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A Collection of Random Thoughts (From My Journal, Mostly)

March 20, 2004

Someone is playing a xylophone (or maybe it’s a marimba) with virtuositic skill on the Hill somewhere. (We have another soprano, an alto, a trombone player, and a Latin percussionist here, too.) Eventually, a very talented mockingbird tries to imitate it. It’s really a remarkable duet, the mockingbird contributing car alarms, cat meows, and fire sirens to the mix. Finally, the xylophone stops. The mockingbird sings on, athletic in its prowess. Soon, other, less skilled birds join in. Dusk approaches and the birds quiet. A dove coos. What a remarkable way to spend the day, listening to city noises.

March 18, 2004

I was taking a break from work, and I sat out on the step (here on the fourth floor) admiring the view. As I watched, two elderly ladies pulled up in their car in front of the building two houses down the Hill. I could see through the windshield from up here. The driver had put her (enormous, suitcase-sized, overstuffed) purse at the feet of the passenger, and the passenger had put her (enormous, suitcase-sized, overstuffed) purse between the bucket seats. The overstuffing had come unstuffed during the course of the ride. The driver reached over, retrieved her purse, and spent the next three minutes restoring the overflowing contents to the purse. The passenger retrieved her purse and spent the next three minutes returning the overflowing contents to the purse, some of which had wandered onto the lap of the driver. When she got out of the car, it was obvious that the driver had back problems. I wanted to shout down that she could carry less in the way of empty gum wrappers, old bills, and other flotsam and probably heal her back immediately, but I managed to suppress the urge. As I watched, they started unloading heavy sacks of soil from the trunk, so I put my shoes on and went down to help, as a penance for laughing at them.

January 9, 2004

I dreamt that I had taken a boat, along with several hundred children, to Greenland. I walked very high on a hill over-looking the port with my Sunday newspaper, and spread it on the grass before me. This hill was a series of playing fields, and the one nearest me on the right and down the hill was the largest of them all. The largest field had a group of British boys playing soccer very seriously on it, and elsewhere, there were boys playing cricket. I don’t remember seeing any girls. I realized suddenly that there were only five minutes to get back to the boat, and while I looked down to refold my paper, the boys all disappeared. Now that I think of it, there must have been a tunnel or something that they took, because they sure weren’t running down the hill before me. I began to run, thinking it would be a close race if I walked, but as I neared the bottom of the hill, I realized that all the children were running ahead of me. I would definitely be the last one there, but I figured if I got a little closer with my adult-sized stride, they’d see me at the back of the pack and wait. Somehow I knew that the next boat wouldn’t be for a month and that accommodations for those left behind were meager. I woke up before I knew whether I’d caught the boat or not.

July 22, 2003

It's really funny. This pine siskin and a finch are having a very squeaky discussion about grazing rights on the uphill roof. The mourning doves just stand around and watch. They line up like an audience. The birds have been doing this off and on all day. Very squeaky.

Eventually other pine siskins or finches join in the fray, it is ended with a great flurry of wings and feathers and things, and everybody skedaddles to parts unknown. Right now, two pine siskins are looking at a suddenly bare roof from the lofty heights of my fire escape.

Oops. Now they're gone too. One of them was very youthful, and his little fuzzy head had a crew cut.

June 18, 2003

I dreamt that I was chasing Adrienne Crew through the halls of some airport-like place. We were riding electronic secretary's chairs, kneeling on the seats, holding onto the backs like a ship's prow. There was a stockpile of these chairs, piled like grocery carts in one hallway's alcove. Some had plastic sheeting around them, creating moving cubicles. We opted for non-cubical versions and sped along merrily. At the end of a long convoluted hallway, I chased her into the "Princessing Room," where women were waiting to change into Victorian ball gowns and tiaras and hairpieces, in order to be presented at court.

May 19, 2003

When I got up and peeked through the blinds to see about the weather, I noticed a large dog across the way. It was probably a Russian Wolfhound, if my memory of such beasts serves me right. Slender face, looong legs and slender body, lots of long silky hair. It was clear that it belonged to someone because it had a bright blue bandana tied around its neck, but there was no dog walker in sight. The doggie was on this steep hilly bit in front of the "designer" home opposite my place. There are some ledges up and down the granite face, but really they're just wide enough for a few wildflowers to grab hold. Not much to walk on. When I first saw the doggie, it was up on its hind legs, looking over the fence into the yard. It probably could have jumped over to safety if it could have backed up a little, but the cliff began within a foot or so from the fence, so there wasn't much space to gather steam. Its tail wasn't wagging when I first saw it, so I thought it was being fed or something distracting. While I watched, it stopped looking over the fence and started looking around on the ledge. Not really sniffing like a dog does when it's exploring. More like looking for a way off. After looking at the stairs and realizing that he couldn't jump onto them either, the doggie turned around. When the dog went into some bushes at the other far edge of the cliff, I figured it had found its way back the way it came, and I stopped watching and put some clothes on. When I went into the front room and opened the blinds, I saw that the doggie was still looking around in the bushes, but was now on the next lower level. While I watched, it meandered around on that level's ledge, squeezing between some bushes and then back again. At this point, I realized that the dog was stuck and lost, so I decided to go help it.

I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair (not that the dog cared, but sooner or later there would be people involved). But by the time I'd gotten across the way, the doggie'd found its way to safety, I guess, because there was no sign of it anymore. (It was also not horribly splattered on the sidewalk, so I'm gonna go with the happy ending.)

March 25, 2003

I looked up just now, from sending a particularly difficult paper back to the author, just in time to see the pine siskins swooping above my rooftop to slide down the thermal that marks the Hill. Every evening, just as dusk begins, they start their fabulous ribbon-of-bird swoops, in groups of a few dozen to groups of a few thousand. Last year, I could have set my watch by them. This year, there are fewer, and sometimes, I see them swooping (more laboriously) up the hill as well. I am fascinated by them, but they are too small and too fast to watch for long. Shortly, another ribbon-of-birds will swoop, fluttering ribbon-like toward downtown San Francisco. Where do they come from? Where are they going? Are they capable of slower flight? How do they stay in such impossible ribbons?

Tonight, there are improbable tufts of clouds, painted on by some careful third-grader, against the pink-tinged sunset. From this distance, the flags on the high-rises are absolutely still. The presence of helicopters watching war protests, traffic, wine-sipping roof-sitting sunset-watchers, is no deterrent to pine siskin joyous flight. Helicopters mar this nature-in-the-city experience, making my sanctuary feel and sound like a war zone. But they float twinkling and backward as they hover over downtown, an impossible sort of flight, just distant enough to be dark dragonflies if I squint. The birds move on—they never hover. They know more than we do.

March 21, 2003

Three dreams.

In the first dream, I don't remember why we were there, but Karen Clark had a friend who said we could stay the weekend at a fabulous house. The people who lived in it would be there, so we were to be little church mice. When I got there, she was sunbathing, pants rolled up, head covered by a big hat, on a grassy knoll in a park-like setting above an enormous house. We sat and talked for a while and then went in to begin cooking dinner. We were to stay in an area that looked like a basement, but because the building was on a steep cliff, the outer wall was all glass and view.

Karen had already explored, so as she chopped veggies, I snuck a little ways up the stairs. Near the top I could see a fancy dining room, chandeliers and all, and I could hear a couple of people chatting quietly as they prepared their own meal. I snuck down the stairs. I discovered another set of stairs going downward, so I snuck down those. I was surprised, because I thought we were on the lowest floor. So it appeared from the outside. Down at the bottom of the first set of stairs, there was a small, elegant room, with very little furniture. There was a telescope, as small writing desk, and upright piano with a stool, and a desk chair. Through the windows that met to form a 90 degree angle, I could see out into a trellised patio. On one corner of the patio, there was a square floor, lacquered in black, to match the black lacquered grand piano that sat there, candelabra all lit in the gloaming dusk. Rose gardens, pools and ponds, and fountains and peaceful greenery were beyond the piano. I went back up the stairs and found yet another stairway downward. As I went down, I could see more elegant furniture, but I could also hear voices, so I returned to help with the dinner.

That's when I woke up.

Second dream:

Liam Keaton and I were with a group of people camping and traveling. He and I wanted to go to some area that no one else wanted to go to, so we decided to set off on our own. He had a camper shell all packed with stuff—his and a little bit of mine—that had been carted around on someone's truck, but because we went off on our own, we had to carry it.

In the magical way that dreams have, the camper shell was heavy and awkward, but we could pick it up. Liam complained of his back, so I took the first "shift" carrying it. We strapped it on me somehow, with ropes and bungee cords and things, and somehow got it so it wouldn't affect my neck. I carried it with difficulty as we walked along the side of the road. He tried to hitchhike. No luck.

At last we came to the place we'd headed out for, a wooded glen, complete with babbling brook and singing birds. We bathed and ate a picnic and told stories into the gathering dusk. Then he told me stories about the stars until we fell asleep. In the morning, we were to head back to the group, but when he complained of his back again, I picked up the camper shell (most of the contents of which had been completely unnecessary but which he insisted on bringing), and off we trudged. A few people stopped to pick us up as we hitchhiked back, but none wanted to take the camper shell, so when I woke, we were stopped for a rest by the side of a dusty road.

I can’t remember the third dream any more, but it seems like it had to do with sitting with Roy and Lee Glover (from SFBACC) and Lalio Coquillia (From Applied Materials in the 80s) at dinner in Las Vegas.

March 4, 2003

I dreamt I went to a bridal shop with a friend. We lurked outside because either her fiancé’s ex-girlfriend or her own ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend was inside and there was antagonism. We waited for a while and then Marla Sanchez, Regina’s daughter, came out. She wore nothing but two somewhat see-through red scarves tied around her zaftig body. She had her short black hair piled high and wore a red flower in it. She wore daringly high heels, and she “worked it” as she walked across the street away from us. As my friend and I looked at each other in amazement and thought about going inside the shop, a parade came down the street, of drummers and TaKeTiNa practicers. Zorina Wolf led the parade. At the end of the parade, my old boss from myCFO, Eric Byunn, who was wearing a drum cap on his head and doing TKTN, brought up the rear. :-)

It was a very improbable image. :-) Eric is very much a total yuppie. The whole thing was colorful and improbable.

Friday, April 25, 2003

Last night, as dusk approached, what little could be seen of the sky was a peculiar greenish blue. Dark low clouds hovered, more like smoke than clouds. To the west, there was a large cloud structure held immobile by crossing winds, bulky and odd-shaped at its forward edge. For a while, it looked like an enormous rat at full gallop. Over time, it looked increasingly like a rabbit at full gallop, and then finally dispersed into rain. A rodent warning of the huge oncoming storm.

Thursday, April 24, 2003

Thoughts about dance class:

The white cloth of the parachute glowed in the darkness of the room. Manipulating the edge, the dancers let the mass of cloth float up and down gently, the parachute disregarding rhythm and offering its own lung-like fluidity. It became a jellyfish with dancer-tentacles, a white beet, a cloud, a puff of smoke, waterfall froth. The group chanted with the music—they could not really be heard, but I could see the concentration on their faces as their lips moved. Occasionally, a dancer rushed from one edge to another under the span of floating cloth. One dancer, a long and fiercely slender woman, moved gracefully beneath, as fluid and organic as the air under the white cloth that caressed her. At the apex of the cloth’s suspended flight, she paused, completely still. I held my breath until the two organisms moved again, one gently downward, the other horizontally, spinning to another edge. Another dancer reached toward me with his hand, facing away from the parachute, trying to include me, draw me in from where I sat alone in the dark. Another dancer moved to lie beneath the cloth, letting it collapse on her like a shroud. At last, she extended arms, legs, fingers, knees, toes, causing eruptions on the smooth surface of the mushroom’s face. When she rose and returned to the edge, her fingers and toes contributed to the rise and fall anonymously once more. As the music slowed, the parachute’s movements became more extreme, more drawn out, more voluptuous. With the final notes, the dancers released the cloth and let it float, lifeless at last, to the floor.

Friday, April 18, 2003

The birds wake me up most days. The birds are very busy in my neighborhood—robins, mockingbirds, mourning doves—all vying for space. There’s a hawk that floats in circles, the ravens tagging along in its wake. The ravens—or maybe they’re crows, I don’t know the difference—are playful, and chase each other noisily all over the neighborhood. I’ve read that they often imitate hawks’ elaborate mating flights just for the fun of it. There are some hummingbirds that impress their inamoratas by flying 60 or 80 feet above the treetops and then diving straight down. It's wild to watch, one after another, these little tiny birds you can barely see, flying so high, hovering, and then suddenly they shoot down, like some bizarre high speed juggling act, one after the other. And then at dusk, or just before, the magical ribbons of pine siskin. Today, I saw a fleet of 20 or so swooshing out of a tree as a car passed by. I didn’t know they were in my neighborhood all this time.

Thursday, April 10, 2003

Last night, I dreamt that I had a garden of magical rocks. The rocks were brown and blue and gray and black, and they were smooth river rocks, mostly fist-sized or smaller. The garden was walled into rooms by bamboo. In some rooms, there were benches, in others, paths through thickets of ferns. One room had a small brook and a bridge leading from one thicket to another. There was a general feeling of serenity in the garden and throughout the dream. My task was to identify the rocks that brought the right sort of magic to various people. Some were people I know, some were strangers who came to my sequestered tatami room home. I touched the person, gazed into their eyes for a while, and then went into the garden. I moved slowly, waiting for the right room to make itself known as I passed. In the suitable room, I sat or stood, feeling the person’s energy passing through me, until I knew the stone that had the right magic. I returned to the person and passed the stone from my closed hand to theirs. As I released the stone and felt my flesh separate from theirs, I could feel the tingle as the magic began to work.

May 6, 2002

I refinished an old box I keep my paints in. There are three drawers and three handles. Really. There were three handles this morning when I slid the paper they're drying on to a more convenient place. There were three handles yesterday when I sanded and stained them, and the drawers and the box. Gosh, there were three handles when I bought the box and assorted handles. Now there are two handles. I just can't get a handle on the situation, I keep hearing myself mutter. I can get two handles, but I can't get a grip on the third. If you were a handle, a freshly sanded and stained handle that still needed another sanding and another coat of stain, and it was a beautiful Spring day albeit windy, where would you toddle off to? Is it an act of rebellion? Is it that there were really only two handles all along and I'm just having a senior moment? Is it that the slightly sticky nature of the between-stainings handle has encouraged an unfortunate escape, perhaps attached to the underside of a skirt hem, a mysterious box from the postman, or a pile of harp music? Is it that the clarity of the future was too painfully obvious and dull, perhaps fraught with repetition for the poor lovely, and it could bear no more and waited for the right moment and then...vanished! Do I have to worry about what will become of my poor dear inexperienced little handle, half-dressed, and not dressed nearly warmly enough for a night-time escapade in this great wicked city? After I've taken to my bed with a good book, and pulled the nightcap down, will I feel the gentle prodding of a heat-seeking handle tickling my toes? Will I hear it tap tapping at my window asking to be allowed back in after a night of debauchery and unprecedented curves? Will the ravens that have taken to my neighborhood collect it and bring it as an offering to the leader of their unkindness? Or will I just wake up tomorrow to find that there are three handles again, and this was just a momentary thing?

 ******************

May 8, 2002

Yesterday morning, the errant handle was discovered clinging sheepishly to the underside of one of the drawers. I know that its intention is to pretend that it snuggled there all along, but I looked there on several occasions during the day of its hiding, and know otherwise. It is, as is to be expected from naughty things, holding its tongue about its adventures and escapades, so I am trying not to chasten it overly harshly in the hopes that it will confess the truth of its foray and continue in its home-bound obedience right up to the very moment that it is screwed onto the face of its very own drawer and no longer has the option of ferreting itself into tiny hidey places or clinging to seedy undersides of things.

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