Perhaps I should concentrate on my breathing

Recent experience suggests that I talk too fast to conduct business on the phone with the Zen Center.


That may be why I so much love the yoga segment on Jonathan Goldstein's WireTap. Go here, scroll to "Lew Wasserman." Really, I urge you to listen to all of it (and then listen to every available episode), but if that seems overwhelming and you just want the yoga part, it starts at the 18 minute point.

I'm not that great at being a Californian. And I'm a native.

Parking: The scourge of my life

I have lived in my apartment for more than twelve years. Among my favorite things about it are the two huge windows in my living room. Aside from the obvious resulting brightness, they allow me to be inside (and you know how I enjoy inside), but still feel part of the neighborhood goings on. Sunday mornings I will sometimes sit the table with my tea, NPR on the radio, and just do some serious window gazing.

Last night when it got dark, I got up to close my curtains and was very surprised to see that a "No Parking" sign had evidently been installed sometime during the afternoon. It's an official sign--a "No parking 8-10am on Fridays" sign. It is tall. And ugly. And framed quite neatly in the middle of my window. My view of the world is now bisected by the DPT. Had they installed it four feet up the street, it would be in front of no one's window, but they don't care about that sort of thing very much. Curiously, that block has been a Friday street cleaning zone for the past ten years. Why the sudden need for a new sign at all?

I shouldn't be so saddened by a street sign. Rationally, I know this. And yet, when I see it, it kinda makes me want to cry.

Sundays

I feel the most single on Sunday afternoons.
Funny. You'd think it'd be Friday nights.

Vive la revolution!

There is a classroom directly over my office. On some afternoons it sounds like 18 or so people are playing tackle football up there. Plenty of yelling and running and crashing. One time it proved to be the hip-hop dance class that had been ousted from their usual ground-floor practice space. Today I wasn't so sure. But then I believe I heard the mighty roar "Three shouts for freedom!"and I figured it out. What's happening over my head even as we speak is no less than a fight to the death against a fascist regime.

It's also a musical.

But I guess they're planning to rehearse the songs after they finish practice-killing each other.

Oh...wait. Here comes the guitar...RIGHT NOW.

Ah, high school.

Um. Yeah. That would be me.

Because I've met Bryan Mason maybe four times in my life, it's very important that I keep track of his drinking buddies, so I just read this article.

In said article, there is this little paragraph:

But Twitter has come under fire. The company doesn’t make much money. People complain that the service is trivial and solipsistic. Asked about the criticism, Mr. Stone smiled and said, “That’s like people saying, ‘Why would I ever carry a phone around when I have one in my kitchen?’ ”

Presumably when Mr. Stone made that remark, there was hearty laughter all around. Which leads me to believe that Mr. Stone wouldn't like me very much. Although, to be fair, my phone is in the hallway; there's no room in the kitchen.

Sometimes...

people other than me put things I write online. Like today, for example.

And that's always quite exciting.


This will get you to The Morning News--and there I'll be.

Bad news/Good news

I was feeling quite peevish having just gotten a parking ticket while doing an errand for work. This errand involved visiting an enormous and beautiful house that bred an uncomfortable level of covetousness. Mind you, I have no need of a house that even approximates the size of this house. Indeed, my entire apartment, which comprises space enough for one, would very nearly fit in this house's kitchen. And yet. I wanted it. I mean, maybe I could invite twelve-fifteen friends to live there with me. Or I could start a small boarding school or something. Whatever. The details can be worked out later. Just Give. Me. The. House. Anyway, it was that sort of errand. So, parking ticket? Really? Is San Francisco just collectively flipping me off? "Ha ha. You can't afford to buy a studio apartment in this town, even if it has no closet or bathtub, but you know what you can afford? This fifty dollar parking ticket. Have a nice day." Yup. Fifty bucks. For a street that is not any cleaner than it was before, because no one realized they needed to move their cars. Why? Because the sign says "Street cleaning 11am-1pm on 1st and 3rd Thursday of the month." And who the hell can figure that out without a calendar? I thought about it for quite some time and concluded that today is the second Thursday of the month. Guess what? It isn't.

Fine.

I hate everybody.

But when I got back to work, my friend Sarah, who knows about many, many fantastic things, sent me a link, this very link, in fact. And it turns out that someone is doing a project to see if passers by will aid a friendly robot if he happens to get lost or stuck on his way to his destination. And you know what? They totally will.

So, I take it back.
I don't hate everybody after all.

Arrrrgh!

This morning on my way to work I saw several dozen large bright gold coins scattered over the sidewalk. Too bad I wasn't there a little earlier so I could have seen that pirate trip over the curb.

Conspiracy of hopefulness

On Wednesday, two different friends of mine told me that two different friends of theirs had recently been shot and killed. It left me feeling a bit hopeless.

And then, yesterday, lovely things sneaked up on me.

1. This incredibly beautiful, heartening thing is exactly what you need when you find yourself wondering if everyone is simply determined to shoot everyone else. I saw it thanks to Mighty Girl, who, being mighty, knows how to embed video. Me, I'm just a links girl.

2. Written in multicolored chalk in huge letters on the sidewalk right in front of the doors to the school:

Hey. Sorry 'bout the late notice, but...PROM?

Which is probably the best prom invitation of all time.

3. The incredibly kind man at the party rental place I called. I told him I had a very modest rental in mind--possibly thirty glasses and thirty plates. I asked him how much it would be to have it delivered. He told me $75 and then, practically in the same breath said, "No worries. We can work something out. If I'm in the area, I'll just drop it off. I mean it's a drag for you to drive all the way to South San Francisco for 30 plates. We're a family business. We'll work it out. I live in San Francisco..." So he practically offered to bring me my $36 worth of rentals when he's on his way home some day.

4. Walking home, I passed my favorite neighborhood car. It is impossible not to be cheerful in its presence. It looks just like this, only with no business men.

5. When I got home there was a postcard from Sara in my mailbox. It said, "I was so pleased to receive an actual letter in the mail that I am writing back."

Write a letter. A real one. And mail it to a friend. It is delightful to receive correspondence from someone you love, rather than from strangers requesting funds.