It was a way out. Out of myself. Out of the brokenness and business suits of K street, the asshole lawyer in the elevator who asked me what kind of a cheap place I would work at to be able to wear sandals to the office.The sweltering swamp filled with self-importance. The white rich boys, their khakis and their rapey advances. The relationship and the cheater, not once but four times. The bedroom eyes worked on many.
I came to San Francisco because my grief put a hole in me, through the torso, the heart center too. I weighed less than my drivers license from when I was a 16-year old. I drove with the sunrise at my back and the sunset in front of me.
I came to San Francisco because it was the urban center I yearned for, where everyone was everyone, and everyone could be a different everyone tomorrow and the next day. It was fluid. And celebrated. And proud.
I came to San Francisco for the job. In that sweet Presidio barracks with a view of the Golden Gate bridge and the golden hills surrounding it, when the light would capture the fog, lighting it up like a scene from heaven. But I knew I would always go west, to the end of the continent, to blow at the Pacific’s shores, to see if I could cause a wave that would cause a wind that would carry me away. So far, drifting into the atmosphere, only to look down and believe, if I could, that stillness is there, inside me, outside this place, if I’m at the right altitude.