fall in the Bay Area

the 31 bus ride to USF from Bart on Market Street, sitting alone and listening to Matt Costa and looking straight on the rainy road to see the strange flooded and crowded streets of the City.

from the tracks there was a hazy fog scattered throughout Berkeley that was denser towards the docks of Oakland. there was an orange tint to the sky. the Bay is full of yellowing ginko trees.

best memory of the day.

here are some images that best exemplify my love and enthusiasm for the autumn season:

had the biggest headache on the BART home today!

but nothing some writing and a good hair pulling (where are you, Matt?) can't fix, thank goodness!

because i ride BART three days a week, give or take one day for a Sigma Tau Delta meeting or a Word Night reading*, it's a lot of idle time spent, eighty minutes a day of just emptiness. and admittedly, none of it is really used for effective writing. i guess i don't bother because 1) the train's too crowded to move around especially if standing, to get out a paper and pen, and 2) i feel like i have to write something epic and significant (and lengthy) for such a long time.

but i want to get over that complex. and i want to be rid of boredom. boredom can kill! and as a result, i vow i'll make more an effort to write on the trains. not just anything too, but everything. free write. it really is, as i'm rediscovering from my classes, effective for stimulating the imagination, keeping my thoughts on the go, every second. and today's, Day 1, started as such:

no capital letters. that is the ultimate rule. just complicates things. this is not a diary log. nor does it bother me that this is my (one of my) favorite pens. people stare, people stand, and this pen is fading off. i have to make this pen last. then i will be bored-- and maybe i'll die. well, probably not. this keeps me occupied. because i am primarily a writer. maybe i'll bring my diary on BART. good idea! but i guess i'm not so smart. running thoughts, i'm not crazy, i'm not.

just letting those thoughts flow out and randomly settles my nerves. i'm not jittery or feel like i have things bottled up. it's out there, and if it makes no sense, at least i did write.

other side notes: Lily Kwong  is beautiful, nothing beats coming home to a made-bed, and Sacred Grounds Café is the definitive new haunt between classes.
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*Word Night was hella fun! and i do enjoy an audience-- reading live as a writer really brings out the best of what you want to achieve with your work. everyone was supportive, and it felt strange but exciting to have your own classmates and professors in the audience, alongside the new faces who happened to be legitimately interested in hearing the spoken word. Sacred Grounds itself sets the mood, with its block interiors and low-ceilings decorated with off the wall furniture and hangings, not to mention the abundance of plants for sale! just weird, but we're all weird. English is proudly weird. we have no boundaries.

if you're interested in stopping by, it will likely be at Sacred Grounds Café October 21!

this is going to be an exciting, kick-ass night!

my first live reading in MONTHS!

am i nervous? should i memorize anything? do i give a bio? i don't know the answer to any of these questions. i never feel like i'm prepared for a reading even when i have practiced in front of a mirror and rallied up an audience for the night.

i do wish i could do more. live readings, community involvement with other writers. i wish. and why can't i not do? the downsides of commuting into a big city from the suburbs. it took a toll on the day earlier, and for a moment i didn't feel excited any longer on my performance for tonight.

but i need to work around it. not let it suppress my passion. life's a bitch, so what can i do? i can tell her a damn good story in the least.

pictures (courtesy of Matt) and a followup post to come!

in the meantime check out these other literary events that go on around San Francisco:

LUNADA LITERARY LOUNGE
Galeria de la Raza in the Mission
every full moon at 9

FEAST OF WORDS
SOMArts Center in SOMA
third Tuesday of every month

THE POETS GALLERY
Caffe Roma in North Beach
every Friday

Marilyn the Muse

hello to Marilyn. he's 28, from Las Vegas, working Santa Monica Blvd. in L.A. and charged $30 for this photo by Philip-Lorca diCorcia.

this is the image i chose for a writing prompt in my experiments in nonfiction writing class. it's part of the many inspiring and random photos on display for the Real to Real exhibit in the De Young Museum.

"Winter Break"

            Turn on the radio. Vince’s hands are knobby. It’s Lana Del Rey’s low voice all scratched and distorted because Live105.3 is static out here for some reason. The car’s going, some ’08 Mazda 3—white. I’m sure it’s not his car. There’s what looks like a baby boar tusk hanging from the rearview. The car we drove in two months ago was green—the tusk was there too. At least he’s laughing; I can never tell his mood especially over voicemails.

            Nearing nine o’ clock, we pull up to Skid’s on the edge of Emeryville, up Hollis near Adeline. He always opted for this place, with its dimming blue twinkle-lights strung around the wide windows, its steel door, its mismatched tables of odd white shades. Mike’s still working behind the counter, nodding to us with that gap-tooth smile and always playing The Black Keys on repeat. No matter, we got a seat and Vince declares the drinks are on him.

            “One thing,” he says sternly to me with those browns eyes I know too well by now.

            “Mmm?”

            “You’ve got to try spinal fluid with me!”
            “Yeah right—” but Mike is already approaching with the two murky brandy glasses full of what could have been velvet root beer float. Vince—or Mike, whenever I had the time to drive out there and give him a hello—never gave in when asked about what the hell was in that thing besides the Grey Goose vodka.

            Catching up gets easier as the spinal fluid goes down. Lab work, fake IDs, the situation he was in up in Portland (like how he could put up with the snow and how good really were the donuts), selling my brother’s comics to a place on Divisadero in the City for Christmas shopping money—I just really can’t wait ‘til he mentions Carolina. She was why I had to show up. Had to hear it for myself.

            “Is she the one?” I say to him. He takes a breath before downing the rest of my fluid, then he bursts out that laughter that’s always been reassuring to me. Just then someone comes in from the street and starts shouting that a car’s alarm’s going off.

            The front passenger’s window’s been smashed with a wrench they threw onto the dashboard, and the locks on the front doors got jammed in the attempt. They found nothing of interest—except the boar tusk of course. Mike’s inside calling the police and a tow truck, but me and Vince take it easy on the cold black curve. He gets up to examine the car again. “This sure is one fuck-up!” he starts laughing again. “Another reason I can’t wait to get back to Portland.” He’s running his hands through his blonde curls roughly; I know he’s quite upset.

            I go and kiss the hood of the car, leaving my neon lipstick there into a perfect impression. “Alice!” Vince exclaims, looking with satisfaction, “Car looks just as good now.”
            “I know how to fix things,” I say mockingly with a dumb smile. Bet you Carolina would never do that. He doesn’t get to answer, instead he gets out that ’droid phone. “I’m going to call Carolina.” I knew it was her car.

            She’s the one.

the backyard as a desktop

you won't understand unless you were right here. in this minute. the air's still and lukewarm, no wind stirred, and the skies are just lush yet matte with pink-lined gray clouds slowly breaking apart in the dusk. dusk of the first in September.

love.

this is a wonderful feeling, not because it's perfect weather, the string of lights are going to be lit soon, nor that i sip a hot cup of green tea from the mug Liza bought me for my 14th birthday, nor that i wear my new favorite sweater--

it's that i'm letting loose.

this pen + this deep sincere (and silent) feeling is the key to productive writing right now. words, ink, passionate ideas spill out and roll along the paper like nothing.

OH MY GOODNESS.

spent minutes dowsed in chills all over me. a double rainbow, against the neon-pink clouds, graces my presence.

sometimes we all disappear, and into places that just seem so right for your genius. you're lost in the visions and muses that dance around in forms of double rainbows, twilight, golden clouds, and the damp ground beneath you. or maybe not these things. but right now, it's what i need. just happened this way, too perfect of anything to be a coincidence, where i wanted to sit out in the backyard under lights like fireflies and write.

And when i am back in my room again, the night dark and my carpet warm with whatever song that plays softly in there, i'll still be dreaming of this past.

i've come a long way.

Glasvegas, "Geraldine"