labor weekend

It usually takes me the better part of a day off to feel like I have anything to write here -- and that's only if I spend enough of the day alone. So here I am, in the late afternoon, alone in my little house. It is very warm in the living room, even though I have the window open and the curtains are mostly closed. I leave an opening on the right because I can't not allow myself at least a slice of the view. The sun is very strong and there's nothing shading the front windows. It's glorious, of course.

I walked to Heron's Head with A this morning. She has such intelligence and quickness of mind. On the way home we took the walkway through Coleman-Youngblood and encountered a man walking his dog. We exchanged pleasantries with both man and dog, and just as we were about to part ways A introduced herself by name, which led to a discussion of who lives where and for how long. By the time we finally did part ways A had obtained his full name and his email address, and he (his name is Ed) had invited us to his 80s theme party next Saturday. It was classic A, all the way.

When we got back to Palou Ave I got out the hose to do a little watering, and as we were standing in front of my house an old woman walking her little poodle paused to ask if my tree is a magnolia. I said yes, and she asked how long it had been there and that was A's cue to give her a history of tree planting on our block. That led to another round of introductions and at some point Doug came out of the Smith house for a smoke and Valerie, who lives on Oakdale near Keith, recognized him. Valerie has lived on Oakdale for about 20 years -- one of the first white people to live on that block since the Italians left.

Eventually Valerie and Penelope (her little dog) moved along, and as A was heading home Doug crossed the street and we began a long conversation about . . . well, the thing we always talk about. He asked me if I would go to Santa Cruz with him next Saturday. I said no. He wondered if I had ever considered taking a walk on the wild side. He told me about his very first girlfriend, a white girl who lived down the street when his dad was posted in Virginia. I'm sure he was telling me about how dicey it was for a black boy to be with a white girl at that time and in that place because he thought maybe my reservations have something to do with race. But I didn't mind because the story was interesting. More interesting than his direct sales pitch, which usually involves speculating that there must be something wrong with me. When I said I really didn't like to feel pressured, he said I shouldn't feel that way, that he wasn't trying to cajole me into anything. So it went, round and round. At some point he did tell me that both parents are in the hospital and it looks pretty bad-- and I couldn't help but wonder if he was telling me the sad news to gain a bit of leverage.

forgetting and remembering

Today I forgot about almost everything. I forgot about my failure to go to Linda and Isabel's last night, and about going to the open-air market on Pier 70. I forgot about going to Lowe's to get a cooler and a rug pad and a few other things (until just now, and now I am too tired). I forgot to worry about the fact that I'm not sleeping these days.

I remembered to get the green olive bread that Earl left outside my door, and I remembered to bake oatcakes and chocolate chip cookies, and put together the cream that will be iced before I leave tomorrow. I remembered to do a load of laundry and hang it in the backyard. I remembered to water the front terraces. I could not manage to lock the door to the back yard -- I used to be able to keep it high enough to get the bolt through the cylinder but this afternoon it kept slipping. So I piled the large flowerpots and some bricks against the inside. I don't know, maybe I can manage to do it in the morning.

I am going to lie down for a little while, and then I will try to make white peach and maple syrup, to use up at least a few of the peaches from the tree.

I did remember the graffiti on my front wall, but I tried not to dwell. I looked at it while I was watering -- nothing had been added to what was already there. I realized that my distress has to do with the idea of being singled out, marked in a very obvious way. I begin to wonder if the graffiti is some kind of code that makes me a target. When I start thinking in this way, the fact that none of my neighbors seem particularly concerned only adds to my paranoia.

Clearly, I need to stop thinking about it. I will think instead about packing food and clothing and linens for sea ranch. I am taking the bottle of wine I bought at the last Bayview mercantile pop-up. I need to remember coffee paraphernalia, and rice, and fish sauce, and garlic. I'm not sure the basil I bought yesterday will survive very long but I might as well bring it, along with the thai chiles. Also: grapes and green peppers and avocados.

bumpy weekend

Why is it so hard to sleep? I need to see a doctor, but first I need to find one. I need to sleep. I don't seem to have the energy to deal with minor setbacks. I came home from the BRITE meeting and saw this:

And it sent me into a tailspin. I hate it. I can't stop worrying about proliferation -- I imagine that the next time I look at the front of the house there will be more graffiti on more surfaces. I can hardly stand the thought that it won't be removed until Tuesday, after I leave for Sea Ranch. I've found myself wondering if the idea of owning a house in the Bayview is a bad one. I need to get some perspective. I need to sleep.