I have a mug of tea and a soft blanket.
For now life is good.
Thanks for the birthday invite; it made me laugh to see it, although I’m sad to say I won’t make it. Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written you, but I think after my last message I sent you you could understand why I might not write you as often as I would like.
Marc drove me back from Marin in the afternoon. I have come to really appreciate living in San Francisco, but I feel like I never love the city as much as when I approach it from afar. The fog was rolling in, white tendril fingers sliding down hillsides and arms of heavy white moisture wrapped around the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. I took another video for you; do you ever get sick of these? I don’t imagine that you would; I never get tired of driving over the bridge. We broke through to green trees and my neighborhood and sunshine so bright I could hardly believe that the fog had ever touched this city. I turned back in my seat to stare as Karl kept crawling in over the water to settle on Alcatraz.
I wish you could have seen it.
I had dinner in Berkeley today for my friend’s birthday. We ate noodles, which made me happy, because I always think that you should eat noodles on your birthday. My mom told me you should because it represents long life—funny how these things from childhood stick with you, right? We drove back over the Bay Bridge; at night the skyscrapers downtown seem to dissolve and become nothing more than floating lights in darkness. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve tried and failed to get a photo of video of the way it looks; the way buildings loom over you as the freeway weaves through the city. I saw a photo once, someone spilled the contents of a glowstick into a jar of water and shook it up, I guess that’s what it feels like. I want to tumble out of cars and weave through traffic just so I could stand and stare and breathe it all in.
I wish I knew what to say…words are everything and yet they are so limiting. I could tell you how things look,or the things I think, how much I love still nights because the Bay reflects the city lights like the deepest, darkest mirror. Or how heavy the fog smells, or the sound of foghorns that reach out to me from the Pacific Ocean just a few miles away. At times they sound so close I imagine them floating atop the fog to travel down the avenues, that if I pulled back my curtains I would see ships turning the corner of my street and lonely sailors peering out from portholes.
I could spend lifetimes trying to describe these minute details, but I could never find the words to describe what I feel when I think of you. I don’t know that there’s one word to describe it—you bring me so much joy; inexplicable, immeasurable joy from your smallest acts. Yet I feel like I cannot think of you too often, because after the happiness fades I am left with the empty reminder of your absence. And I know we plan and dream and that everything seems possible and real when we speak, but as time passes I ache because I don’t know when I’ll see you again. I don’t know how to explain it, I know I sound silly—how can I have so many contradictory feelings and still be whole? But I know you understand…I wish you were here. Oh, I wish you were here.
I discovered a new blog today. It was a ‘recommended post’, a little waterfall jumble of prose that caught my eyes because it was so unlike the flashing, animated gifs and cats with laser beam stares that so often appear on my dashboard, begging for my attention. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, of course.) It was a short story, a sort of letter to her newborn child, a vignette of the day she became engaged, the night her child was conceived, a getaway at a bed and breakfast, all one and the same. And I found myself drawn in, clicking and scrolling to read her collection of stories and thoughts and words and observations. I was so enraptured by the beauty of…not her life necessarily, but the way she could captivate me, highlight the significance of an ordinary life. I needed it, I think, to remember that even ‘simple’ lives are worth remembering. I can get so caught up in the need to present my life as something fantastic and magical. And sometimes it is, and sometimes it’s not; but that doesn’t mean that those moments aren’t magical in their own way…I don’t know. Am I making any sense? I don’t even know who I speak to when I write here, but maybe that’s the point. I need to remember to write for myself.
je suis fatiguée, trop fatiguée.
The flames of your lips leaving a trail of burned kisses down my body
You smiled, but all I saw was a skull.