I went to allende alone
i could have asked someone but I didn’t feel like it
buying tickets at the bookstore, I was surprised when asked “How many tickets?”
I said “oh, just me and my lonesome” kidding around ish.
I know how to park at that downtown oakland church.
You don’t go for the lot. it’s way too small
however the neighboring streets, particularly
the ONE WAY in the wrong direction from the entrance to the church
is usually an easy spot
there it is
I am parking behind another car which has just parked
not exactly behind but on the other side of a driveway
I know the car type
older model and the too many bumperstickers
none of which I could disagree with
“AWAKEN” and such
The woman who gets out of the car is dressed in layers of dresses and baggy pants
She is messing around in and out of the car.
She is filling or emptying a water bottle
She wears a scarf
Finally she throws a guitar case over her shoulder and walks in the direction of the church
I am not wanting to be near her but I am not disgusted either
I realize that we are going to end up waiting together at the corner for the light to change.
She turns to look at me and there is a moment when I could have pretended I didn’t know but I didn’t do that
When she looked at me I said,
“Janet?”, “Janet Fowler?”
She usually sings at this church on Wednesdays In a room downstairs. Therefore, the guitar
She decides to see Allende instead at $15. without blinking an eye
Waiting for it to start we talk.
She has been homeless for a long time and she doesn’t seem crazy. Mostly she camps out.
Not needing more of her story, I stand up , excuse myself and ask her to save my place.
She says, “Leave something”, so I leave my scarf and go look at the books for sale in the lobby.
The latino poet laureate of san Francisco
Introduces Isabelle and after some chatter
Alllelne reads from her new novel which is a mystery set in san Francisco amid teenagers.
She reads a gruesome description of a brutal murder discovered by children.
Immediately, abruptedly even, after the description Susan gets up and leaves.
Like she couldn’t risk it
Or wouldn’t allow it.
Anyhow she left.
But when I got back to my car,
Her car was still there. Still across the driveway. Still saying “AWAKEN”
Amma asks , “There are 86,400 seconds in a day. What are you doing with them?”
She asks, “Where are you going? If you are in a car and someone asks you where you are going, you know. If you get on a plane you know where you are going. Where are you going with your life? To go around willy-mildly is no good”, she’ll say.
“What is the goal of your life?”, she will ask.
“Is it the realization of god?”, she’ll continue.
The cashier is chatty so I join in.
“I have soo many hooks because each of my teenagers have a thousand sweatshirts from thrift stores and 500 of them are on the ground”, I explain.
She says, “I know. It’s the same at our house.”
That catches me as we are outwardly so different in lots of ways. Yeti it’s the same at her house.
We have longer than an moment of eye contact. I note her perfect eyeliner but mostly we look into each other’s eyes for a second or two. Then we look down at the hooks.
“No matter how many hooks I buy…” , I say.
“it will never be enough”, she finishes.
After talking with Ilana, whom I’ve just met at a party full of eclectic people, I am starting to wonder about her glasses. I don’t have on my glasses because I am not reading but, truth is, I should be wearing those progressives all the time as there are quite a few subtleties passing me by.
Ilana, a wildly talented San Francisco Art Institute grad student is talking about her hispanic childhood in LA and how she devoted twelve years of her life to throwing the discus. She’s got the body for it. She’s funny and is rambling on in a I’ve-got-this-conversation-covered kind of way. I’m fine with that and enjoying the ride as are my two teenagers. It’s Christmas eve and even the food is eclectic because a lot of the party works at Rainbow grocery, one of the first large co-op health food stores in the nation.
I am feeling friendlier and friendlier with Ilana as we get smushed closer together when still others feel there is enough room to sit down on the large couch.
I become more suspicious and say, “Let me see your glasses!”
She shies away and says, “No, you can’t see my glasses!” but in a smiling way.
“Come on, take them off”.
“I can’t see without them”.
Close enough now on the couch for almost anything I grab her glasses. There is no glass in them!
I comment on this and she says, “I’ve got a pair of sunglasses at home just like these”.
I say, “But there’s no glass in them!”
I’m liking her more than ever when she says, “I Know. They’re prescription!”
This isn’t the road I was on when it happened. This is the road I rode by bike after I got home to calm my nerves.
Christmas had started fine. More than fine was prepping my older teenage kids that we were taking consumerism to an all time low this year. I decided this not because I had to but because I was sick of meaningless stuff feeling a space.
We opened presents late and calmly. Everyone liked what they got.
Slowly I baked a cake and got together personal items to go down South a bit where we yearly spend Christmas with a 27 person odd group of alternative type friends, all ages.
It’s satisfying mostly because conversation is interesting, we are in the country surrounding by large trees and the food is deliciously plentiful.
Unfortunately I burn my right hand. I take the teapot off the wood burning stove and go to the sink to fill it. The teapot is hot hot from being on the stove empty so when I put the water in, it streams furiously and burns by hand. Though not dangerous, it is painful. Years ago when blowing neon, I learned to put a hand in cold water if burned. Despite everyone’s well intentioned advice for different methods, I keep changing the water to cold (no ice) until finally when I take my hand out, it no longer hurts. For me this cessation stops at 3 am., long after we’d finished with desert and caroling.
Tired, after breakfasting with more interesting slow conversation, Me and the teenagers set out on the long country driveway to the road to the highway home.
It happened on the highway. 880 north is as ugly as any with six lanes each direction. I didn’t see him in the lane next to me. He was in my blind spot and I wasn’t paying serious attention. All of a sudden I brushed up (at 60 mph) against the car on my right while starting to go in that lane.
There was nothing jarring or dramatic about it. However, it was still an accident, It took me a little while to figure out where to get off and talk as I knew we must. I was in front of him and pulled off on a large shoulder off the next exit. I stop. He stops behind me.
I get out and say, “How are you?” Looking at his truck which has ladders on top and miraculously, no damage.
He says, “Fine. How are you?” I say “Fine.. well a little a little scraped up but I’m not going to do anything about it…. It was my fault, right?”
He says, “Right.”
I say, “How about we give each other a hug, and wish each other a Happy New Year”
He says, “Okay” so we do that.
Then I hold his hand for a moment and say, “Thank you for being a person.”
It was kind of a stupid thing to say but that’s what came out. I think he knew what I meant.
I walk back to my car and get in. I wave as I drive away.
I continue until there is an intersection where I can turn around and get us back to 880. There is a beggar with a sign at the intersection as the cars stop. I give him a five. I can afford to.
Walking through the exhibit at the museum, I have what I often have. An uneasy feeling.
I notice that the child gurgling is attracting more attention than the paintings, just for a second. Then the patrons go back to viewing the paintings. After the brief bleep of real life passes, art appreciation or faux appreciation, of art or faux art, resumes.
Two other children are with their parents in the exhibition. The goal of these kids is to move as quickly as possible. They are playing a game. Upon entering the new room, they look for the “EXIT” sign. As soon as parents allow, they follow it.
An older woman in a seventies medium brown pant suit severely limps. She steps with one leg and then drags the other one after her. She moves awkwardly along trying to catch up with her husband which she eventually does when he stops in front of a painting.
I am drawn to the work that is the early work. This work shows some artistic ability. The later work, before which people dutifully stand, seems to me not to deserve the stop of attention. It all seems like a case of the emperor’s new clothes.
I find myself at the end of the exhibit and I go backwards to the beginning. I see the exhibit a second time, to be sure of my judgement. I am giving the artist a second chance and I want to remember the few works that I do like. Having done that, I find I can not exit through the gift shop, therefore I go through the exhibit a third time. I stop a third time at the charcoal drawing of a seated woman in a striped dress which is my favorite work.
Upon this last viewing I realize this drawing reminds me of expensive clothing store ads from my childhood. Those days artists drew the objects for sale. They were good drawings.
The artists were not trying to prove anything. They were just making a living. They weren’t even called artists.
In the museum signage, the famous painter’s statement claims not to stop at the beautiful but to go deeper. To me deeper wasn’t deeper, it was just messier. No one else seems to feel this way. They stand reverently at what is presented to them by the esteemed institution.
In the museum rest room, while washing my hands, I peripherally watch a woman in front of the mirror. She keeps looking in the mirror like she is trying to fix something that can’t be fixed. She is looking at time in the mirror but can not see it. This is what she is doing.
Leaving San Francisco going over to Oakland in heavy traffic, I anticipate the change that happens after Treasure Island. The white wideness of the new half of the Bay Bridge is wonderful and uplifting to drive on. People on the side are walking and riding their bikes. It is a good feeling to like the new version more than the old. To be driving on a man made object that makes sense.