Down the block lives an old homebound woman who sits at the window all day and watches people go by in the neighborhood. I've passed her by many times but only walked by without acknowledging her with a smile or a wave hello. The other day I finally did wave to her, and her countenance changed instantly: she smiled and nodded back. Now I feel like visiting her, listen to her talk about the many years of her life, let her re-live again her many decades of, I'm sure, loyal service to her neighborhood, family and country. Perhaps my doing so will make her feel alive again; vital and wanted, involved, protected and safe. Perhaps if I visit her and give her the chance to show her nobility, grace and strength, she'll feel her beauty once again.
An afterthought:
When I moved into my grandparent's home on Hayes Street in San Francisco in 1982, I felt uneasy then, too. After a couple months, I had a "sign" that I should be comfortable. I had a dream that grandma came back to life to visit me. We had a chat in the kitchen about whatever. When I woke up, I never again felt uneasy about living in my grandparents' house. It was as if (certainly the effect was as if) grandma had told me that it was alright for me to live there; that I needn't feel uneasy about living in "their" home.
The point is that whenever I move to some new place (if I feel uncomfortable there), I need to have some kind of "sign" to put me at ease.
13 November 1997 (2)
I've been here about a month, and I'm just now beginning to feel comfortable: settled in to my room as though it's a home, and into the neighborhood as though I'm now allowed to stay; welcomed into the neighborhood not necessarily by the people, but by the streets, the buildings, the air.
Oddly, it was only when I began to sense that I was now familiar to the residents here that I became aware of what the situation was before: all eyes upon me, a curious and suspicious character; a stranger who needed to be watched. It was only when they relaxed toward me that I realized the personality of the neighborhood toward newcomers. But now that I sense that they are changing, I now notice from what they are now changing. This is definitely a neighborhood where you should talk to your neighbors.
Though this sort of scrutiny can feel daunting, I must say that I admire it. Instead of feeling my personal doings intruded upon - my own business interfered with by people who have no business in my business - through this sense of the neighbors monitoring my comings and goings, I perceive a sense of community that I've never felt in San Francisco. There, espying neighbors would be thought of as snoops; here, people are simply demonstrating the sense of nativism that transient San Franciscans only pretend to have.
When San Franciscans say "neighborhood," they refer only to the overall personality of the district as arises out of the type of shops and the general class of people who live there, not to any active participation with or concern for each other. (And when San Franciscans say "community," they mean a political group who share narrowly-defined interests, regardless of in what "neighborhoods" all members of that group live.)
Funny, I hadn't begun to feel any of this until I brought home this old chair that I'm now sitting in. I took in the chair, gave it a new home, and now the neighborhood is giving me the same. It's true: you get what you give.
Oddly, it was only when I began to sense that I was now familiar to the residents here that I became aware of what the situation was before: all eyes upon me, a curious and suspicious character; a stranger who needed to be watched. It was only when they relaxed toward me that I realized the personality of the neighborhood toward newcomers. But now that I sense that they are changing, I now notice from what they are now changing. This is definitely a neighborhood where you should talk to your neighbors.
Though this sort of scrutiny can feel daunting, I must say that I admire it. Instead of feeling my personal doings intruded upon - my own business interfered with by people who have no business in my business - through this sense of the neighbors monitoring my comings and goings, I perceive a sense of community that I've never felt in San Francisco. There, espying neighbors would be thought of as snoops; here, people are simply demonstrating the sense of nativism that transient San Franciscans only pretend to have.
When San Franciscans say "neighborhood," they refer only to the overall personality of the district as arises out of the type of shops and the general class of people who live there, not to any active participation with or concern for each other. (And when San Franciscans say "community," they mean a political group who share narrowly-defined interests, regardless of in what "neighborhoods" all members of that group live.)
Funny, I hadn't begun to feel any of this until I brought home this old chair that I'm now sitting in. I took in the chair, gave it a new home, and now the neighborhood is giving me the same. It's true: you get what you give.
13 November 1997 (1)
I'm sitting here in my tiny bedroom off the kitchen in my antique chair that I trash-picked off the streetcorner of Prescott and Princeton a couple blocks away (I was returning from a minutes-before-midnight CD purchase of the Brahms Trios). Here in Boston, residents don't need to hang on to their junk until they can get 'hold of a truck to load up and take everything to the dumps: just put everything out on the sidewalk and the trashmen will pick it up and haul it off. As people put out their unwanted items the night before collection, scavenging in the middle of the night can result in some nice finds.
After weaving myself up and down and across the streets of my neighborhood, on the corner of Prescott and Princeton I found a beautiful old chair. Just sitting there alone in the cold in the dark, I fell in love with it on first sight. Solid hardwood frame, stained dark, carved ornamentation along the top edge, woven cane enclosing the sides from below the arms to the seat, the seat and back upholstered in a fabric whose once-satiny sheen is now as muted as its green color.
It was about 2:00am when I fought to carry this wide chair through the narrow front door with only with a few bangs into walls that, I asked the next day, did wake up some people in the building.
So now here I sit in the chair, in my bedroom off the kitchen, ready to write some letters and do some writing.
After weaving myself up and down and across the streets of my neighborhood, on the corner of Prescott and Princeton I found a beautiful old chair. Just sitting there alone in the cold in the dark, I fell in love with it on first sight. Solid hardwood frame, stained dark, carved ornamentation along the top edge, woven cane enclosing the sides from below the arms to the seat, the seat and back upholstered in a fabric whose once-satiny sheen is now as muted as its green color.
It was about 2:00am when I fought to carry this wide chair through the narrow front door with only with a few bangs into walls that, I asked the next day, did wake up some people in the building.
So now here I sit in the chair, in my bedroom off the kitchen, ready to write some letters and do some writing.
9 November 1997
Spent this very rainy morning watching the taxingly-long 1962 film of Eugene O'Neill's A Long Day's Journey Into Night. The story of an alcoholic has-been; an alcoholic wannabe; another character dying of consumption and a drug-addicted mother. Cheery. The mother in the story takes morphine to forget the present and to live in the dreams of her past (dreams which she would have been unable to acheive, given her lack of any talent).
I came away from this film with only this: pain comes out of unfulfilled dreams, and dreams never pan out, so why bother ever having dreams at all or ever trying? Just live for the moment (that is, without dreams or aspirations): take morphine or whiskey if it lightens the time you are cursed to be alive until that day when you finally die.
If ever there was a story to influence one to become a homeless bum, this is it. What a waste of a fine rainy morning...
After watching this depressing movie....I went out about 9:30pm. I just wandered the dark and empty streets of rainy Boston until 2:00am
I felt like meeting some seedy people for some seamy night-life. I wandered into a dive bar: I had only just stepped in, saw a few people, including a number of drag queens, and left. I wandered into a porno shop and looked at the nasty pictures on the video boxes. When I left there, I walked over to the Blue Line subway station (a few blocks away) and I got off at Maverick Station and walked from there all the way into Chelsea (up to Bellingham Square).
On my way back toward Eastie, I saw an old man "choose" a handsome young hispanic man who had been standing on a streetcorner. I just happened to follow behind them as they walked to their loveshack. Along my way, a very drunk hispanic man who had been standing in a doorway talking loudly to no one nodded to me and said, I think, some kind of come-hither comment in slurred drunken spanish. This must be some kind of gay pick-up area of town.
I continued on and eventually got over the McArdle bridge back into Eastie, but I didn't go right home. In the light rain, I walked around and poked into people's garbage, looking for some reasonably good-condition nightstand for beside my bed (I'm using a cardboard box now).
It is now 2:56am, and I'm beginning to fall asleep as I write. I'm getting a headache, and there'll be awakening noises beginning at 6:30am which I know I'll not be able to sleep through...
I came away from this film with only this: pain comes out of unfulfilled dreams, and dreams never pan out, so why bother ever having dreams at all or ever trying? Just live for the moment (that is, without dreams or aspirations): take morphine or whiskey if it lightens the time you are cursed to be alive until that day when you finally die.
If ever there was a story to influence one to become a homeless bum, this is it. What a waste of a fine rainy morning...
After watching this depressing movie....I went out about 9:30pm. I just wandered the dark and empty streets of rainy Boston until 2:00am
I felt like meeting some seedy people for some seamy night-life. I wandered into a dive bar: I had only just stepped in, saw a few people, including a number of drag queens, and left. I wandered into a porno shop and looked at the nasty pictures on the video boxes. When I left there, I walked over to the Blue Line subway station (a few blocks away) and I got off at Maverick Station and walked from there all the way into Chelsea (up to Bellingham Square).
On my way back toward Eastie, I saw an old man "choose" a handsome young hispanic man who had been standing on a streetcorner. I just happened to follow behind them as they walked to their loveshack. Along my way, a very drunk hispanic man who had been standing in a doorway talking loudly to no one nodded to me and said, I think, some kind of come-hither comment in slurred drunken spanish. This must be some kind of gay pick-up area of town.
I continued on and eventually got over the McArdle bridge back into Eastie, but I didn't go right home. In the light rain, I walked around and poked into people's garbage, looking for some reasonably good-condition nightstand for beside my bed (I'm using a cardboard box now).
It is now 2:56am, and I'm beginning to fall asleep as I write. I'm getting a headache, and there'll be awakening noises beginning at 6:30am which I know I'll not be able to sleep through...
8 November 1997
A rainy night here in Boston, and I'm listening to a live broadcast of the Boston Symphony on the radio (Classical station: WCRB 102.5 FM). Andrew Davis guest conducting; Murray Perrahia, piano, in Mozart's Piano Concerto #24.
There are few things more gratifying in this world than giving yourself the time to stretch out, relax, and listen - really LISTEN, not just 'hear' - a great piece of classical music...
There are few things more gratifying in this world than giving yourself the time to stretch out, relax, and listen - really LISTEN, not just 'hear' - a great piece of classical music...
7 November 1997
This morning [my long-time friend] Michael said that back in our Hayes Street days (about 1983), I was "less present" than I am now.
I interpreted this to mean that back then I had less of a "personality" or "identity;" that I had not developed into my own person with interests and opinions, etc. Micheal says that this was only a piece of it; also that I am now much more accessable (interpersonally). That back then I was much more defensive and private (but he understands, given what I grew up with, how I would have developed into such a closed and private person).
Michael says that people need to earn their faces and bodies, that at some time they grow into them. Which reminds me of that quote from one of my favorite photographers, Henri Cartier-Bresson: "At some age, everyone gets the face they deserve."
I interpreted this to mean that back then I had less of a "personality" or "identity;" that I had not developed into my own person with interests and opinions, etc. Micheal says that this was only a piece of it; also that I am now much more accessable (interpersonally). That back then I was much more defensive and private (but he understands, given what I grew up with, how I would have developed into such a closed and private person).
Michael says that people need to earn their faces and bodies, that at some time they grow into them. Which reminds me of that quote from one of my favorite photographers, Henri Cartier-Bresson: "At some age, everyone gets the face they deserve."
30 October 1997
8:22am: I'm listening-in to ham radio operators on my shortwave radio (14270 KHz):
Two old men discuss young people today and retirement tomorrow:
Man One: A plan for retirement: the government sends you a tin cup.
Man Two: When you ask an employer today what retirement plans they offer, they say, "You know that cemetary just outside of town..."
Two old men discuss young people today and retirement tomorrow:
Man One: A plan for retirement: the government sends you a tin cup.
Man Two: When you ask an employer today what retirement plans they offer, they say, "You know that cemetary just outside of town..."
26 October 1997
Listening to an old LP of Pearl Bailey.
I came into childhood "consciousness" in the 1960s seeing Pearl Bailey on TV shows and I liked her. Little did I know then that I was coming into her life toward the end of her already long career.
I came into childhood "consciousness" in the 1960s seeing Pearl Bailey on TV shows and I liked her. Little did I know then that I was coming into her life toward the end of her already long career.
25 October 1997 (1)
First rain. Winter coming.
Sitting at the kitchen table next to the back porch windows: grey cold, wet outside. Inside: vintage aluminum pot o' coffee brewing, Miles Davis "Kind of Blue" CD playing.
I had a dream last night: writers should listen to music that arouses emotion in them. Then [sit and think about] why they feel this emotion, and then write about it. Music as a source of inspiration for emotional episodes. I'm not talking major break -downs and -throughs, but just enough music to evoke feelings. Feelings to be explored for memories.
The other day I thought that, at 38 years old, I have now lived exactly half of my life without my grandmother being alive, and that I don't want to get any older because the thought of living a life more years without my grandmother than with her is too sad a life to live.
Sitting at the kitchen table next to the back porch windows: grey cold, wet outside. Inside: vintage aluminum pot o' coffee brewing, Miles Davis "Kind of Blue" CD playing.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
I had a dream last night: writers should listen to music that arouses emotion in them. Then [sit and think about] why they feel this emotion, and then write about it. Music as a source of inspiration for emotional episodes. I'm not talking major break -downs and -throughs, but just enough music to evoke feelings. Feelings to be explored for memories.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
The other day I thought that, at 38 years old, I have now lived exactly half of my life without my grandmother being alive, and that I don't want to get any older because the thought of living a life more years without my grandmother than with her is too sad a life to live.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Having no job, days seem shorter. I get up at 9:00ish, have a casual breakfast and eventually take a casual shower. Then I find that it's 2:00 or 3:00pm before I get out of the house after having also done some casual bit of business (phone calls, this n that paperwork, etc). For example, today I got up and had breakfast with Michael. Now it's after 4:00pm! And what have I done? It seems that I have been sitting here writing letters and journal entries. Time has been zipping by at twice its regular speed. This has shocking implications if carried-over thoughout one's lifetime.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Jazz played 'round midnight has a sultry sound.
Every hour of a rainy day feels 'round midnight.
Every hour of a rainy day feels 'round midnight.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
25 October 1997 (2)
East Boston
The same day, I also thought about San Francisco where people live more freely than anywhere. Somehow, an all-emcompassing "rule" established itself in San Francisco wherein it is allowed, accepted and even expected that people will be allowed to do (nearly) whatever they want. And when they do, a law will be established, either written or unwritten, to allow them to do so.
In other parts of the world, if someone did the free things people do in San Francisco, the reaction would be, "What?! Do you think that you can do whatever you want?" San Francisco is the great experiment, the great social laboratory for testing far-out ideas. In San Francisco, people live out these ideas as lifestyles. It's as if San Francisco is the test tube into which the rest of the world throws its ingredients for wild ideas and then awaits the results. Afterward, in places outside San Francisco, those ingredients are added to the local social mix in less amounts so the same social effect can be achieved, but to a more acceptable (that is, not radical) degree.
Thinking About San Francisco
The same day, I also thought about San Francisco where people live more freely than anywhere. Somehow, an all-emcompassing "rule" established itself in San Francisco wherein it is allowed, accepted and even expected that people will be allowed to do (nearly) whatever they want. And when they do, a law will be established, either written or unwritten, to allow them to do so.
In other parts of the world, if someone did the free things people do in San Francisco, the reaction would be, "What?! Do you think that you can do whatever you want?" San Francisco is the great experiment, the great social laboratory for testing far-out ideas. In San Francisco, people live out these ideas as lifestyles. It's as if San Francisco is the test tube into which the rest of the world throws its ingredients for wild ideas and then awaits the results. Afterward, in places outside San Francisco, those ingredients are added to the local social mix in less amounts so the same social effect can be achieved, but to a more acceptable (that is, not radical) degree.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
There is something to be said for social regulation by law and by peers: it keeps people in agreement on mores and values, keeping the peace and allowing everyone to get on with other matters.
Durkheim warned of such unchecked freedoms as are allowed in San Francisco. Boundless freedoms create unwieldly, unacheivable expectations in people. Unrestricted freedoms (of thought, too) allows peoples' wants to grow beyond possibility, creating a vehicle for failure, disappointment and depression. And anger, I would add: where freedoms are most greatly allowed, most greatly expected, then even the smallest infractions appear as great felonies. Also, where a premise of freedom is established but never clearly stated (the unwritten "rule of freedom" remains an unconscious understanding), then perceived restrictions to this freedom are confronted by peoples' likewise non-specific (unconscious) anger. Non-specified anger toward non-specified targets for transgressions of an un-written (but unconsciously assumed) right. This works like monster movies of the 1950s: their creation, as a genre, was to give a face to the non-specific feelings of myriad changes in the world post WWII which collectively must have felt like some great interference with the old known world order. Monsters were the face given to these feelings of change to what used to be a familiar world.
Durkheim warned of such unchecked freedoms as are allowed in San Francisco. Boundless freedoms create unwieldly, unacheivable expectations in people. Unrestricted freedoms (of thought, too) allows peoples' wants to grow beyond possibility, creating a vehicle for failure, disappointment and depression. And anger, I would add: where freedoms are most greatly allowed, most greatly expected, then even the smallest infractions appear as great felonies. Also, where a premise of freedom is established but never clearly stated (the unwritten "rule of freedom" remains an unconscious understanding), then perceived restrictions to this freedom are confronted by peoples' likewise non-specific (unconscious) anger. Non-specified anger toward non-specified targets for transgressions of an un-written (but unconsciously assumed) right. This works like monster movies of the 1950s: their creation, as a genre, was to give a face to the non-specific feelings of myriad changes in the world post WWII which collectively must have felt like some great interference with the old known world order. Monsters were the face given to these feelings of change to what used to be a familiar world.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
15 October 1997
Boston, MA
30 September 1997 was my last day living on _____ Street in San Francisco. That evening, dad picked me up and brought me to his house for a few days, until I flew out to Massachusetts on Sunday 5 October.
On Friday 3 October mom came over to dad's to see me before I left. Mom, dad and I took a drive through the Russian River area. It reminded me of my childhood when I would go to The River with them. In fact, I had the craving for a softee ice cream cone, which I often had as a child during the summers up at The River.
We stopped at the cabins, and of all the "things" I knew I would be leaving behind when I moved east, the cabins - specifically, the "apple tree" cabin - are the one that made my heart ache. There I find comfort, relaxation: the cabins are a safe haven from life. In recent years, especially (when life has turned frustrating and depressive), I found that the cabins provided exactly those things that I could not find in the city: time, nature (inspiration) and quiet. While at the cabins I was at my own place; no roommates making noise and demands; no telephones with people (and their in-need personalities) on the other end; no job to go to (to interrupt the doing of my interests at my own pace (rather than, when not on vacation from a job, doing my interests within a certain short time period, like a few crammed hours after work)). In the cabins all frustration fell away because I would be able to live my life as I wanted to live it: walking among nature, listening to music, writing, etc. Only these things and nothing more.
My parents and I then went to The Sizzler restaurant, a place that as a child I always thought a treat to go to with my parents. Dinner at The Sizzler was always a special occasion.
Mom spent the night in a motel, and dad and I went back to his house (no longer could we continue to live as a family buy all staying under one roof when a couple are divorced and the man has his second wife living at home. So mom had to stay elsewhere.
Mom was at dad's house before I got up the next morning. (Of course the idea passed through my head if they had secretly met during the night and so now here she is already.) Mom said she was bored at the motel. We went out to a country (read: high-fat) buffet breakfast at a local restaurant in Santa Rosa. Afterward, we went back to dad's house and mom soon left to return home to Sacramento.
On Sunday, before driving me to the airport, dad and I went to uncle George and Aunt Toddy's house (who live in Pacifica, and so is a direct hop over to SFO). We went to a nearby chinese restaurant for dinner, and then dad, George and I hustled over to the airport in dad's truck, the three of us laughing at some guy-joke on the way.
I checked in, checked my two bags, and then we sat and waited until closer to the time when I had to go into the "gate" area to get onto the plane. At that time, and when we said our goodbyes, dad had tears in his eyes (they were just welling, not flowing). I was ready to go and he grabbed me once more and kissed my cheek.
The leg of the flight from SFO to Denver was smooth. Denver's new airport (just a couple years in operation) is beautiful, clean and efficient. The flight from Denver to Boston was also as smooth as could be. Both arrivals were, in fact, early. Even my luggage successfully transferred to the second plane at Denver, and arrived safely in Boston.
This being a "red-eye" flight (leave SFO @ 8:30pm, arrive Boston 7:00am the next morning), I had planned to sleep on the Denver-->Boston lef of the flight. I slept maybe one hour, between approximately Chicago and Boston. From appproximately Iowa or Kansas, or wherever (west of Chicago), I began to look out the airplane window down at the cities (clusters of lights) and I looked to the eastern horizon for the first glow of sunrise.
It was at about this time that I really started to feel the frightening irreversability of this big step I was taking. I had quit my job, given up my apartment, and I was going to a place where I had nothing. In Boston, I'd have to start from scratch. True, I had a place to stay, which was one of the very reasons for going to Boston: to stay with my brilliantly creative friend Michael for a time; but I would have nothing else. Nothing but my own choices. But that's a good feeling.
I had waves of a frightened "non-existence" for a couple days after I had arrived; now (15 october 1997) I feel only the opportunity to make my choices, which I am anxious to set into motion because I am beginning to feel bored (and a bit guilty for my non-action) now that Michael has returned to work after his week off (leaving me alone at my new home). I do have some errands to run, to get myself settled in, but these can't keep me busy forever.
Funny, I find myself wanting to buy things: I think that material possessions will make me feel settled, comfortable, as if in a home of my own design. But I should probably avoid doing this: having "things" to play with or use only robs me of time I came here to have - like at the Russian River cabins - to pursue the things I want to pursue (writing, voiceover, acting, perhaps school, etc).
I want to run up to Salem, MA (home of the witch hunts and burnings of lore) to "do" some Halloween events (the perfect place for Halloween, I imagine!). I want, also, to rent a thousand movies and just sit all day to watch them. While these two things (just two examples of many things I'd like to do) might give me experiences and put my mind into the "artistic" mood, I still should focus on DOING the intended other things first, rather than plan those activities as primary, and leave writing, and such, as secondary. Shame on me.
Though I am spending time today writing these thoughts, I just wish to heavens that I could (notice the word "could," not "would"), instead, write some kind of story. I desperately need to get into a writing class that will force me to write a story instead of all this "journal-istic" stuff that I do exclusively. Or I need to get onto an internet writing class, or at the very least I need to get a book on writing.
As I pause there a moment to think about writing, I think that I would have to write very simple stories. That is, they could be full-length, but without lots of plot configurations; that is, if I were to write a movie, I would keep my premise very simple, as in a Kurosawa script, instead of, for example, the convolutions of a storyline as complex as the films LA Confidential or The Usual Suspects. I suspect that I am not a plot person, but a detail person. As in the very simple story of the Yasujiro Ozu film, Tokyo Story. A very simple story, told in beautiful detail. Yes, that's more my style. Beautiful brush strokes, not a lot of detail.
But now, I must go do some errands.
Later, 'round midnight:
On my way to do some errands I stopped at the library and picked up a book on creative writing. Already it has given me good advice (about describing with the senses, not telling the facts.
A dream I had a couple nights ago: I dreamed that when I awoke one morning I found that my buttocks was now on my front where my crotch should be. My reaction upon seeing this was the thought that, "Oh well, at least now it'll be easier for me to wipe my butt."
Moving From San Francisco; Settling In in Boston
30 September 1997 was my last day living on _____ Street in San Francisco. That evening, dad picked me up and brought me to his house for a few days, until I flew out to Massachusetts on Sunday 5 October.
On Friday 3 October mom came over to dad's to see me before I left. Mom, dad and I took a drive through the Russian River area. It reminded me of my childhood when I would go to The River with them. In fact, I had the craving for a softee ice cream cone, which I often had as a child during the summers up at The River.
We stopped at the cabins, and of all the "things" I knew I would be leaving behind when I moved east, the cabins - specifically, the "apple tree" cabin - are the one that made my heart ache. There I find comfort, relaxation: the cabins are a safe haven from life. In recent years, especially (when life has turned frustrating and depressive), I found that the cabins provided exactly those things that I could not find in the city: time, nature (inspiration) and quiet. While at the cabins I was at my own place; no roommates making noise and demands; no telephones with people (and their in-need personalities) on the other end; no job to go to (to interrupt the doing of my interests at my own pace (rather than, when not on vacation from a job, doing my interests within a certain short time period, like a few crammed hours after work)). In the cabins all frustration fell away because I would be able to live my life as I wanted to live it: walking among nature, listening to music, writing, etc. Only these things and nothing more.
My parents and I then went to The Sizzler restaurant, a place that as a child I always thought a treat to go to with my parents. Dinner at The Sizzler was always a special occasion.
Mom spent the night in a motel, and dad and I went back to his house (no longer could we continue to live as a family buy all staying under one roof when a couple are divorced and the man has his second wife living at home. So mom had to stay elsewhere.
Mom was at dad's house before I got up the next morning. (Of course the idea passed through my head if they had secretly met during the night and so now here she is already.) Mom said she was bored at the motel. We went out to a country (read: high-fat) buffet breakfast at a local restaurant in Santa Rosa. Afterward, we went back to dad's house and mom soon left to return home to Sacramento.
On Sunday, before driving me to the airport, dad and I went to uncle George and Aunt Toddy's house (who live in Pacifica, and so is a direct hop over to SFO). We went to a nearby chinese restaurant for dinner, and then dad, George and I hustled over to the airport in dad's truck, the three of us laughing at some guy-joke on the way.
I checked in, checked my two bags, and then we sat and waited until closer to the time when I had to go into the "gate" area to get onto the plane. At that time, and when we said our goodbyes, dad had tears in his eyes (they were just welling, not flowing). I was ready to go and he grabbed me once more and kissed my cheek.
The leg of the flight from SFO to Denver was smooth. Denver's new airport (just a couple years in operation) is beautiful, clean and efficient. The flight from Denver to Boston was also as smooth as could be. Both arrivals were, in fact, early. Even my luggage successfully transferred to the second plane at Denver, and arrived safely in Boston.
This being a "red-eye" flight (leave SFO @ 8:30pm, arrive Boston 7:00am the next morning), I had planned to sleep on the Denver-->Boston lef of the flight. I slept maybe one hour, between approximately Chicago and Boston. From appproximately Iowa or Kansas, or wherever (west of Chicago), I began to look out the airplane window down at the cities (clusters of lights) and I looked to the eastern horizon for the first glow of sunrise.
It was at about this time that I really started to feel the frightening irreversability of this big step I was taking. I had quit my job, given up my apartment, and I was going to a place where I had nothing. In Boston, I'd have to start from scratch. True, I had a place to stay, which was one of the very reasons for going to Boston: to stay with my brilliantly creative friend Michael for a time; but I would have nothing else. Nothing but my own choices. But that's a good feeling.
I had waves of a frightened "non-existence" for a couple days after I had arrived; now (15 october 1997) I feel only the opportunity to make my choices, which I am anxious to set into motion because I am beginning to feel bored (and a bit guilty for my non-action) now that Michael has returned to work after his week off (leaving me alone at my new home). I do have some errands to run, to get myself settled in, but these can't keep me busy forever.
Funny, I find myself wanting to buy things: I think that material possessions will make me feel settled, comfortable, as if in a home of my own design. But I should probably avoid doing this: having "things" to play with or use only robs me of time I came here to have - like at the Russian River cabins - to pursue the things I want to pursue (writing, voiceover, acting, perhaps school, etc).
I want to run up to Salem, MA (home of the witch hunts and burnings of lore) to "do" some Halloween events (the perfect place for Halloween, I imagine!). I want, also, to rent a thousand movies and just sit all day to watch them. While these two things (just two examples of many things I'd like to do) might give me experiences and put my mind into the "artistic" mood, I still should focus on DOING the intended other things first, rather than plan those activities as primary, and leave writing, and such, as secondary. Shame on me.
Though I am spending time today writing these thoughts, I just wish to heavens that I could (notice the word "could," not "would"), instead, write some kind of story. I desperately need to get into a writing class that will force me to write a story instead of all this "journal-istic" stuff that I do exclusively. Or I need to get onto an internet writing class, or at the very least I need to get a book on writing.
As I pause there a moment to think about writing, I think that I would have to write very simple stories. That is, they could be full-length, but without lots of plot configurations; that is, if I were to write a movie, I would keep my premise very simple, as in a Kurosawa script, instead of, for example, the convolutions of a storyline as complex as the films LA Confidential or The Usual Suspects. I suspect that I am not a plot person, but a detail person. As in the very simple story of the Yasujiro Ozu film, Tokyo Story. A very simple story, told in beautiful detail. Yes, that's more my style. Beautiful brush strokes, not a lot of detail.
But now, I must go do some errands.
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Later, 'round midnight:
On my way to do some errands I stopped at the library and picked up a book on creative writing. Already it has given me good advice (about describing with the senses, not telling the facts.
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A dream I had a couple nights ago: I dreamed that when I awoke one morning I found that my buttocks was now on my front where my crotch should be. My reaction upon seeing this was the thought that, "Oh well, at least now it'll be easier for me to wipe my butt."
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