Rusted Brandy in a Diamond Glass

Things I saw on my ride home in the rain:

twisted wet cyprus trees rising sinuous and black into the purple sky
a flock of small brown birds
a still merry-go-round, locked and shuttered
3 moving vans
dark clouds

I have been vagabonding again, this time to Alcatraz Island (which is technically San Francisco, but feels like another magical world),

and then to a golden and warm land of woo in Happy Valley on a rainy night

, and then to the Beach Flats to a silk and black-lace apartment, and then to It's beach to write things in the sand

, and then to a broken down house for a giant spicy Indian feast, and then to Blackburn St. to a youthful talent show, and then to the Rush Inn for a debauched dance party

, and then to a land of pain....
Pain of the sickness kind I mean, not the normal SC tragedy that creeps up on me, thank goodness. I convalesed in Happy Valley in my old childhood bed (how did I ever sleep on a rock hard futon?) Made it back to San Francisco in time for work on Monday, the mundane smell of old books and the needy people looking for a quick buck (which I ain't gonna give).

I have a very full life. Public transportation is my second home.

My actual paper ticket to New Zealand came today. Which means time will now race along merrily, with me fumbling further and further behind with All The Shit I Need To Do. But every speedy second does bring me closer to He. So, OK.

How and when did this wine get splattered all over my keyboard?

Despite my increasing lack-of-brains from my wayward and misguided early 20's debauchery (Woah. I'm in my late 20's!), sometimes I still have deep thoughts. For instance, walking around in the weepy night on Dolores St., I was considering What I Have Learned from being alone these past few months. More and more I notice the theme and thread of my life has been one of romantic love. That's the factor, the choice I made when a choice was presented. It's what led me to all the big decisions I've made so far (admittedly my parents nightmare, but true), and caused most of the happiness I've felt. It's caused the extremes of tragedy and desire and pure emotion and sadness. I am a pawn of romance in some ways, a disciple of it too. I am addicted to it's boundaries, nothing feels like it can make me feel:

Once an old "boyfriend" and I were laying entwined on the floor in companionability and the mourning that always accompanied our pretty-much-illicit relationship, and he asked me what felt better: the first touch of true love or shooting heroin? A morbid question, and I probably brought it up, being the beam of sunshine that I sometimes am, but the question is an interesting one, considering the hype around the drug,and the fact that I have experienced (and had a problem with) both. I can unequivocably say that true love is an INFINITELY better rush. that's what I told him then and I mean it. So here's my anti-drug speech: Fall in love instead. You write much better poetry after it's over. Take my word for it.

Anyway: tangent!
I often wonder where I would be if I hadn't been captured by romance. This time without Mykle sort of leads me to think that I wouldn't necesarily be more productive or the ruler of the world by now, as I often surmise. I do what I can with the time I have*. My life is full of people I love and crafts and time-wasting pursuits, and creativity. Love has kept me from some things, but I wouldn't trade my experiences for the idea that maybe I would've gone to art school, and have a flourishing "career" by now . That I would be above the poverty level by now.
Without romance I probably wouldn't have been the pretty-much-constant producer of the impassioned and overblown paintings that litter my room and clog up the walls with their shellaced musical notation and gold leaf and stenciled letters and charcoal hearts and smears and documentation of all that I've loved and hated. So. No regrets, same as always.
I used to say "No Guilt" as a sort of young-girl mantra to feel powerful. Now I'm older and the past is past. I ain't livin in the constant NOWNOWNOW of teenagerhood anymore. I like to concoct this past stretching out behind me as something beautiful and ornate, filled with good things. Nothing I'm doing is part of some larger "scene" or revolution. Nothing I'm doing will be noticed or remembered in the future, but in some small way I want to make something interesting and strange and beautiful with the collection of my experiences.

In other news, it's hard to type when you are listening to Eminem.

So no regrets and no cigarettes (Mykle may have stopped smoking) and no fits or sick or stops. The days are full but the nights are long. I try to do a little nothing every day.




* This is probably a lazy artist excause. But I'm being easy on myself and counting all the stuff I've accomplished, not lingering over the children's book I didn't write.