Okay, I need to catch up here, on all that I've been doing, but it's also important to me that I convey as best as I can how the hell this all feels, what the hell, in all hell, I'm doing, traveling about everywhere in this unreality, being unemployed and cut loose, far from home, etc. Cuz it's obviously a pretty fucking rare position to be in for most people, unless you're a college kid backpacking, or you have a trust fund and/or you married well.
When you reflect on it, we are all conditioned to play it safe - it's what the vast majority of us do, the vast majority of our lives - we look for, and pursue the safest routes - (and of course, I don't exclude myself from this - I've worked in insurance for 23 straight years, for god's sake). It just strikes me, though, what we potentially miss out on by avoiding risk so continuously, and so strenuously. If I'd followed the script, I'd have missed out on so many amazing things I've seen so far; so many sites and places and experiences - and I'm not even using that last word with a capital "E". I mean, just the experience of walking around in this fucking delightful little neighorhood - there is so much here - just being out in the world and thrusting yourself inside of it - and it just would've been a huge, huge shame, and a hugely big imo unnecessary waste had I not done this ... and I wouldn't even have known it.
If at all possible, and I'm straining believe it or not, to not sound smug or preachy, here - what it comes down to is that I think we fucking well need to do these things. Because, as I keep coming back to - it's all over for us, kerplatt, at a certain point, and there's nothing more. That's fucking IT. We need reminders of that, every day. Safety is dangerous, that way. It can fuck us over, in the end, and there's no fucking going back. Dig this - it's critical: The world doesn't give a rat's ass what you've missed out on - the things you didn't get to do before you die. Doesn't. You are given a certain, entirely random alottment of time, which is promptly and cleanly yanked from you the moment your number's up. End of fucking story.
At the same time, because I'm human and a product of my society, what I'm feeling is that I 'know' I should have been home all this time, looking for work, of course I do, and yet I feel every day like this was the best move I ever made, and thank christ almighty I did it. Phew! I literally can't believe when I think of it, how easily I might not have done this - just like that. It's crazy, cuz I'm truly having a blast - kind of the time of my life. Not to say it isn't a bit lonely, in truth. Every time I hang up the phone, my heart sinks a little. Still, this has been good for me, going out into the world alone, and plus the lonely feeling's usually fleeting. I'm always thankful and grateful to come home to my little Castro flat, god knows, and take a hot bath and blog and watch the local news and local version of Cpsan. I've been reading, in addition to the little local gay and other freebie newspapers and stuff like Out magazine, because of the pretty blonde boy on the cover, (and it's not like I had to seek it out - this mag was displayed at the register of my local grocer, like Newsweek is displayed at home), Tales of the City, the apparent local classic book - it's for sale in practically every store here even though it's old book - 1978. I guess it was a serial in the local newspapers at first, and due to it's popularity, grew into 8 volumes, and was made into a move and a tv series, and the neat thing is, it's completely and entirely SF based - made up entirely of stories of people living in these very neighborhoods - and with each page, I recognize a street name or landmark or neighborhood or bar - and it's so neat. Perfect, light SF reading.
(God almighty, must stop to comment that my fancy cherry colored stacked front loading washer just sang to me. I'm doing the wash, and instead of a loud annoying alarm-clock sound to alert you when it's done, like my, and most washers have, this thing instead plays a brief, pleasant little melody, almost akin to the song the Ice Cream Man's truck plays as he drives through your neighborhood, only it ain't Dixie. When this happened the first time, I couldn't figure out what the fuck it was. I had the windows open and I thought someone's cell phone was going off down on the street.)
Okay, but back to the topic, a moment. When I think about it, the word for what this all feels like is, that I'm floating - meaning, I'm unattached; suspended. Rootless. All in a good way. I wonder what my brain thinks is going on. What the hell is she doing?? Why haven't she worked in 5 weeks?? I'm totally fine with it - I'm loving being incognito, being hidden from myself and my life.
The best thing about this perpetual tourist stuff is that, unlike when you're working and living your normal life, every day in SF is littered with funny and amazing, fairly draw dropping sights, and I'm doing and seeing so much more than I would be a home with my mundane little life that each day seriously feels like fucking three days - in the best possible way, so though I've been here but a week today, it feels like two or three. It's very easy, always, to get acclimated to awesome shit, and that's what's happened. Only problem being, of course, that it will be very, very hard to leave. No question.
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Meanwhile, my only daily concern is sort of constantly monitoring myself, pacing myself so I don't end up sick and worn down - I still have a lot of the trip ahead of me. Next daily concern, is, which neighborhood, national treasure, world renowned site, fab old bookstore of the like we no longer have on the east coast, sidewalk cafe, sweet little neighborhood sans a single chain (other than ever ubiquitous Starbucks), lush city park which doubles as an off-leash dog park and from which there are magnificent views in every direction ... which old church, old hotel, vintage street or cable car, vintage/original still-in-operation movie house to visit?
That one's actually tough. My beloved Castro? Okay, I've been twice, now.
The Clay, over on Fillmore?
The Presidio, way north on Chestnut?
The Balboa, on Balboa, way out west?
The Bridge - just north, on Geary?
Goddamn. Life be tough, here.
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