When I first lived in San Francisco I rented a room out in the Avenues. It was often foggy and cold and damp and miserable. For entertainment, I’d go watch double features at The Balboa. I saw The Rapture there. Mimi Rogers. David Duchovny. The movies were so inexpensive that I would go without reading what the movies were about. Throughout that film I was all, What? What is happening? Deep breath. What the fucking fuck? It was fun.To be so bewildered.
When hungry, I’d get a burrito at Gordo’s up on Clement. Eat delicious Thai food down the street. When looking to read something, I’d visit Green Apple Books which was across the vital threshold separating one part of the city from he other. There was a market up on the corner from my house. I miss having markets on the corner. There was a Catholic school nearby and you could hear the children playing at recess which was a lovely sound. I remember remarking to one of my roommates how delightful I found it. She groaned and said, “I can’t stand it.”
The red dresser on the left there was painted by my Great Uncle Joe who was my father’s uncle. He did it with car paint so it had that fabulous shiny shellac. Look at that old Mac sitting on my desk. The black and white resting screen. I think that was the fish. I still have the desk. My tiny futon bed that I got up on Geary. It just fit one person.
Me. Cat in arms. Pajamas on body. Body in bed. All good things.