i just woke up a bit past 4 in the afternoon. 4:17 to be exact and the minutes are rapidly ticking away past, and its driving me fucking crazy, only because its sunny out and i feel i should be taking advantage of it or getting something to eat, but who fucking cares.
san francisco has so little to offer me lately, and im not going to sit here and just make things up for me to do in it. only because i just can't anymore. i said it to omar last night, "i dont mean to sound bitter but i feel like ive looked under every rock." and thats really where san francisco has me right now. its this huge potential to be something amazing, and you feel that when you first get here, and youre all excited then you explore the little neighborhoods divvied up like frontier land, tomorrow land, and toon town on a fucking disney map, but it only takes one day to go on all the rides, which ARENT THAT GOOD, and the food is priced for tourists that should have been saving up their money for something a bit more worthwhile than a $40 dollar taco meal to fuel their family for half an afternoon.
of course i would be saying that sentence to omar walking out of an amazing free to me movie at the castro, which is a beautiful theater and not having anything to wake up for in the morning and no responisibility. i am a fucking brat, and i probably always will be until someone sets me straight. i walked omar to the bus stop last night and then walked home. earlier i had walked to the theater. its san francisco's only redeeming activity right now, just walking. biking = locks, figuring out hills being judged by people with stupid tiny hats and constantly having to be en route to some place.
the walking thing got on my good side an afternoon or two ago when i was waiting for a bus at powell and market. the financial district had just let out a session, the hyphy kids were out of class, tourists were going bananas and the city was in full effect.
this woman with a black pvc cap that resembled either a satanic nun on catwoman rode by me on her slick black cruiser and gigantic silver basket full of apples and a newspaper. and i had seen her before the day earlier a bit further down the street, and i fumbled through my backpack to find my cell phone so i could take note, and figure out if she was getting off work, and begin to imagine what she does all day. routines and patterns are easy to predict. and when she rode off i kind of just followed her with my gaze and saw down market past civic center, van ness and the beginnings of the incline that leads to the intersection at church. and the rental cars were honking at F trains, and boys were yelling at the girls who were screaming at the crackheads who were shrieking at the floor and it all looked so retarded so of course i had to walk from there. because even though you can figure out how to spot corporate yuppies with a fetish over and over, there's a lot that happens that you just can't clock.
and market street served as the perfect human zoo almost immediately. at 5th and market i saw a gypsy from chile named cristobal, who i had met at a party on treasure island. he was making his way through san francisco by airbrushing t-shirts in front of walgreens and grown a beard to look older than he was. gripping it tightly like reigns on a pony was a four year old girl with the longest black hair sitting on his shoulders. with one hand was securing a flailing leg, and in the other a three-tier bag of take out, i didnt want to stop and chat and make the journey back even longer for him. but already something in me wanted to thank him for giving me that little picture to hold on to in my head.
after he the parade continued with a full-wheel unicycle powered by what appeared to be a sentient pile of dreadlocks, an over-the-shopping-cart conference between a prostitute and her pimp, "is he worth it?", and underage mexican couples canoodling on the street. my attention to my surroundings drifted in and out as i started making up songs, judging the effectiveness of bus stop ads and scolding myself for whatever reasons i hated myself that day. i sneered at the stores with overpriced "vintage" furniture, and scores of restaraunts without absolutely anything you could call tasty, and began chastising society in my brain for allowing this to happen in an american metropolis, soon my overanalytical mind wandered to international waters and i was breaking down myspace for forcing people to define themselves in media categories and document themselves through digital pictures from an ultra slim 8 megapixel digital camera that fits in your purse. do you REALLY want EVERYONE to know how drunk you were?
anyway, i was drifting. it all came crashing down when i found myself staring at the REYES on the end of that wall that boost mobile sponsored over by flax. i had walked by when they were painting it, and deer-in-the-headlights'ed it when i saw them. it was so beautiful. the colors, the balance, the texture wall underneath the brushstrokes, fuck yeah, the calculated imperfection of knowing what paint should be allowed to drip, and what should be cleanly contained? and i guess thats all bundled up in what you call "style" but it was still fucking hot.
and you know this was a wall that all those scrappy kids with paint cans were fighting on for forever, which i would love to laugh at on the bus ride home as the disses just grew worse and worse, but seeing this here now in its stead, it was like a technicolor gem.
mmm, what was i talking about again?
fuck it. i feel better.
bring on the breakfast beer!
8/10/07 02:49 am
i think we would all like to be able to get excited over something again, like we used to, to really care, but we just dont have it in us any more.