a couple faves of mine. Really, I made these! Yippee! One of them is a little political, so hold someone's hand if you have to.

http://www.chevyapprentice.com/view.php?country=us&uniqueid=37137a38-14e3-1029-98eb-0013724ff5a7

http://www.chevyapprentice.com/view.php?country=us&uniqueid=21674970-14e4-1029-98eb-0013724ff5a7

And here's one from the man of the house:

http://www.chevyapprentice.com/view.php?country=us&uniqueid=ef2b5680-14e4-1029-98eb-0013724ff5a7

And, since you probably want to play, here's the address for fun:
www.chevyapprentice.com

Go give 'em hell.

My mom may or may not have burned her dormitory

Sunday was April Fool's. In honor of the special day, I give you the following.

I'm pregnant and working.

April Fool's.

I do, however, have some serious issues to present here. At a recent family event, I learned the following bits and pieces about my family history. The event? It was a four year old's birthday party at a local club featuring simple gymnastics enjoyed to excess by the adults in attendance; the kids played as well. I don't anticipate that this information will be interesting to anyone, but I share it anyway because it illustrates an important point. Getting kicked out of places should earn you a badge.

My aunt says my mother was kicked out of the dorms in nursing school after extinguishing a cigarette by sitting on it to hide evidence of her illicit behavior from inquiring nuns. The cigarette ignited the mattress, but not my mom's ass. My mom could not hide the fire as well as the butt under her butt and she was asked to leave immediately.

My mother denies all of the above, except that she was kicked out. She says that she was booted after getting stung for leaving the security door ajar when sneaking out after curfew. Apparently, that created a danger to the other nursing students and she was asked to leave immediately.

If I could embroider, I would make a patch for my mom. I would include the questionable fire hot on the edges of my mom's nursing cape. And in the background, I would sew an angry nun with the fire reflected in her eyes. I would make my mom sew it on her nice Italian handbag or maybe on her Armani jacket because I think this is a story she should embrace with pride.