shoes, sweaters
Tuesday November 25th 2014, 12:04 pm
Filed under: change Tags:

Black ankle boots. Black Docs (10 hole). 2 pairs black Converse. 1 pair green pumas. 3 pairs flip flops. 3 moth eaten sweaters in various wools. All in a large black trash bag.

For the most part, ain’t no thang. But. One pair of boots saw me wed. The Docs have been with me for over 20 years. They’ve seen every place I’ve lived and nearly every city I’ve walked since Christmas 1993. Oh, the stories they could tell. But they’ve been mostly dead for a while, now. More importantly, I got new boots. Next set of stories.



Just Like Moving
Saturday November 22nd 2014, 6:28 pm
Filed under: Berkeley,fall,hangover,HelLA,himself,holidays,memory Tags:

Except, not. But digging through desk drawers of files and rubbish, the final step in getting rid of the desk and reducing my profile to a shelf and a book case. Extracting boxes that lived in the closet, rather needlessly in one case, and a protective sentimentality in the other, both relegated for now to the garage, and then at least one probably moved back to the basement. Where my bicycle will soon no longer live, so that there’s a place to store the stroller easily. Cuz, you know, everyone needs one of those.

Fuckfuckfcukfcukfcukfuck. A shitty lesson this morning, Mozart at speed not at all my thing, and all the more dismaying as I thought I had it much more solidly than I do. Followed by the mild hell of big retail on a weekend during the holidays.

But the other box, with a few pictures (of me in Cardiff, on a visit that hovers around the edges of memory), and a piece about the lack of pictures of me. About Blondie, and the train wreck of a few parties at the delightful coach house I could never really enjoy because I could never really afford to be living in London. The trainwreck that was my life a decade ago, the last few months between submission and the viva make for grim reading. But the reading, which I’ve been doing in between typing these sentences, isn’t really what I wanted to go on about.

WHat was it? Long walks of past selves. Wandering through Berkeley (and wincing at what I thought constituted long. HelLA’s child, indeed), through Oxford. Up and down NY on Christmas day, from starbucks to starbucks for caffeine and warmth. Of walks up various hills to various co-ops, across the Parks and across the Park, past the Mission and past the river. Most of them punctuated by the rhythms of the cigarette, the pause, the infinitely repeated action and like nothing else on earth sound of my zippo. Even as one dog frolicked and gamboled and did all those impossibly joyful dog things that make dogs dogs, and the other trotted along, eyes and nose and mouth open to greet the world avidly, a different long walk. Only two months since long waks in London – the genre isn’t lost, merely adapted to new realities.

And in 4 weeks (fuckfcukfcukfuckfuckfuckfuk) there will be a new reality to long walks with hardware.



shower and champers
Sunday November 09th 2014, 11:39 pm
Filed under: Boozy,family,friends,himself Tags:

Not everyone was there. Hell, not everyone was invited. But for a bunch of adults, drinking and chatting, in a no-fuss no-muss cocktail party, there was an awful lot of love. Too many things to open, though we sampled a few. Some beloved books, a hand-knit hat and blanket. It is rare my heart is full, particularly feeling the presence of those absent, of knowing that people in the UK, NY, AZ, SF are no less supportive than those that happen to be local. The game of proximity, and how it shapes a life or lives.

The room is getting there, major furniture in place, decorations remaining, and the infinite amount of STUFF to be sorted, placed, stored for later or even later than that. Travelling light this is not, but hopefully not full yuppie overcompensation. It may not be a middle ground, but I aspire to vaguely less, to vaguely left, of total contemporary madness.

6 weeks. A handful of pages written, hoping to have more for the inside baseball talk the week after next, circulated, alas, all too soon. But the words will not stop because of his arrival, and though I fear being 20% dumber with exhaustion, and worse, unable to see that that is what has happened, the words, they will not stop.

En masse, gracious. Truly. And we need the promise of the group, of a wildly heterogeneous collection of people from crazy places with crazy stories, to offer that unexpected perspective, richness, fuck it, wisdom, as and when.