 | My little brother Ducks sent me this picture. |
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October 9/29/00 - The brass band is back in the Embarcadero station. I am in love with the brass band. I want to marry the brass band. [There must be a better, less drastic and permanent urge than marriage by which to express my feelings for the brass band, but "I want to perform sexual favors for the brass band" just doesn't have the same ring to it.] Our office building sits at the corner of Front Street and Market Street; its address used to be 444 Market Street. But it was bought last year by a Chinese management group, and they have changed the address to One Front Street and are rebuilding the lobby to put it on the Front Street side. I learned this morning from a building management guy that it's because in many Asian cultures, 4 is the number of death and misfortune. I thought he was joking, until at one of our meetings this morning, discussing a too-busy sunglass fixture with five slots for glasses, someone asked if we really needed all five slots, and why we hadn't settled on four to begin with. HN fixed him with her patented HN Death Stare and said, "Because 4 is bad luck." We stood around uncomfortably for a moment, and then JV and CC and the architect agreed with her: in Asia, 4 is considered desperately bad luck. Therefore, we cannot have four slots in the sunglass fixture. Nobody bothered to observe that the store is not going to be in Asia, it's going to be in Paramus, New Jersey. I saw Ursula Le Guin speak last night, at the Unitarian Church. Nothing this week--possibly this month--has made me happier. I cannot describe Ursula Le Guin to you without sounding all breathless and gushing, like a Vanity Fair profile, I know, so I won't. She did reveal to us all (we, the Chosen Ones) that she has got two more new books coming out next year, and they are both Earthsea. The atmosphere in that church has never been more reverent than when that revelation was made: a collective gasp, and then a long sigh, and then a flurry of spontaneous applause and cheers--a couple sitting in front of me even hugged each other wildly, as though this were just the thing their marriage had needed. Afterwards, Ursula signed for me a copy of The Telling, and then she very sweetly signed my journal too, and (ever the idiot in the presence of an idol) I actually started crying, quietly and inexplicably. I was embarrassed, leaving the church with tears in my eyes, walking back past the long procession of others waiting for autographs, but people smiled at me and a couple of them reached out and patted my shoulder or touched my arm, as though I'd just been healed at Lourdes, or blessed by the Pope. I went home radiant. Daily assigned reading: The Left Hand of Darkness; The Dispossessed; Always Coming Home; and (again) the four books of Earthsea. Of course. 9/26/00 - An autumnal sort of day. I cancelled a dinner engagement and left work early, pleading an indistinct illness, in a foul black mood. Home, Annie made me drink a bottle of hard lemonade, and the vista improved. I left at twilit seven-thirty to go to the grocery store, and the sun at a late evening angle spilled ruddy light across the buildings and street corners, and someone in a house on Folsom Street was baking cinnamon bread. I thought my heart was going to break from happiness. It may have been the lemonade, though. I took up Olympics-watching this weekend: gymnastics, swimming, platform diving, women's pole vault, and (bien sur) running. Our T.V. reception has improved, now that the T.V. is in the sunroom, but not by much. The picture is clear enough, but hypersaturated with color--the Olympics as envisioned by Walt Disney--and there is a tricky spot in the middle of the screen that always makes Bob Costas look as though his face has been slightly folded horizontally across the middle. Also, we are hoping that the closing ceremonies involve having the NBC commentators drawn, quartered, and ceremonially fed to some Australian saltwater crocodiles. Other than that, though, we are having a lovely time. On Saturday, Annie and I watched the American women take the gold and the world record in the swimming medley relay: we shrieked and cussed at the T.V. ("Faster! Go f***ing faster, you bastards!") and made desperate swimming motions with our arms in the air until we won. I mean, until they won. At which point there was much high-fiving and hugging and jubilant jumping up and down, until Mags came in and wanted to know what we had just done that we were celebrating so. I behaved pretty much the same way for Laura whats-her-name's diving win, and when Mags and Annie and I all watched gymnastics together, Mags took to referring to Svetlana Khorkina as "My Sveti." (As in, "I hate that girl! My Sveti was way better than that!") Cathy Freeman's run was a household source of much suspense and jubilation; Michael Johnson's slightly less so. Also, the Home Depot ads are very moving, but Charles Schwab is getting on our nerves. There was a barbecue at Erika's this weekend, always a pleasure, except that I was tired and grouchy and not awfully sociable. I mostly hovered in a corner with Dan and Geoff and cast the evil eye at a friendly grad student in economics, named Roger. There was another grad student there, a mathematician, short and badly dressed and recedingly-hairlined. He was the sort of person who is so utterly socially inept and awkward that he renders anyone in his presence instantly equally awkward. I felt terrible, watching him, it made me anxious and stressed on his behalf. Possibly this was because I was already anxious and stressed. Eventually, it was too much for me, and I had to leave early. Grad students give me the heebie-jeebies. Good thing I'm not one. Sunday was the Folsom Street Fair. What can one say about the Folsom Street Fair, really? Many hairy, bare-buttocked gay men; much intriguing S&M paraphernalia for sale; a great deal of public spanking. Annie and Mags and I sat on 11th Street and ate tamales and watched the leather-and-rubber-clad masses flow around us. We planned our Halloween costumes for this year: we are going as a theme, all three of us together, which means we will have to stick together that night, which will perhaps be awkward. I am so busy lately. I have so much to do at work, and I have met so many people all of a sudden, and there are writings to be written and errands to be run, and my head spins around and around until I think it will fall off. Better to be busy than bored anyway. What did Baudelaire say? "Work is less tedious than amusing oneself," or something. Clever Baudelaire. Read: Graham Joyce's Dark Sister; Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere. Mags and I have joined a knitting circle. Yes, a knitting circle. So there. I still love you, Ducks. Please be okay. 9/22/00 - The Autumnal Equinox. Chill air and clear skies after rain. The city smells like cold sea and damp pavement, water water everywhere. Riding the subway to work after rain is an unlovely experience: many soggy people in a close, humid space, very warm. Ugh. There is a brass quartet that plays now in the mornings in Embarcadero station. They sound like Christmas. They sound like angels. Everyone should get to start the day with a brass quartet. Coffee last night and French conversation with Jeremy from Nice. My French, it is revealed to me, is abominable, despite Jeremy's laughing assurances to the contrary. Much practice is required before Avignon. This morning I walk around thinking, and then trying to re-think the same thoughts in French. I still haven't gotten around to the violin. This weekend, perhaps. Wistful day reading: the collected works of John Crowley. Peter Beagle's The Last Unicorn. Ursula Le Guin's Earthsea books. Too late now, stupid. 9/21/00 - I am a very frivolous girl sometimes. Am I not a frivolous girl? I speak without thinking on a regular basis. Yesterday's daily sins: (1) spent too much money on clothes; (2) was bad to my mother; (3) spoke ill of someone, who only mostly deserved it; (4) corrupted a minor; (5) had impure thoughts; (6) singlehandedly slaughtered several hundred ants. *sigh* Wandering aimlessly round the Web to-day, I stopped at art.com to look at the pretty pictures for a while. One of the pretty pictures I opted to look at was Paradise by Marc Chagall. When I clicked on the thumbnail, before I could view the painting, I was presented with the following warning: This image depicts nudity or partial nudity which may be objectionable to some people. While not pornographic in nature, we wish to present this warning as a service to our visitors. Who are these art.com people, and what prudes are we all taken for these days? *sigh*, again. Daddy, will you buy me a pony? Goodnight, moon. 9/20/00 - St. Eustace's Day, patron of hunters. To-day we go ant hunting: Instructions for Ant Hunting: very gross (1) Where the ants have congregated and are milling about in their little ant fashion, or where they are running in mobs along one of their invisible ant trails, spray them with Windex. Yes, Windex. This part of the procedure is very grisly: who enjoys being drowned in ammonia solution? Ants sure don't. (2) When the ants have met their gruesome blue end, wipe them all up so their little ant compatriots don't come back for them, to carry their contorted ant corpses away to Ant-Arlington National Cemetery or anything. (3) Now, get a jar of Vaseline, and smear the Vaseline along the paths the ants were following, and along the edges of nearby cabinets, cracks in the wall from which they might have emerged, etc. I am not sure why the Vaseline works, but it must be some sort of chemical aversion or confusion, because it does work. (4) Leave an ant trap in the general vicinity, just in case. I spent thirty minutes this morning doing the above; a superior start to my Wednesday, I assure you. Goddamn California summers and their goddamn California bugs. There is a man in my office (in eLuxury's office, technically) whose name is Moss. I think I will name my children Tree, Rock, and Cloud; that way I can at least tell people I named them after Carson McCullers characters. To-day we love: sea lions. Ghirardelli sundaes. $2 Japanese lunches. Slawomir Mrozek. Days the boss isn't in the office. I am the next It Girl. 9/18/00 - Wicked porcupines. A prickly, vicious sort of day. Men are blistering idiots: rugby players especially. This seems to be a fairly universal truth. We will leave it at that. Tuesday night, I am going to see Mike play up at Tongue and Groove on Union Street. 9/15/00 - Nightmares about marathons and liver failure. Liver failure? Last night was the opening of Annie-organized APAture at SomArts. Mags and I got dolled up and went--a show of family unity! Or rather, a show of one family member's hard work providing the other family members with free wine and cheese. You ought to go: Annie's Kevin ("cultural programmer" to the stars!) has a beautiful piece in the show, a photograph on linen, taken in the Muslim cemetery in Taipei. After the show, I abandoned Mags and went into the Mission alone for dinner. Heading home, I was stopped at the corner of Mission and 14th by a ragged homeless man: "Got a quarter, miss?" "I'm sorry, I don't. I'm sorry." I make to keep walking. The homeless man steps in front of me and peers into my face: "Hey, miss--are you all right?" Oh, God, the homeless are worried about me. I am reminded too of Annette in New Haven, the homeless woman who would follow me around admonishing, "Girlfriend, you look too damn tired! Go take a nap!" or "Button that coat up, honey--you'll catch a death!" How low must one look before one inspires pity from the poor homeless? And why do I always seem to look that way? 9/14/00 - "I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind." - Emily Bronte Poetical happenings and coincidences. I read too much poetry lately, and now people want it from me. Two poetic projects of my own, and two at the request of others. Lovely Sara is making a chapbook, loosely avocado-themed. Avocados? Today's Top Three: Ursula Le Guin will be here soon. Hockey's first preaseason opener was played yesterday (Kings 1, Coyotes 0). And we all had an excellent dinner last night. I am not running enough lately: guilt sets in. My right knee feels a little wobbly, but is that an excuse? 9/13/00 - Be careful. The nation, it seems, is heavily populated these days by idiots and jackasses. At least Wen Ho is going home. America: Land of the Free [unless you're an immigrant, or one of them ethnic types]. That probably belongs at crankygirls, but I am suffering cranky overflow to-day. In re: marathon dieting. My Pop, once himself a runner, tells me that I should listen to what my body wants, and feed it that. Curious how often my body wants ice cream. 9/12/00 - The anniversary of JFK's wedding to Jacqueline Bouvier. A restless night, a gloomy day. I think I will be quiet. The giddy weekend, I think, has not entirely erased the aftermath of last week's strangenesses. Cultivating crushes is revealed to be still a pointless exercise. Spontaneous combustion, apparently, is a problem. I had no idea. Looking forward to: new projects (see esp., The Deciphered World; "Rivers, and Things"); Emma and Eli on Friday; the new Emmylou Harris album; the new Margaret Atwood novel; letters from far-off places (hello again, Diana darling); a good night's sleep. 9/11/00 - When you are sad, the place to go is City Lights Book Store. Studies show that it is actually physically impossible to be unhappy within the walls of City Lights. Mags and I spent Saturday afternoon there, and then we walked all over North Beach and ate a lot of ice cream and picked out which Italian restaurants we'd eat at if we hadn't just spent all our money on books and ice cream. Saturday morning, a 16-mile run with the team. We are gathered sleepily at 7 a.m. in Mill Valley, up in Marin. The coaches explain the route and ask if there are questions; one woman raises her hand. "Is there a bathroom along the course somewhere?" "Yes," Coach Peggy says. She points at the map. "In Sausalito." Yesterday afternoon, I sat for two hours in a coffeehouse in the Mission (I was not reading Nietzsche, Paal--but I also wasn't smoking). I sat in the back of the coffeehouse, and had the whole room to myself for the first hour. Then in came a youngish goateed Weekend Dad and his freckle-faced daughter, aged 7. They looked around the empty room, and Dad elected the table immediately next to mine. They came and sat down, very close, and Dad smiled at me. I smiled back and smiled too at the little girl. Dad had bought her a bottle of lemonade and an organic vegan cookie, the lumpen oaty kind that comes wrapped untidily in saran wrap. She was studying the wrapper label dubiously. I returned to my book. A minute later, the girl said, "Do you like raisins?" I looked up. She was looking at Dad, clutching the crumbled mess of cookie in her two cupped hands. "Yes," said Dad. She extended her arm, straight out; on the very end of her index finger was stuck a solitary raisin. "Here." Dad declined, but I laughed, and then we were all friends. At home, we have graduated from an Ant Problem to a Mouse Problem. I would thank God for the cats, were the cats not two such slapstick idiots. Happiness is: North Beach. Sixteen miles. Dinner with Annie. Pancho Villa's spicy chicken. Woody Guthrie. Freckled little girls with well-developed opinions. Ella Fitzgerald's botched Berlin version of "Mack the Knife." The upstairs poetry room at City Lights. 9/8/00 - "Romantics, idealists, eccentrics . . . a bittersweet fondness for silence." To-Do List's Sasha Cagen understands me. Betsy, in Spain last month, sent me a postcard. It arrived yesterday. The postal service is a far, far cleverer beast than we give it credit: Betsy addressed the postcard only to Pixie, at 57 Kissinger. Miraculously, it found me anyway. Zip codes must be a marvelous thing. I have caught myself whining once too often this week, and that must end. The job hunt begins. To-day we read: Wallace Stevens; James Merrill; a book about Sufism. Small daily happinesses: cinnamon-flavored lip balm. Cooking with Mags. Letters from Alicia. 9/5/00 - A long weekend full of barbecues. If I never see another chicken sausage or burnt hamburger again, I will rest content. Mags lives in a shockingly small world. So do I, for that matter, but in a different sense. Everyone wants to talk about job satisfaction lately. Two curious correspondents inquired first. Then Eli asked at Betsy's on Sunday, and at Susanna's on Monday we continued the conversation. Geoff and I talked similarly Sunday night, before Eli. Erika and I talked about it. On Monday Mags and I went to breakfast and it came up again. I worry about becoming soulless; Mags thinks I ought not--"You have a good soul. This is only temporary, and you know you have an end in sight." Eli's line is, "It's too bad there are so many smart people doing such bad things." Das stimmt. Why don't I leave, if it makes me so sad? Because I am timid. Because I like having money. Because . . . well, the reasons end there. Now there are three of us in the flat; maybe I can afford to leave. Maybe I will. But I need to save money for France, somehow. *sigh* All I would like is something creative. But I'd settle for an office with a view of a waterfall. I think it's time to learn the violin. 9/2/00 - At Green Apple Books last night, I found a volume of poetry I wanted: Some Trees, John Ashbery, out of print. But when I open it, the inside cover is inscribed, in a man's unkempt, slightly childish handwriting: For Rosamund, A plain talker with big ideas in his head. - David The "F" of For and the "D" of David are written with great flourish. Instead of "in his head," David had begun with, "on her mind," which he has simply written over, scratching the new letters in with dark, double lines. I cannot now buy this book. It makes me sad. I will wonder too much about Rosamund and David, about big ideas and how this little note found its way to Green Apple Used Books. I go away instead with Colette and Thomas Hardy, and am happy. This morning, Mags is brought for an introduction to the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market. We sit on the curb at the market's edge and eat sausage sandwiches. People with dogs go past, golden retrievers mostly, and I tell Mags that I want a dog. Two dogs: both greyhounds. "They're high-strung," I said, "they're weird, nervous dogs, but I figure that just means we'll get along well." We agree, then, that I should also get a weird, nervous husband and some weird, nervous kids, and we can be a weird, nervous family together. Mags is still trying to decide which city is weird and nervous enough for my weird, nervous family and I to inhabit. She has already volunteered to be my weird, nervous friend. Grocery list: 1 bunch kale; mushrooms; two pounds of little striped tomatoes; four eggplants; two bunches asparagus; four leeks; five plums; four white peaches; strawberries, lots; 1 bunch Greek basil; 1 loaf challah bread; goat cheese; a pound of almonds; a pound of honey. Piglet sent me a package: in it, my old journal, sophomore year. I think I remember being that person. I kept having crushes on Buddhists, and was very unhappy. It's just hard to love a Buddhist. In the song "Pirate," by Too Much Joy, they sing: "I feel like I'm trapped in a book about someone else." I feel this way from time to time. More often, though, the book is about me, but the supporting characters keep botching their roles. 9/1/00 - White rabbits. To-day is the one year anniversary of my Bay Area residency. No, yesterday was. Oh, I missed it. Happy anniversary, Bay Area. Also the anniversary of the Nazi invasion of Poland. Not connected to the above. Mags arrived yesterday. Annie and I went to the airport to fetch her, and idled away the wait in the airport bookstore. The airport bookstore had a "Classics" section, which took up a single vertical bay of shelves. The biggest section by far, on the other hand, was "Famous Authors," with five bays. Famous Authors? We read children's books in the corner, and Annie discovered the delightful canon of works by Todd Parr. There was also an excellent book by Kevin Henkes called Wemberly Worried which Annie read to me with much significant eyebrow-lifting. Apparently she feels that worrying Wemberly and I have a little something in common. Annie's boyfriend Kevin is a "cultural programmer." What an odd job title to have to live with. I think I might be in Big Trouble. I did something very stupid. August July June |
Everything I remember from my childhood |
