[ ed's journal jan.25.01 ]

[ j o u r n a l ]

The following online journal entries are from January 2001.

They are taken from my written journal and email updates to friends.

"...of course there is no logic to San Francisco generally, a city built with putty and pipe cleaners, rubber cement and colored construction paper. It's the work of fairies, elves, happy children with new Crayons. Why not pink, purple, rainbow, gold? What color for a biker bar on 16th near the highway? Plum. Plum. The light that is so strong and right that corners are clear, crisp, all glass is blinding--stilts and buttresses and turrets--the remains of various highways--rainbow windsocks--a sexual sort of lushness to the foliage. Only intermittently does it seem like an actual place of residence and commerce, with functional roads and sensible buildings. All other times it's just whimsy and faith...this hill and that hill...this vista and that, always the hills, the curves, the maybe our brakes will fail, the maybe someone else's brakes will fail...Always there is something San Franciscan reinforcing all everyone has come to think about the city, The City, they say--homeless people wear bathing suits and do handstands on the sidewalk, and shamelessly defecate, unmolested, on busy street croners. Activists throw bagels at police in riot gear, bicyclists are allowed to choke Market Street traffic but are arrested for trying to ride over the Bay Bridge....The buses are attached to strings or wires or something, and driving behind them requires often waiting, having reading material on hand, for these busses do not for long stay attached to the strings or wires--suddenly there will be a spark, and the bus will stop and the driver will get out, walk to the back of the bus, and yank on the string or wire, smiling cheerfully, oh ha ha, because here there really isn't that much of a hurry, for anyone, anywhere, least of all for those who take buses. There are eighty-year-old twins who haunt Union Square, and the alleys breathe urine, and teenagers slum in the Mission, the Haight..."

--Dave Eggers, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

[ 0 1 . 2 5 . 0 1 ]

Thursday. 12:09 PM. An addenum to the update I sent to people earlier this month:

Given the curmudgeony beginning of this year and the equally grouchy, grumpy, sneezy, sleepy, and dopey first update letter of the new millenium, I thought that a follow-up would be in order. In part to further develop some of the thoughts I was having and am still having and in part to provide some sort of perspective, distance, and recuperation.
This month is almost done and I can hardly believe it. Time seems to be moving so fast. I barely am used to the idea that it's a new year. I keep looking for the brakes but all I can find is either the accelerator or the clutch. I guess if I don't want to speed up, I need to shift gears.
Living in San Francisco during the winter months is a curious and almost paradoxical experience (particularly for this East Coast boy). Mainly because the Pacific northwest weather confuses my ideas about the seasons. It gets chilly here in SF -- not cold by any stretch of the imagination -- though it is a wet, seeping, soak to your bones cold unlike the dry cold of snow. But, with the rain comes the green of the trees and grass because during the summer and fall months it's generally dry and everything turns brown. Part of me keeps expecting to see leafless branches and icy puddles. It still amazes me to see songbirds, albeit hardy ones that haven't fled to less rainy climes.
But the weather isn't the only curious and paradoxical experience. I think from the many update letters I've sent over the past two years, I have written about the constant push and pull, the love and hate ebbs and flows of culture, politics, city dwellers, public transportation, romance, and friendship.
I am still deeply empowered by the very fact that I live in San Francisco -- this very suburban, this very Taurean, this very safe individual thrown into a new city, a new way of living, and a new set of challenges. I am very proud of myself for taking the leap of self and for struggling to make ends meet. And sometimes I really don't give myself enough credit in that regard. And I really need to recognize and emphasize those moments when I feel a connection to this city. For instance, last night, I was coming up the escalator from BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit - our Metro) and was looking up out of stairwell up into the night sky and the tall, reflective buildings of downtown SF. The air was chilly and smelled of rain and subway. My gaze returned to eye level and watched the BARTgoers riding the down escalator. And I knew it was clearly a city moment. I was headed to POW for a drink or two and their 80s night called "D.Volution" -- my friend Margaret spins new wave vinyl while we watch Tron or Labyrinth or Heathers or some John Hughes film with the sound off. It's moments like that when I feel the most liberated, the most involved. I hadn't planned on going out last night. In fact, I generally don't go out on Monday nights. I guess some of that "it's a school night" conditioning still has a hold of me. But I wanted to get out of the apartment. I wanted to be social but in a familiar place. And I think I just wanted to do something, be active for myself. So, why not spend a few hours playing PlayStation "X-Men," drinking a couple of Black Velvets (otherwise known as a Snakebite), which is Guiness and cider, and talking to your friendly neighborhood bartender?
I had spent this weekend being very angry. It is an emotion that I don't usually entertain for very long. My MO generally is to internalize everything and feel sad and at fault about it all. But, for some reason, this weekend, I was mad. Whether it was healthy or not, I just knew that I was fed up by conditions in my home life, my personal life, my social life, my emotional life, my profession life, and my creative life. I really wanted to act out, to lash out, to have a down-and-dirty fight with someone.

[ 0 1 . 2 5 . 0 1 cont. ]

I most definitely am angry with Sarah. The grief has turned and now I'm upset, disappointed, frustrated, resentful, and peeved. And the fact that she prevents me from having any sort of interaction, articulation, confrontation, explanation, or thermonuclear war with her makes me even more cantankerous. It seems to me lately she's always resolves her conflicts by avoidance and hiding. Of course, I want closure and her denial of me of that just rankles me to no end. All I can do is sigh, take deep breaths, and try to ground out the energy. But our home life is definitely impacted. Though I seem to now have run of the entire apartment since she predominantly closets herself in her room, sometimes I'd much rather be someplace else than have to deal with not *dealing with* her.

I am also angry at the fact that Josh (not my next door neighbors), whom I dated a bit last fall, has started seeing a mutual acquaintance of ours. And I know this is predominantly jealousy at work, but I still feel bad. He broke up with me because he said he was not ready to be in a relationship. And now he is it seems. It's always hard to see someone you've been involved with begin a new relationship.

I think I am generally resentful of the fact that I continue to lack a strong, close group of friends here in San Francisco. And that I get angry at the people who are in my social circle for not recognizing that I am needful or hurt or sad or angry or excited about something. I constantly press for proof of investment and generally get very little water out of stone. And I know I need to quit seeking affirmation and just let sleeping (if not wayward and at times oblivous) dogs lie.

Finally, I think I am angry over my friend Nick's death. And that grief often transmutes to anger over loss, over abandoment, over pain. And by extension, I am still angry over the death of my mother. Nick's viewing and funeral were excruciatingly difficult for me. I was genuinely surprised at how close that pain was to me. Even seven years distant, I was brought right back to the moment like being visited and transported by some Dickensian ghost. Friends of Nick picked me up for the viewing two Friday's ago. We arrived at the funeral parlor (a term that seems so Victorian and ugly) around 5 PM. There were a number of people in the chapel-like room complete with pews and stained glass. It took me three hours before I would approach the casket. I sat in the back of the room and could see just the crest of Nick's face above the edge of the coffin like pale, first arc of light of sunrise. I couldn't believe the grief. So present, so cruel, and so collapsing. I remember just crying and saying to myself, "I don't want to do this again." It was only my second funeral in my thirty years. But, finally, with the company of Nick's friends, I made it up to pay my respects and to say goodbye.

Running with the theme of living paradoxes, the encounter with death is full of mindbends. It is said that death is the heart of life. And I really continue to believe that our culture doesn't face up to or own up to death at all. We want immortality, eternal youth, and euphemistic living. When we are confronted by the scythe, we are too afraid, too unawares, too ignorant, and even too proud to act with grace. I certainly hope that we don't reduce our conversation about death to a Bill Moyer's special on PBS and in turn reduce our conversation about life to a five-minute 'Remembering Your Spirit' segment on Oprah.

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