simmering in the kitchen of my heart

Simmer. I watch as it simmers. To a slow pace of a less frequent bubble-warmth still there -but less so and the wonder will I actually get this hot enough to eat. How long can you let something simmer without a return to normal heat or to a boil? I said I wanted something different. And different is what I got. A love affair unlike the disney creation. A love affair unlike the floor falling underneath me. Happenstance of life of meeting might be of fairy tales but the courting. So very different. Not the crash and burn of my before existence. But a slow pace based on life and accidents and schedules and life random events. And the talking and texting until the meetings of the minds and the warming up quickly to a boil for a bit. To medium and back to boil. The spontaneity and flexibility of making time. And then back again to a simmer. A trip. Warmth again. A death. Simmer. And now as I look at this range I wonder if I should give up on this stew. Have I tried to long to stir into something. Had the heat been lost in the simmer. I never threw it away. I kept trying. Because. Because I wanted something different. And this was.

And the times his eyes cross into my path. And the times his laughter becomes mine. And the times when we break bread or burritos. And the times I hear his voice, his words. And feel the warmth of him slowly on my mouth. On me. Not just on my body. But on my mind. The banter of lightness and heavy and light again that I had lived for. Was here. With me. Right now. I didn't have to hide my degrees or love for books and reading research. Or that I spill on myself and I trip regularly on my own two feet both right and left. He thought me being me was enduring. I thought it was embarrassing. The nervousness I feel to shield myself never felt. The pot didn't boil over and no falling apart of him or me. No me trying ever ingredient to save this failed stew. Not a soliloquy of how can I save you with my glittery S underneath. But a pace slowly that I am getting used to.

As I watch the pot as it simmers. I wonder how long this can simmer. How long I can wait. To see him again. For life circumstances keep us from each other. I said I wanted something different. I said I would wait. And wait I do walking in and out of this kitchen of my heart. And wonder what will be next. But I have a feeling in between sleep and awake that there will be more cooking of this stew of us. Its taking time. To make something. Something that matters.

And maybe fear of it all. Scares me more that the shitty soups I used to make. Full of spices and lots of boiling and the desire to make something out of nothing. No stone soup in reality. It is not happening. Not this time. But on simmer. I watch. It all. And wonder when I can turn this up again. I wanted to turn it up yesterday. But as it simmers. Still. I let the worries wash over me. Because I know. I know I tread on the newness of a different story. And no matters what's next I'm playing a new game. A new kind of cooking. An affair of my heart. A new way of me. Being here. And although it stays on simmer. I warm at the thought of seeing him again. Soon.

the saddest taqueria

The saddest taqueria I ever placed my feet upon, the saddest taqueria I had placed an order in, the saddest taqueria I ever paused into to wait for my order, the saddest taqueria of course had its pair of the saddest bathroom is located on the corner of sutter and polk. A strange place for a taqueria. A strange place to find myself trying to order mexican food for I am a frequent flier of the taquerias in the mission. But when push comes to shove and you have been day drinking a taqueria and any taqueria will do.

As I push my hand on the door in. There is feuding- music the beat of latino and the tv telemundo. My face is washed in a cool breeze. I scan the menu and workers and patrons in unison. Everyone looks as if the color has been taken out of their eyes. The spark lifted not recently but years ago. In a robotic fashion people move around as the skin loses their color. Dimming and fading away. At first I thought I might turn around and run away. And find solace in the subway across the street but with courage of beers and hunger my reminder. I stick it out. I order. The woman’s eyes seem to open up for a moment. She must be the cheerleader in this place. I order something I deem safe. I order it hot as always. The man the creator of the food at her side. States we are out of hot salsa. Out of hot salsa. The saddest taqueria I have ever been in ran out of hot salsa. And when this white woman thinks that is unacceptable this taqueria is really in trouble.

I walk over to see what is left given the point of where the salsa that is left lives. I pick it up. It looks like green water. And has no taste. It spills like a green watery mess next to the plastic container. The saddest taqueria mourns the loss of salsa. I mourn it as well. I scan back and froth. Until I find the safety of a tapatio bottle. I find a plastic container and transfer it – it splashes out. No one will deny me heat. Not in this mourning taqueria. I find a seat. It is the glimmer of hope in the darkness. It is the variety of the chair and table connection of my childhood from fast food and diners. I flash back to my old days of sitting in. And playing. And I start swinging back and forth. Warming my mood up. In the darkness of this taqueria. I glance around.

To the patrons. A couple latino sit side by side talk and watch tv. They seem to have not be overtaken by this cult. And next to them. A group of white people co-ed. The girl with a flower in her hair. Her face talks in solemn tones. Her friend, a male starts doing exercises in his sweater. And I wonder do I look like them. Across from me a white man with tacos and tapatio tries to make eye contact with me. But I decline in participating in the duel with the short wearer and nike holder and tapatio eater. Next to me a couple of guys talking. I can't remember their faces now.

The walls are moving in old signs fading into the wall wrinkling into what was. I am bored with the chair swinging now. And try and find the bathroom. Past the sadness of the kitchen I make a sign of the cross to be sure as I lift myself up the stairs. Into the partner of the saddest bathroom. One where you look like it might be your last time going. My heart races as I fear rape and death and try to pee. Hard to multitask fear of death and the stream of pee. Someone tries to come in. This is it. I am going to die in the saddest taqueria I have field tripped in. No. Im in here. Its not stranger danger just the woman with a flower in her hair. I walk down the stairs heart still beating and walk. Walk to pick up my failed attempt and of a quesadilla and get out of here.

The saddest taqueria I ever went to reminded me why I only eat in the mission. Full of heat and vibrance and salsas and green sauce that burns my tongue and music playing from guitars and life. I will leave the sad taquerias to live in neighborhoods where taquerias go to die. I eat at taquerias where they live. And I breathe in the life. So thankful to have seen the saddest taqueria to remember. How lucky I am.

home. in a way four walls can never understand.

hello friends, school made my postings pause but alas i return. all my thanks as always.

Walk. A walk on the beach breathes life into this body in ways nothing else can. Not a talk. Not a concoction of alcohol or a circle of medicine. Not a piece of chocolate. Nothing compares to when I park my car on the pavement and cross over to the bare foot feeling of damp sand between my feet. Sometimes I go because there is sun I must admire. Sometimes I go to escape. Sometimes to remember. A button to press reset inside of me.

Today I went because I needed a walk. I awoke in the middle of the night with a sinking stomach feeling that signaled I must do something. Before that would have entailed something dramatic ending of things and crossing streets to ignore people and it would have the drama of a middle school play. But today. It just meant something. Needed. To. Change. Inside. Of. Me.

And change it did as I felt the sand play around my feet up to my calves poking out of my yoga pants. I stop to see a possible wave hugging a whale I feel so lucky in all the days I had came here but it is just a rock formation. I dodge the obstacle course of fishermen. Some painted in proper gears others not. One smokes. Another tattooed. The fishing poles grow taller than humans and the connection to the ocean beyond. I walk the furthest I have. I decide to reach the end of these beaches today. I pass a family with toddler and dog bribing both so they stand still for a photograph. Again. And again. And I return to the walk. Then the pause. Of a sip of coffee. And the watch of the waves in and out. I am alone. Here. But do not feel that way. I feel surrounded by people I treasure and memories extended far out.

My mother and father first meeting was along a beach. Long ago. The equation of the randomness of me. And they took me there as I grew from the small me into the bigger me. I remember some visits there. But when I come across a box of photos. I see. Our family. And beach time. I visit my grandfather on this beach. He used to fish here. This being one of my favorite beaches. Also drawn to it. Not knowing until recently that he too was a fisherman here. My grandmother I see here in her formality and fun wanting to go but dressed in the wrong shoes. As I remember her wish to go as she came to the finish line of life. And as I reach the end of the beach for the first time. I know I must turn around. With these people and memories. And knowing that for me that my grandparents and mother. Might only live here for me. This might be why I come here to remember. Who I am. It is home. In a way that four walls can never understand.

When I come here I walk alone. But I walk in memories of us. Who we are. It helps me to remember who I am. I am in this big overwhelming world of so much. That the sand cools my mind my worried my mind. The waves welcome me in the every changing rhythm now comforting. There is a newness in each wave. As I turn around. The warming fall sun hits me. The kayakers with crabs have arrived at shore. The fishermen laugh. The crabs lay on their backs upon foreign soil their legs moving around for freedom. I keep walking and watching. I pick up a few stones. All different colors. As dogs maze around me.

And remember I can believe. I can believe. Things can be different. I can believe in me wanting different things and getting them. I just have to go home and visit. To remember. Believing is what I do best.

swimming in the unknown currents of this city doesn't make me hard- it makes me human

The paradox of city living. Is I see more. Than I should. Than I sometimes can bear. But I feel more at home within this glass house of society than I ever did in the planned of community of normalness. That never felt normal. I awake early to move the car. That if not will be decorated in a ticket which could buy me a meal, a drink, and something else more desired.

The day moves in waves above my head- the clouds move in a pattern I will never see again but I am struck and stand for a moment. The sun paints a picture on the etch sketch of its canvas. Not in black and white and gray. But perfectly brilliant colors only to last for right now. If I had awoken early to move my car. I would have missed it. No driveway or designated parking place and more parking tickets than I should admit aloud. If I had woken up I would not see the mother with her child taking him to school. He is almost her size and they move in unison. No words. But talking. Still. I wouldn't have seen this father hold the hands of his daughter. And see her jump up on this curb covered in trash. No trash can. Available. Smiling still. Next to the building clean. But still newly graffitied. It will be painted over soon.

If I had not woken up I would not have talked to the teenage boy with glassy eyes of sleep as we walk across the street. He wouldn't have told me he has been growing out his hair since he was a baby. He would not of heard me and see me smile. He would not have heard my wish that he woke up before he got school. I would not have seen his face tired and growing with anticipation of a smile. A real genuine look. Into the eye. If I had not awoken on this day. So early. I might not have seen the community I call home.

Later. I would not have been given a homeless woman's gas bill payment. I sat on a bench. She left me her payment- another envelope addressed to someone else- and kept walking. I didn't know what to do. To pick it up and touch it or leave it behind. Her conversation continues as she walked away. If I didn't pay attention. I might have missed the child inside the dumpster. The recycling variety foundation built in cardboard. His after school activity helping his father. Collect. For his family. I smile at him. For his strength. For my hope. That his hard work pays off. That he still will be freedom to be a child. And as I walk I feel the tears of the sea of me well up.

Living in the city has not made me hard. Or soft. It has made me human. It has made me realize the reality of statistics being people. And people mattering more. It has made me realize. There are no ways to build walls to avoid the realities that are humanity. Beautiful ugly growing into the realness. I sometimes close my eyes to not see. But not for too long. I have to open them again. Or I'll miss the good stuff.

The paradox of this city is how beautiful the rawness of every day that brings me to tears. It touches me. And I let it. I don't read the news. I just walk outside and let the pace of this city. Teach me. Teach me more than I ever learned from reading a book. And the fear. The fear of it being too much sometimes grows. But the beauty of it. Calms me again. The ebb and flow of this urban river. I sometimes stand on the river bed but today I will swim in its unknown currents.

untying the knot to the ship of disappointment

As I sit in this bed. The bed I had made myself. With new choices. And different outcomes. The excitement of beginnings coming now at a bearable repetition as I walk my feet down the warming pavement home. But as I lay on this bed. My own bed. I made myself. I am paralyzed. In fear. Fear I haven't felt in so very long. I had crafted and pottered walls and stairs and tree houses inside myself and all of a sudden I decided to collapse a wall or two. And let someone else climb the stairs with me or climb that tree and stare out of the window I created to remind me of what is around.

Me. See I had forgotten the fear of vulnerability. Because I stopped being vulnerable. Me and vulnerability have had a tumultuous love affair. I used to give it away unearned. I used to play and dance and sing carpe deim at the top of my lungs. Because the acceleration was always worth it. The addiction to the beginning of things as I float above myself but not for long. Until it stopped. Being worth it. And I stopped playing. With others. Instead. I became good at playing solitaire. And standing as a party of one on my mat of yoga. And building my life in ways I could grow with new walls and foundations and the final piece of my tree house with its swing. I didn’t need anyone to come play with me. Or I did. But I was waiting for someone who would stay a little bit longer. Someone I might walk with before running in a race to no where.

And as I lay in this bed. I had forgotten how scared I am. I am of the real thing. Because being alone. Became easier. No one got hurt in my own world created by myself. But now. As I lay and watch the ocean descend out to beyond I can ever see. I know the fear. Is tied to the ship of all what has happened before. I am still tied to the past of all the disappointments-all the falling on my face-all the wishing things can be different- all the I slept with someone else or im getting back with my x-girlfriend or I don't love you anymore or it will be cool to break up you with double parked or on myspace or entirely flake out. The rope is tied around me pulling me to sea to that boat. I am its anchor. The past failures and the past of me trying hard sometimes with the wrong people-sometimes- with the right magnets me out of this bed into the sand of the shore. I am tied to this past. In ways I had forgotten.

And all the therapy in the world and the success I have been lucky to have can ever erase that boats existence. Its not just the failed love. Its the failed relationship of a mother. Her leaving and never coming back. Her not ever getting the help she needed so that I could know her. Again. That is the heaviest. In the ship they all reside. The rope pulling me closer to the water. I drag my feet begging for the past not to matter. Pleading that I can create my own destiny. That I do not need to be tied with what was. I am not that person anymore.

I stop. And the knot around my waist was done by me and it could be undone. And as I begin to unknot it. Slowly. There is a pause. Can I let this rope go and still be me? I am still me. And as I stand on these rocks multiplied into a beach and stare at the water that goes beyond where I can see and where I can dream. I drop the rope. And watch the boat- it doesn't move quickly or abruptly. Its still there. But I don't have to be tied to the past as I once was.

I had forgotten about that ship. I had forgotten until I remembered that I had tied myself to it. Because of the fear of it. Of getting hurt so great. Of it working out so great. That I had to remember. Remember that I can watch it from the horizon but I am no longer controlled by it. The ship bobs up and down. I stand there for a moment. Until I feel my feet firmly in the moistness foundation of strong sand below- the waves coming in to welcome me home again. And I begin to move. Again.

rolling down the hill with eyes wide open

Rolling down the hill. The nostalgia for childhood wrapped in the reality of adultness. The feel of the pace slowly at first but reaching a speed beyond my own imagination. Me painted in oshkosh pink or green corduroys overalls and probably a striped shirt. Sometimes head first. No worries of protecting my brain or body. Other times engaging in child research of what happens when I roll on my side. For the exhilaration is the goal. And no connections of wires to worry or experience to say what happens if. The rolling down the hill of my childhood has crossed over through the jungle of adolescence and the earth turns into and through adulthood.

The roller coaster of life is now my own rolling down the hill. Into a relationship. Into a possibility of one. It has been that way since the beginning. The fast pace and not knowing what will happen next the excitement of what is to come and what is beautifully played out in my smiling expression upon my face. Just letting go and descending down the hill not knowing what will happen but it will be fun. And I might get hurt. But still chasing what was. And what will come. The exhilaration in the pit of my stomach of jumping into the water without easing in. But it hasn't always been pretty. My trips down hills of lust and love and everything in between. I have skinned my knees and stopped mid hill wondering what happened to my speed and sat at the bottom of hill in many pieces- with no one to put me together but me. No nursery rhyme to save me. Because I am no longer a child and now know the risks of rolling down the hill, especially a san francisco one, that I decided I had to stop rolling down the hill at a pace too much. It was fine. Fine until now.

As I stand before a hill. With both anticipation and hope and knowledge of what could happen as I begin this descend down this hill. Can I change how I make my way down and still enjoy the ride down? Can it happen without a trip to the er? Can I begin again without the surround sound of the past playing on repeat? Can I do it? Roll down this hill. And not let the excitement to take me over into a place where a child can only live. You got to travel down this hill. The hill onto what will be next.

But this time I stand staring over the horizon of this beautiful city, water colored into a way paint by number could ever dream of, I take it in. And think. Before I feel my head hang down and my hands touch the grass swimming in water and the excitement moves down from the depths of my stomach champanged to the top of a growing smile. And in thinking. And in seeing. In rolling down this hill. Might be at a pace. That I can live with.

this time when i wore the black dress of second chances

This time when I wore the black dress. The black dress breezy and light and full of potential. It had risen from the bottom of my closet to the surface of the water to find a hanger. I see it there. Bobbing up and down on top of the water. No longer sinking. But now floating. And I pick it up. And push my head through the opening. Buttoning the buttons up that live along the ruffles. Me newly showered fresh after the yoga of sweating and pulling and pushing and breathing. My cheeks still flush- irish glow. With relaxation. And release. And busting my ass. I can't find the right shoes. Oh well. Out the door. The skirt waves in the wind and choreographed to the sway of potential again.

To school. I drive. Through the maze of the lines of the urban river. Quickly. For I have a small window to get to financial aid office. For they screwed up my loans. Again. In driving. I decide. To leave it up. To the world of friday traffic if I get there. My hand gently loosens the grip on the wheel. I park. 5 minutes and counting. And run in the dress up the flight of stairs. Please. To get there with a minute to spare. Buttons coming undone in the running. I beg. To the man closing the door. Please. And he lets me in.

Scene change of the black and white break to drinks later. For I had worn the dress again. I had to give it another try. Believing. Because I hadn't in a long time. And I wanted to replace the scene that happened last time with something else in the film reel of memories that plays in my head. I fast forward and rewind and pause. I wanted the dress of heaviness to be light again. I wanted to feel the buoyancy of potential. Of given it another chance.

And as I sit. Sit with friends. At the bar. I feel someone moving me. In my bar stool. Twirling me around. My dress waves in a circle. And there stands someone I don't know. Somehow in this bar. Of helping someone get drinks. Things stopped for a moment. To talk about life. And what we do. But not in the typical CV way. Not in a booty call fashion. But in a way that you desire to talk more. About the realness of it. All. I am intrigued. Can I buy you a drink? I wish but my parents are coming early. How about a raincheck? And then the formalities of information exchange follow.

The best part it was so easy. No trying. Just happening. The dress wraps me as I float on top of the water and look up. At the sky above. I am floating. The best part was the dress of potential of second chances was light again. And so was I.

pushing through the middle school doors- without the footsteps of the past beating in my head

I think it is hard to live in the present without the footsteps of the past beating in your head. That is the best way to explain pushing through the doors of middle school again. My own experience of being a middle schooler long ago walks along side of me. I didn't like middle school.

When I went it in the early 90s with big bangs and pegged jeans it was junior high. Although I went to school in the safety of the suburbs it was the scariest place I have ever been. And this urbanite has lived in 4 cities. Flashes of girls hitting other heads into lockers, crowds surrounding fights and no one stopping, the cool ones partaking in sex and drugs and I barely had a period and held a hand of the opposite sex. I got asked out through friends of friends and held notes with such words, and found dancing partners as I slow danced in the beginning of puberty.

I was not a leper. But I was scared. I went to a school where violence and following the mob mentality the norm and at 80 lbs and under 5 feet tall when I had started ( a growth spurt pending)- I had little choices. Other than to be nice to everyone and hope that one of the prettier popular girls wouldn't want to beat me up. I found solace in school (getting into accelerated classes) and running track- if you were good it give you protection plus lots of teammates as a buffer. It got better. Towards the end. And then high school allowed me to breathe. And most of my own work has centered around high school. And I have loved it. I dreaded being in a middle school. Because of my own experience with it. The young girl who became too scared to speak up, too scared to be herself, long ago was reincarnated back to living. I didn't want to go back to the old days of fear of others. Fear of myself.

But as soon as I sat in the office- watching the movement and pace of the counseling office- in this middle school-I felt more comfortable-at ease. My first day jitters drifting away with the young girl who was. Was before. As I saw the faces of the students and how this counseling office existed in the world of the school. I felt the hallway underneath my feet, the middle school students wanting to talk and actually seemed to want to talk longer than I anticipated. The deep thinking of a 6^th grader is surprising and simple in unison. I walked around talking to 6^th graders during lunch and no one gave me the look of despair due to an adult talking to them.

Two girls with the same exact hair style with barrettes choreographed perfectly reminds me of what was. Still is. In middle school. A boy laughs at someone for getting hurt. Her friend. Stops without skipping a beat sticking up for her. I feel a smile growing inside of me. The young girl of before roots her on. And there was a hope. That grew. Excitement and anticipation grew inside of me while dread had lived. I was excited to be in middle school as an adult. It could be different. And it might be different for the students I would see walking down the halls.

the black dress of second chances

The black dress. The last time I wore this black dress it was a thanksgiving celebration years past. This black dress found in the abyss of the growing smell of oldness in a second hand store in Santa Cruz. Not the type that overcharges you because its vintage no the type that gives you a great deal. The ruffles fall down the my neck down to the core of my stomach. Buttons who refuse to obey that I must keep rebuttoning. And the sheen of it all needs the right undergarments. Either nude or black make. The skirt is big and moves around further as if dancing with the stars could be mine. I gave it another chance to go outside the store and live a life beyond the confines of other forgotten clothes.

The last time I wore this dress. I went to an early Thanksgiving. The last time I wore this dress I realized I might be on a sinking ship of a relationship. The last time I wore this black sheen dress- I saw red. The waves of the red flag movement and sound telling me pay attention. To this. What is happening. Right now. The lightness of this dress propelled me to the bar to see the guy I had been dating. Him playing pool. Surrounded by a fan base of ladies. Me in the dress coming in stuffed with turkey but with buoyant possibility. He had beckoned me. Of course. I am not of the stalker make. And there we play and drink and be. Together. Until. It was closing. And there came part of his cheering section coming over. The woman looks at me. Unable to pick up on the social cues of dating. Are you guys together? She fires at me. Yes. I respond. That was not clear enough for her. I guess I was speaking in tongues again. Stupid. Me. Again. This time she throws the ball in my face. Like are you dating? No we are brothers and sisters. Who make out. Bitch. I repeat the words again -Yes-in the slowest, most threatening, the most step off bitch kind of way that three letters could ensue. She got the picture and bounced away looking for her next victim. It pissed me off to have such audacity.

Away we went home. My dress swayed in the laughter of what just happened. But there was a change in the pace. Of him. What should I have said? We were brother and sisters. Wishing maybe that I would have thought of something funny. But somehow we are still laughing. Til home. And upstairs. And then the redness of warning flew. As I turned on the light. The fan began to circle around the room spreading a collection of dust down on his bed. An accident. Of course. Kate I can't believe you did that. I am going to be sneezing for weeks. Don't touch the light switch. Again. Let me do it. It wasn't his words but his tone. That frighten me. That and being reprimanded for turning on a light. As an adult. From a lover. The flag arose and waved and colored the room of potential a deeper red than I was ready.

I stand in my dress of dance and lightness and sink. It was an accident I said. You can't be mad at me for an accident. But it keeps going. Let me show you how to do it. More. And then help me help you. I am getting a tutorial on light switch protocol in a scathing tone that makes me freeze. I clam up. Something inside of me tells me this is the tip of the iceberg of him. And my fear of him. Grows. I shut down. I never do. I never have. Being scared of someone you date. Might not the best of all scenarios. Might not be the dreams I have ever dreamt for myself. My hope for him feels to be diminishing. As he goes through the spiel in a tone left for no one but for me.

I stand in my black dress of potential. The dress of second chances. I gave it another. To breathe outside the confines of the box of the store. And wonder what the fuck am I going to do. Tonight. And the next day. The last time I wore the black dress of second chances. The light breezy material became heavy. The last time I wore this black dress. I didn't know what to do. But take it off. Lay in bed. Next to him. And decide tomorrow what to do.

i surrender. in this game of love. maybe.

hello folks- sorry for the unplanned break. i have been writing but not always sure on the sharing. this piece is about a library date gone wrong (we needed a date story). and don't worry i haven't given up on love just playing in the game. or maybe how i decide to play in it. all my thanks as always.

In the quiet. Of this library. Nothing exists. But the sounds. Of page turning. Keys punching. The whisper growing into. The wrapper moving. The forgotten cell phone ringer not silenced. In the quiet of this library. We found the conversation. Among others. Overheard by us. Too funny not to interject. Our laughter. Then the shaking of the hands. Exchanging of words. The distance of wanting a study break. And each time I would see him in this library. He would break the silence. First with words. Then with an ask out to drinks. Me wrapped in a yellow dress warm outside but trapped in this library. Him motorcycle helmet on top of his computer he never seemed to use. To be hit on by an undergrad made the yellow of the dress shine into my face. And then the blow of the kiss from his hand to his lips and out towards me. Flattered I was.

In the quiet of this library. In the quiet of living in this library. Of the quiet of the social life I had created. I depisied and relished in. In the quiet of the stairs I found he wasn't my junior but my peer through the maze of the circular stair wells down- the city scape bubbled around us the hills slide and the houses danced under the spotlights of the sun making a surprise appearance within the shyness of the fog.

In the quiet of this bar I look at him. Taking my glasses off in defeat. The short river of a line moves in between the sea of my greenish eyes. My anchors of hands fall onto the sides of my face painted beautifully for this first date. In the quiet. I didn't know what to do. I had talked. He had asked for a story after he told me he almost left. Before I got there. Because people don't always show up for these things. Way to complement me upon entering. The stories I tell-my true and tried funny stories -that the target audience of six to 70 years old seem to fancy but not him. Not a smirk, not a laugh, not a smile, inside or out. I am sinking in this silence.

I ask about him. He performed the soliloquy of boredom. I am boring. I am bored. I only do boring stuff. In every form, in every tense. Boring and more boring and wait boring again. In the quiet. I am lost. Lost in the library in the work and in finding him. And upon exiting the walls of books peppered with computers and in this bar company dark and drinks and anticipation in the quiet I learn. I learn the quiet. The quiet of him on this date is defeating me. I prompt about him coming to America. Shot down again. I am at a loss and the art of talking and listening and getting strangers and teenagers and new friends are lost in the quiet. As my white flag raises slowly while the rivers around my eyes opens up and the anchors I feel underneath release down.

In the quiet. I find. That first dates aren't great all the time. That the quiet interlude of a study break might only live in the walls of research. In the quiet of this bar as I sit next to this man I feel as if we are in our first fight. I finish my beer. I go to the bathroom. Pleading for help from God or friends or the universe. In the mirror I stare. In the quiet. It doesn't have to be this hard. In the quiet. I come back. But stay in. He decides to move his piece towards me. In quiet. I listen. In quiet. I know. That this first date will be our last. That some can only live in the the place you meet them and can't cross over into another place on the board of the game of life. He finishes his last drink. His 4^th in 2 hrs.

In quiet we end the date. In quiet I know that is the strangest date I've ever been on. In the quiet. Of my heart and my head. I hear the movement of what could be outside. There is a drizzle reminding of what was. I surrender not on this date. But in this game. In the quiet. I let go. For this moment. For a few. Until. The pace picks up again. Quietly.

unexpected things happen. every single day.

hello all- written this late spring from the prompt of the last thing I expected. I wrote about three things that happened unexpectedly. enjoy! and as always thanks all my thanks! ps thanks giants for that win!

The last thing I expected was to be caught in the rain. Again. The sun makes appearance and viola we forget the impeding weather reports-we forget what the last few weeks have brought us-we forget. So as I walk. Walk briskly for my break outside the rectangular walls of education-of learning of pushing and pulling into become ourselves. There it is-the drizzle and me-no umbrella, no jacket, and no one of my favorite purchases-adult rain boots. I walked still. To get the coffee pay for it. I had last week and a salad. For today. I walked naked there. No protection.

The last thing I expected was to open up my computer and see what I saw in it. As I did my morning routine of checking my students grades. I started talking to myself and almost fell of my chair- in happiness. For two of my students, two of my students some teachers had forgotten, had written off, not because of any negative attribute other than fatigue and overwork and under love, had done it. They had gone from failing to not. They had gone from bad grades to good. And in opening it and excitement for their progress-I didn't expect this great news-although there was work and plans and parents. But the bigger part believed they could make a change. And taste success as they smile meekly. It does taste good. And when I told one of the students favorite teachers the news. So that is the good news he said, what is the bad. I told him, there is none. Unexpected to him. The expectation high finally found. I walked in the smile of all three of us as I walked away.

The last thing I expected was to hurt a child with a underwear box. See there in the recycling laid two boxes of men's xist underwear packaging. A budding 10 year old was embarrassed by this. Why would my dad put that in there? To recycle. Yes, but can we turn it over. I don't want to see the front. The front donning a man with perfectly formed abs and arms and showing him sitting in the boxer briefs all in black and white. I would rather see the back. The butt I say. What is wrong with the front? You know. Her eyes look up in a knowingly growing into a woman way. Are his abs not strong enough? Shake head to the right. And left. Do you not like his arms? Shake again.

And then there is choice to run after her with the box. Just to make a little fun. Just to do it. But in the running and fun I by accident bumped her face with the box of the underwear model. And the unexpected words of since you hurt me with the underwear box-do you mind picking me up and swinging around? Unexpected. The unexpected happens. Every single day.

it wasn't life or death. until it was and finally i wasn't scared.

Hello all, this was written in 70 something degree weather (last week) outside cafe bar from a pregnant nurse with a dog and cobb salad. she was a stranger but we shared a table. enjoy and all my thanks always!

Life or death. It wasn't life or death. I would tell myself. Out loud. Written down on reminders. Post its. Stuck. To myself. To to others. In the writing-in the pen-lines in the sand of the book of pages. In words formed in squiggles and straights and the cloud of my personal audio narrative hitting the airwaves of the soundtrack of this life/ our lives. I said it. But I didn't mean it. I said it to believe. Believe it was true. That I wouldn't die in this bar in running into someone who I was just decided to stop seeing, again. That I wouldn't die in this interview. Or in the pounding muscle of my heart in the first date. Or in this car. When I am not driving. I can see the snap of the fingers into the loss of control. Or in the confines of this plane. Across this bridge- the long ones and even the short ones. The height and distance of no return made me feel like I would die. But it wasn't life or death.

When the words- and the yoga- and the acupuncture- and the herbal remedies and the therapy and all the other coping mechanisms of anxiety failed. Anxiety predetermined in genetics and reenforced in environment. When these true and tried ways failed-I would resort to my xanax. Xanax prescribed for the confinement of planes crossed of over to first dates- just a quarter- to breakups- probably half- to first interviews- a quarter or a half to be sure. It wasn't life or death and I could believe it if I kept the safety of my flotation device in the small zipper in my red vintage purse with a bow. Just in case. Open upon emergency. Break the glass. Break into a piece. Swallow without anyone seeing. Hidden from everyone me. It wasn't life or death.

Until one day it was. It was life or death. And I stand in the water in a swimsuit no emergency prescription freedom to make it less so. Just me in a swim suit surrounded in melted snow of a lake. And it was life or death. And I was calm. No pace of my heart- uncomfortable in and out of this body. No wanting to run away. Just seeing and doing of the slowness of a firefighter upon arrival. As I looked out beyond, I knew they were in trouble. I yelled for help. And the swimming. First my brother. I knew right away. She needed help. I am not frozen in fear but I am unsure to follow or stay. Help I say and another one is moving. He moves through the water a brisk slow no splashing stroke. Gliding. I just follow. Talking calmly. Letting her know we are coming. We are coming. You are going to be okay.

The calm movement of their pace- the sail boat of them arrive to her. Turned over and floating. And all three moving to shore as one. She sits in the beginning part of the lake cradled by the bottom her toes could not find. The water visiting her. And then leaving again. It mimics her breathing. My body caresses the sand, the bottom of this lake, next to her. We embrace and you are okay and you did a great job are the only words that can be produced from this mouth. We walk slowly on the sand. Footprints in and out. Proof we are there. Were there. I need milks-she breaths.

It was life or death and finally I wasn't scared. And somehow the life of the death of it all happening really happening made all the worry and worry and work and escape and working on not being scared toss away and gave birth finally to faith. Faith in myself. Finally it had been life or death and I wasn't scared.

it's official: i ain't martha stewart of femininity

hello all-

i am back from the heaven of tahoe. the lake that can make anyone complete. thanks for stopping by. this is written from the prompt, cleaning. and now i am back from vacation. maybe i'll clean my room. maybe. all my thanks always! enjoy!

Cleaning. I have never been good at cleaning. I spent more time trying to negotiate out of cleaning my room then actually cleaning it. It seemed to snowball in my teenage years when my life became a pitter patter of busyness and activities and sports and responsibilities and the socializing all more important than the actual business of the cleaning of the room. My father- I would tell him dad other girls are pregnant or doing drugs in my sad attempt at trying to get out of the cleaning of my room. Without skipping a beat of the drum of parenthood he threw back my way- I don't give a shit about them, get up there and clean your room.

Things haven't changed much. I will go on streaks when I try to actually put clean clothes away upon the exiting out of the dryer. There will be times I will dance with a cleaning once a week. But nothing sticks in this department. I am too busy. I have better things to do. Its sunny outside. I got to relax. Anything and everything to avoid it.

It surprises me. Because I do a good job of attacking most things head on the unmentionables of life that people hush about out loud or in their own inner dialogue the court reporter in their own very heads. But why not address this? My clothes always look clean and so do I even if I skip the shower too. I will never be the Martha Stewart of femininity-I would have failed as a cookie cutter of cleanliness as a 1950s housewife. But what about me that I can't face it. The clothes strewn about. The wrapper of a dark chocolate bar for before bed time. Receipts that provide a record of how I spend my time. Papers and more papers.

Cleaning. I am good at cleaning the soul. Cleaning what I should. Cleaning enough to squeak by. But maybe it is the spending the time on cleaning up myself and others that I just can't face the physicality of this task. I know most experts, those who specialize in clutter and hoarding and the such would tell me the room reflects my psyche. That it is cluttered and unmanageable and out of control. But I don't feel that way. I feel calmer than I have in years. My yoga mat being one of my clutter free zones. I should place in on my bed to zen me out. To begin the cleaning.

I really hate the loneliness of cleaning the room. But I don't mind the cleaning of the soul, yours and mine and others. Maybe we all get a speciality and mine has more to the organizing the hard questions and the lifting sometimes heavy and the folding of dreams and behaviors and dusting away the old to become someone new.

Today. Today I might have cleaned my room. My room. If I hadn't been on vacation. On vacation. From the cleaning. The cleaning I do. And the cleaning I still need to. You never really get a break from the working on yourself. And my work. My choice of work. Of the listening and moving and helping. The cleaning of humans but still letting the messiness of them survive while they do the heavy lifting for themselves. Sometimes you just need someone there to help you clean. I know I do.

the slowing frenzy of life, of companionship

this urbanite was in the mountains with wildlife but now i am back for just a moment. written from the prompt frenzy. enjoy and thanks for stopping by as always!

The frenzy was gone. The movement rapid slowed to a pace that keeps the clock ticking more slowly. As I sit across from myself. I sit next to groups of twos and observe. Observe while write. Observe while read. The slow frenzy allows it to slow down in pace so much that I can watch. And learn. To my left sits an unusual couple of a man with a turned up hat and scruffy beard who raises his voice upon talking of work across from him a short hair and stripe shirt vertical tucked into a khaki skirt, hair bobbed to match female. Unusual pairing and then the eating. And being done. How are you? How are you? To each other. Let's walk. She says. Let's go home. He says. What do you want me to get in shape? On the sunniest day we have had in days, weeks, months. And as he reaches down for her leg the calm frenzy of companionship. And as he pays and she corrects his tip they walk together out separating in tables and coming together again to meet at the corner and hold hands across the street for the walk, the walk home.

To my right. A couple of friends. Talking about the frenzy of relationships. Failed. Many. Failed. Ones. It being over. And done. Again. I didn't touch him. I didn't want to touch him when we were together. Where did he sleep? You only have one bed. I just need to move on says the wavy reddish haired woman in a vintage piece picked up in the mission. Maybe I'll move to New Orleans. I need to move someone new. Somewhere hot. Her companion tight skin jeans paint her body skinny. I know I get it. I moved to LA. The slowing down from the frenzy makes us ask what is next. And what is next. The splitting of the bill. And the walking away around the tables and meeting again. At the corner to walk across the street in unison without holding but moving together. The same path as the others.

I long for a frenzy. A frenzy of companionship that doesn't scare me but excites me. A frenzy of warmth. A frenzy of movement. But the slow with the fast together would make it complete. He says he wants something more stable for me. As do I. Along this road. I have had the frenzy brought on quickly but without the calmness of closeness that I long for a little bit longer. And each time it starts it feels different. It does. But somehow in the slowing down of the frenzy of life, I have stopped moving and started watching. Watching others. Watching myself. Watching what happens when I long for what I don't have and get what I do. The frenzy of a companionship that travels far and wide but allows me to see it all happening beyond just me, just beyond just us, beyond what is next.

the messiness of just being free: the gift my parents gave me of mud pies and staying dirty

What I remember best about childhood was the freedom. The freedom of play. I remember sitting on my tree swing crafted by father. The wood underneath my very tiny boney butt and the two distinctive pieces of yellow rope intertwined together around and around to the top of the tree. That yellow rope was my dad's signature rope. It was on my swing. It was on things he fixed around the house. On our Christmas tree when tied about our blue Volkswagen. And on this swing I would sit and swing and then sit. And just be. Staring outside and up into the clouds. And closing my eyes and taking my legs to my butt and lengthening out past my feet. Over again and again. My eyes closed brought darkness but this light show created in light and movement created colors and shapes. As I moved another show created. I spent time staring in and out and swinging. The freedom of just being there. And doing nothing. But daydreaming and looking and seeing and closing my eyes to create my own freedom of what I wanted to see.

My backyard was covered in vegetables my parents had planted in boxes built by my father. My seeds in with them and the dirt off to the side to place the seeds. And what would happen next. Would it grow? My label put upon a piece of wood and waiting. And in the dirt. The dirt I played. In afternoons of mud pies made for each one of my family and friends. And eaten very quickly and started again. Dumping it out to begin again. The mud caked my fingers and painted on my face and arms and sprayed onto my clothes. The texture of it. The mud. The way to make the perfect mud pie. Grabbing just enough mud and spreading it around the tin. With a design on top. And presenting it to my parents or my friends even if they weren't sitting next to me. The freedom to play in mud and not care if I was dirty. I wanted to be. And no one told me to clean up. They let me play in mud.

And I still like to get dirty. Maybe because I have had issues with spilling. Or it reminds me of what was. And every time I see a parent scold a child for having paint left over from a school project on them or the evidence of an ice cream smeared upon their face. I cringe. Because the freedom of not caring should be given to children. They have their rest of their lives to pretend to be perfect and clean. Let's give them this. The swings and the mud and the messiness of just being free.

What I remember best of my childhood was this freedom my parents gave me. In the chaos that was my home sometimes-this place this gift they gave me-when they weren't in the abyss of figuring themselves out. Somehow I had the freedom and the responsibility of adultness as a child in the worrying and caregiving and anticipating what would be next. And as much as I sometimes wish for a different childhood, I can't ignore what my parents gave me. The freedom to be a child. Sometimes. That allows me to be light and be free still in ways I know that without that swing to be swung made for only me or the mud pie tins filled with mud never needing to be cleaned-I might not have grown and flourished. Into who I became.

betrayed by this good friend along the road of life

hello friends,

thanks for stopping by as always. and don't be alarmed. i am okay. this was written a few months ago after i got some unanticipated test results. i repeat i am okay. but this piece captured the moments of the betrayal of this body.

Unmasked. The unmasked stood before me. I didn't know this. I didn't recognize this. But the unmasked it stood before me. I knew. I knew. I knew. That it wouldn't be good news. I didn't recognize this unmasked barrier of bad news for it was a different kind. But I knew the look. The look of the grayness of the eyes never making eye contact that mattered, the facial figures blending in together, the non-descriptiveness of it all. And inside of me. The remembering of a late night phone call of the worst news. The across country call of coming home because of sickness and fear of death. Starting to pulse in and out of my frame of this body. I knew this unmasked figure. I knew it or he or she was bringing me news. Not the best news as the platter what exposed for me to see.

And I have now crossed over into a place where the healthiness of this body I can't exactly control. And truth be told we never could. We thought we could. It was before the worry of tests. And test results. And genetics. And my ability to make babies. Once I wanted to.

This body, this athletic body, has not failed me once. I didn't always win the race. But it always carried me. But these feet with a high arch and toughness from years of barefoot walking and running had never let me down. These legs. Legs carved muscular through years of sports and running and swimming and now yoga and zumba have held my ground in ways I was thankful. My stomach. My anchor my way of knowing right and wrong was a pretty good team player too. To my chest and heart- the comfort of the heart and know it will beat in and out and hasn't stopped yet. To my breasts thankful that they decided to debut later in life in college but sometimes now wanting to put them on the shelf when not needed. Like when I want to take a run around the block. My arms- my right stronger than the left that has been know to hug and hold and sometimes used in arm wrestling. And these hands. These wrinkled hands of irish inheritance, my hands, my mother's, and my brother's, and a younger version of my grandmothers. The fingers have walked and jumped and spread over papers and keys on computers and the discovering the map of anothers hand or to squeeze an arm in encouragement and connection.

My body. My body I have so much to be thankful for. And we have been good friends along the road of this life. But in the unmasking of results. Test results. Not fatal. Not deathly. But not pleasant. And decisions to be made of next steps. Makes me feel betrayed. Betrayed by this body. Betrayed by my dear friends who have helped me along the way. Betrayed in knowing I can't control it. And never could. And as anxiety sets in I can't help but think I will all be okay. For it always has been. Okay. And a blimp on the radar of health in our modern time could really make the difference in the future in ways it couldn't before. In living in prevention, we sometimes have things unmasked before we are ready. Betrayed I feel but faith in having that this body, this body that has never failed me. Yet. Won't fail me today. Or tomorrow.

inheritance of the luck of the green eyes

I can say it was the luck of the green eyes. The luck of the mistake of green eyes. For they are a mistake. Missing on the punnet square of brown and blue. My father's eyes a deep blue like his mother's. Her Irish eyes became his. My mother's eyes more green and blue changing like the seasons and the ocean. I inherited my mother's eyes too. Her Irish eyes. And for with the luck of the green eyes I have skipped and jumped and jumped and crawled and ran and walked and fell throughout my life. And with these eyes I see. I see the scene around me. I see the inner workings of someone. What they could be. I see the unspoken words. I see the injustice and ask. Why? I see the look in the eyes of another. Letting me know they are there. Right there. Are if they have left and moved to another spot.

These eyes have taken in the secrets from friends and strangers alike. These eyes are my number one complement. I get. I have received. My entire life. From friends. From strangers. From strangers of friends. From family. Even from students. I began to say thanks my mother let me borrow them-they are her eyes.

But really they are mine. I inherited them ago upon my father and mother making me. Opened outside the womb for the first time. Outside I didn't want to leave the safety of her stomach. Late I was. Opened eyes to the world. And given my constant reminder of these eyes. The beauty of them. The drawing in. To speak of them. And look of them. And the reminder of these eyes being from my mother. I can't help but wonder what these eyes mean. What do these irish green changing with my shirt and with the conditions of my eyes glowing even more when I cry? What do they mean? Mean to have something that others adore. Mean to have something unique. Mean to have something that is a beautiful mistake. And as I blink again. And again.

I can't help but wonder about the luck of the green eyes. The beauty of a mistake a mix of brown and blue into me. My eyes. And in looking and seeing I know I see it differently. And for that my own uniqueness of these eyes similar to my mothers. But my own. They are my own. But a reminder. Reminding me. She is always with me. Still.

For the drawing in of these eyes might be the same. The same. But who looks at these eyes. And speak words of truth differently. These eyes are my own. My own gift. My own luck. My own Irish. My own way to connect for it is more than the eyes themselves the colors ever changing. Its about the way I see. That makes this journey and those who speak to me all the more interesting. So my struck of green luck I view the world through them and in it I see it all, the beauty and pain and laughter and a world I dreamt up myself, a world I try and create. And somehow through it all I see the glowing future. As I blink again and the lines around my eyes soften. Thank you, I say.

rejection letters just means an acceptance is in the mail

rejection letters. i just received a rejection letter in the mail. out of 88 plus applicants for 20 something spots, i was not chosen to write, not this time. and as i put down the letter-i was okay. no heart sinking tears dropped from my lids. partially exhausted from spending time in the library- my new home- but, more because i was proud i applied. setting my goal outside my arms outstretched and did it. even if no was not part of my perfectly sculpted plan. and part of me knew that i would get my turn, my yes. there was no devastation.

probably because me and rejection letters go way back. and every time i get one. i have got one. i get an acceptance soon after in my mailbox. harvard rejected me, but a few days later there sat my columbia acceptance- my first lesson in the bittersweetness of rejection and the importance of not being first in line. my first job interview out of grad school was a no, but the next one was a yes. when i got laid off (for the first time), i had the luck to have a new job in a week. when i got laid off (the second time), i was able to explore what being outside a cubicle and tied to computer could feel like. the gift of no, gave me the gift of what i really wanted. when applying to grad school for the 2nd time (similar to the first time) first letter: rejection from san francisco state and soon following a second letter: acceptance from usf.

see some people don't have rejection letters. they don't get them. they don't touch. they don't see them. and if they do they don't talk about them. others have a novel of no's. my rejection letters are proof i took a chance, i take chances. and maybe there is solace in knowing that there is letter making its way now, in a way i don't expect, to me, telling me it's my turn. and on that note, here is my piece on birth, or rebirth as it may seem. all my thanks as always!

Birth. Today as the world birthed a new day. It let the sun it held in its grasp of clouds-darkish and puffy and wind- fast quick and flipping over of things- go. The rain weeped for too long, they held onto it and let it go slowly first allowing it to peek through the companions of the clouds. And then standing on its own- sun gave birth to this new spring day. As the wind from the rolled down window breaths my face relaxed and the music plays. It slows it all down to a pace that is liveable. Sun beating on this car desperately needing to be cleaned, two tables in the back seat- new to me- old to someone else- yoga clothes still mildly sticky shape my body. I turn the mirror down to see my face and as I do I see in the reflection a man staring at me as I do my daily multiple a day check in- what we are facing in this mirror. I quickly feel self conscious. And look away. His bar towel sways back and forth in the movement of his diagonal cross against this street. He turns his face. Covered in sun. And looks at me.

Birthed today was the beginning of the rebirth. Not by choice. Not by accident. But as this new day delivers a new start, a new chance. Again. The flowers begin their outer movement blooming- they have already bloomed this season in confusion of seasons not behaving properly-but the stretch will again begin. And how much easier it is to walk when the sun welcomes you outside. The delivery of a seasonal disorder lamp no longer needed. Lightness I feel as I step and drive.

And this sunny day. Stops me. From the sadness that was. Its not just the sun. We have to practice. And I do know. I started off this morning. This monday morning pressing snooze twice but willing myself to leave the comfort of my bed. Starting with half a piece of toast with peanut butter, ¾ glass of water, and half a cup of coffee and outside to the yoga class. The sun welcomed me home. As I stretched and pulled and breathed and let go where I could and held what I can. Eating an apple in between locations to my therapist. Because seeing the sun. Seeing the light. The rebirthing. The getting another chance takes practice. And practice I do. How to believe in the growth of me. The sun. The spring. The men giving more notice. All help. But empty is this walk of life without the practice and standing on tip toes and falling over.

It takes practice to become who you are. It takes practice to let yourself be you. Practice that can't be read in books or provided in osmosis. Oh but you wish. It takes work. But the sun will push you along your way. And the eyes will smile at you slowly cheering you on. And the hum you hear in your head might not need to be shared. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. The birth of me. The reminder of it. Doesn't just happen on my birthday. But everyday.

changing how it turns out- but i still want another line as i walk upon it

Changing how it turned out. I didn't know how it would turn out yet. But I had pieced together snapshots of scenes in my mini series of my mind. A melodrama of my heart and hope for the future. The qualities I liked in him played perfectly in this short by me. See I have a girlhood crush syndrome that my early 30s hasn't seemed to break. I get crushes on strangers. On the barista. On the neighbor. On the friend. On the dude I made out with once. Excitement from the first time, the first time feeling the taste of infatuation dances around me as I skip on the way home. I can't shake the excitement I feel for someone in the beginning. The beginning of anything. It might be my favorite part of it all.

I guess part of my giddiness is for the lightness I feel for the real thing. The real thing that does warm me beyond the beginning to the depths of companionship. I used to fall hard and fast but took a vacation from the every moving fast bullet train to the very slow one making every stop. And it first it was fine. It was okay. But boredom started to seep in through my pores. I still wanted adventure. I still wanted intrigue. I still wanted to feel my heart pump with excitement. The slow train was slow. And I wanted more. But how to walk of the line of want I want long term and what I desire short term? Can I have both the excitement and stability as I walk on this tightrope of love with my heart jumping in and out of my chest to my sleeve and back again?

I don't know. But I do know. I need vacations. Vacations from the slow train. I pull the stop and jump out and try something new. Unplanned and spontaneous. And so easy just to be. And then I feel the warmth of another around me soothing the need for now. But later as the scenes of the future play out. Sometimes I want more scenes. I want more snapshots. And I can't help but wonder how it will turn out. In thinking about it, can I change how it will? Or the faith I feel in things coming together allows me not to change anything at all. See sometimes you meet someone while on vacation from the things you are supposed to be doing that makes the excitement and wonder grow inside as you think what will be next. For you. For him. And the excitement tastes good and I force myself not to wonder how it will turn out. Or to change the ending. I just want another line. Another paragraph. Another chapter. Of this book.

the mini-series of urbanity: my tiny window to the world seen through my stoop

What she got out of it was the world can be seen from her stoop. For the duration of half a burrito, swimming in extra green sauce with avocado her favorite green stuff, and the reminiscence of an ice coffee slurped through a straw sitting next to one of her closest friends, she had seen more and a lot in the last few moments. She and her sit together their bodies curve the shape of the stairs both residing on the 4th step, the top. Legs outstretched and covered by additional jackets for the breeze of a san francisco evening has begun. They sit perched in their own picture window to ebb and flow of urban life.

A man and woman walked by with in unison towards valencia to the right. The man carrying a surf board. The woman carrying a overstuffed bag. Next three runners in varying heights and in varying gender and a similar slender build run by. One of the girls recognize them but it is too late, they are gone. They return to the back and forth of bench time now no longer on a bench but a stoop. The catching up of life of work of love of dreams of all of it. Until the next image swirls by again. A smallish asian women with a pack of yap dogs start going crazy upon seeing another breed. She stands still with the barking mob mentality until they pass. Owner of other breed and friend laugh at the ferocious brawl. Small creatures barking like it might be their last. Then the roommate of one of the girls comes out of the house to talk of lost cats and happy hours pending and birthdays to celebrate. And then she is gone.

There is then space to just watch and see the glisten of the sun as it begins to dive to to the depths of the earth. The light is diagonal on top of the building makes the pastel painted projects look new. She and her look to the left and see a man, a man who looks at them and makes eye contact but not in a checking you out kind of fashion, eyes that are waiting to do something. And she turns to her and glance away. There is a pop. And a look to the left and there stand the shortish man around manhood stabs the tire again. The air releases out. He never looks at them again. And runs around the corner. What to do when you see a man pop tires of a family who parked not but a few minutes earlier? Random. Or not. What to do? When someone has a knife and long gone? Pause. A man and woman walks by the woman with a guitar the electric variety hugging her hip.

Until a car double parks light pulsing in and out until one, two, three women walk the red carpet home. Two of the three dressed in vibrance of colors of wigs of high heels and intoxicated in laughter. Two drag queens her neighbors are home. And in as the sun sets and the burrito foil is wrapped and as the two stand up again what she got out of it the world could be seen from her stoop. A few steps outside her home. She could sit there and observe it all. And how quickly she can turn around and open the door and go back inside. Deciding again when to come and sit and observe the picture window of her own making. Her own show of urbanity.