Boston, MA
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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