Love Is A Very Sharp Word

I

People we've loved deeply because we've traveled together, changed together, and together, suffered. The ones we've lost to far cities, far countries. People we'll never see again, though they shaped us, just as we shaped them. The people with whom we never exchanged proper good-byes; people we couldn't bear to say good-bye to.

What happens to these people? I don't mean their bodies going to and from work, sleeping inside and outside and deep in the ground. I mean, what happens to them, the ones who still exist within us and also exist somewhere else way beyond us? Where is that in-between place?

II

I spent the whole day in bed, trying to beat a very bad cold. By the time it started to get dark I didn't feel any better than I had in the morning. I thought resting would be healing in some way. Instead, my chores remained undone for one more day, and I was lying here in this messy nest, me and my tissues, my teacups, my half-read books.

III

My therapist told me that she will be returning to Turkey in six weeks. The news hit me hard, and I had to squeeze the inner corners of my eyes to keep from crying. She apologized for not breaking it to me more gently. It was all right, though. She could not have known how I would take it, as I rarely cry or show much emotion when I'm in a session.

When I first met this therapist I thought she was too eager to know me, and I wanted to break free of her grasp. I thought I felt need from her, though I'm still not sure how much I can trust this feeling. But I knew right away that she was better than my previous therapist, who'd check her watch while I was talking and didn't hide her disapproval of certain behaviors.

Later, with my newer therapist, I came to enjoy my sessions. My successes became her successes, too, because if I did something well or made a positive life-change, she could take some of the credit for herself. So even if she was cheering partially for herself, it was nice to hear cheering, and to work toward some common goal with the help of another human being.

Taxes

I'm about to tear my hair out. I guess I need my "settlement statement" in order to file my taxes, and I have no idea where mine is. I sold my house last year.

And I didn't get the entire amount for the sale of the house, not by a long shot, but the IRS wants me to tell them the entire amount anyway.

It's late, and I've been up forever, and I'm tired. I guess after work tomorrow I better get back to this heinous chore of tearing apart my car and apartment, trying to find all the paperwork I need in order to pay my taxes. I don't understand how to do any of this. I bought some special tax software, but this process still doesn't make sense to me.

I HATE tax time.

I'm filing for an extension.

A Yoga Stretch For The Fingers

Do it for me!

The Road To Somewhere Far Away (But Not So Far I Can't Make Out The End)

There are days, my friends, when I just dread getting up in the morning. These days usually turn out a whole lot better than I expect they will, because I can handle an awful lot.

Anyway, tomorrow's my day off, and I'm going to spend some of tomorrow on myself. First, I'm getting my hair did by someone named Anthony, who's supposed to be the hair-diddest. Next, I'm going to check my bike tires and then I'm off to Golden Gate Park and, sooner or later, to the beach.

After that I'll do some work, because I can't seem to get over this hump of work right now. But right now I'm listening to Paul's Boutique, because it makes me happy.

Work. I have a way of life and a reason for being, and I guess sometimes I fear that path. The straight and narrow fills me with fear.

But all paths have surprises along the way -- the lizards and snakes, the creeks and dripping mosses. And sometimes, just over a rise, a view of a valley white with buckeye blossoms, and beyond it a blue sky full of clouds all moving in one direction, and beyond that a glimpse of the sea.



In any case, tonight while stretching I heard a few numbers from Patti Smith's new album. She covers a lot of people, and she does her own thing with emotional honesty, and the songs simultaneously respect and reinvent the originals, and, and, and. Oh, and you should hear her version of "Within You and Without You"! Patti Smith feels these lyrics (you can hear this in her voice as you've never heard her before), and she maintains the rhythms of the original. In other words, Patti Smith has a poet's sensibilities.

Real poetry, in my opinion, isn't some clever, boring in-club. Real poetry is clarity and music combined.

Scary Rabbits

Well, sweetses, this has been one hectic month.

I’ve been thinking about this city I live in. Maybe you’ve heard about San Francisco's Mayor Gavin Newsom, with his velveteen hair? Scandalous!

And I have moved into a straightish neighborhood swarming with young Caucasian men who are fifteen years younger than I. My 'hood is chock full of junkies and astoundingly stupid (judging from theif cell phone conversations) college kids who like to drink booze in sports bars disguised as Irish bars, and prefect healthy couples walking perfect healthy dogs with silken hair. I have no idea what to make of all this, but I hope the little businesses in the neighborhood are thriving.

There are places I’d go just because of the incredible window displays. Such as the window at Grin And Wear It on 735 Haight. They have a ten-foot tall window with the most amazing Easter display featuring three life-size mannequins in costume.



The mannequin to the far left stands by himself, for he’s the silent type you’ve seen in old Westerns, a philosopher with a creed. His torso is encased in orange felt. From the orange felt body emerge the legs, arms, and face of the wearer, a painted model wearing fishnets and a rubber half-mask that has one large, yellow eye embedded in the forehead. At first I thought he was supposed to look like a habanero pepper – but that would be illogical, given the context. No, this, my friends, is not a pepper, but a carrot.



To the right of the carrot man are two mannequins in furry rabbit outfits. As you may or may not know, I’m a fan of scary rabbits, which have been underutilized (my New Future Husband, David Lynch, uses them in Inland Empire, and you’ve seen Donny Darko and Sexy Beat, yes?). One of the rabbits in the window I’m describing wears a pink costume, and the most terrifying thing about him is his stance: his hands rest on his coquettishly cocked hips while he grins down at the viewer with an expression both cruel and joyous. Really, he’s posing much too realistically, and it’s the juxtaposition of the real and the fake that frightens me. I’d rather not know what's making him so happy, as I’m sure it’s heinous.



The other rabbit has wide eyes, long lashes, and buck teeth. This rabbit’s head is something you might have seen when you were a young child, watching a parade. Psychologically damaging, a source of phobias and recurring nightmares, each of us has an image we'll never shake. The rabbit in the display holds one of the crepe paper flowers that graces the land of this window, enormous things with rubber Dick Cheney masks at their centers.



Suspended above the rabbits is a lacy parasol, and you might have noticed the wires? You can't see this in the pictures I took, but flashes of light shoot through the wires, creating a lightning storm effect.

I only wish that from my own window I could watch this display change and evolve. But I guess it's good for me to get out on the street and photograph things at night while angry homeless men brush up against me, mumbling veiled threats. At times like these, I start to think that these beautiful windows were decorated just for me, and then I feel less alone in the city, and more priveleged. Because it's nice to know that someone out there shares my nightmares.