I went to dinner at Zante's with Patricia and her mother tonight. Patty's been contemplating an East Bay move and followed her gut to sign a lease just last week. Now she's reversed her plan, but can't rescind the offer cause her signature binds her to a year in the new place. So I've been checking in with her regularly, trying to support her decision-making about how to spill the least amount of energy and money to retain her home. She's trying to vacate our old apartment, temporarily, by subletting for a month, enough time to find new tenants for the East Bay house.
This brings me to some pangs about San Francisco. As I walked from Valencia to Shotwell on Thursday night, aiming to drop by 3052 for a visit with P, I passed by the old mortuary parking lot. I thought about Alex, how she used to park her Suburu there, before the owners sold the lot to a dot.com eager to tow anyone desperate enough to forsake psychic law by parking so close to dead people. I flashed on good times in that car, late night talks with my two housemates, photographic images from three years ago flashing in my mind's eye while I walked. 3052 memories have become unbearable, because they're so good, so purely about living a dreamlife in San Francisco. As I veer toward 30, I can't stand remembering how perfect I felt living our mid-20s together.
I feel now what I imagine my French family felt when I left Paris 7 years ago. Alex left for NY, with Julia following close behind, and at the time I couldn't feel the depth of losing that era of discovery. Now that P is moving, or at least stationing herself for a month in Oakland, the pangs of losing my one-time home have come back. As I walked to Shotwell, all I could do was breathe deep, because the immensity and privilege of such grief can't be fathomed by words or thoughts.
Remembering the sage Alex gave me, the early morning attention Patty paid me, the hours decorating for parties, hearing their music through the bottom of my door, witnessing one another search for love in this city known for its lure of fulfillment, all these bits of the past four years condense. What I know of myself hasn't changed a lot between now and then, but my ardent pursuit of love has. I've been resigned to a personal history and often fatalistic prognosis of what more I can glean from San Francisco. But remembering what we all shared together in that apartment inexplicably wipes the slate clean; the passion of burning candles and making my home the expression of an inner drive for peace has come back.
I know we'll never live together again like we did then, and even that the end of our time together was painfully fraught with inane conflict, but Alex and Patricia and that apartment have indelibly marked me with a will to live my life in the company of good people. After a year of wandering aimlessly, I remember what I used to feel, walking home to Shotwell, that feeling that we'll gather again tonight, seeking the wisdom of an oracle in each other's words.
This brings me to some pangs about San Francisco. As I walked from Valencia to Shotwell on Thursday night, aiming to drop by 3052 for a visit with P, I passed by the old mortuary parking lot. I thought about Alex, how she used to park her Suburu there, before the owners sold the lot to a dot.com eager to tow anyone desperate enough to forsake psychic law by parking so close to dead people. I flashed on good times in that car, late night talks with my two housemates, photographic images from three years ago flashing in my mind's eye while I walked. 3052 memories have become unbearable, because they're so good, so purely about living a dreamlife in San Francisco. As I veer toward 30, I can't stand remembering how perfect I felt living our mid-20s together.
I feel now what I imagine my French family felt when I left Paris 7 years ago. Alex left for NY, with Julia following close behind, and at the time I couldn't feel the depth of losing that era of discovery. Now that P is moving, or at least stationing herself for a month in Oakland, the pangs of losing my one-time home have come back. As I walked to Shotwell, all I could do was breathe deep, because the immensity and privilege of such grief can't be fathomed by words or thoughts.
Remembering the sage Alex gave me, the early morning attention Patty paid me, the hours decorating for parties, hearing their music through the bottom of my door, witnessing one another search for love in this city known for its lure of fulfillment, all these bits of the past four years condense. What I know of myself hasn't changed a lot between now and then, but my ardent pursuit of love has. I've been resigned to a personal history and often fatalistic prognosis of what more I can glean from San Francisco. But remembering what we all shared together in that apartment inexplicably wipes the slate clean; the passion of burning candles and making my home the expression of an inner drive for peace has come back.
I know we'll never live together again like we did then, and even that the end of our time together was painfully fraught with inane conflict, but Alex and Patricia and that apartment have indelibly marked me with a will to live my life in the company of good people. After a year of wandering aimlessly, I remember what I used to feel, walking home to Shotwell, that feeling that we'll gather again tonight, seeking the wisdom of an oracle in each other's words.
posted by barn | 9:33 PM
