letters

Dear Homeless Man that sits under my work awning,
I gave you a sleeping bag, some snacks, and my friendship for over a year. My co-workers do not believe in your cast and that statement alone bugs me. Ditch the cast if and when you are healed, or don't . . .but promise me you will try to lose the habit. I do not see your wheelchair, Dave, or your cane or your threadbare foot wrap, but I do see your grinding teeth. But, Dave, I also see your eyes and the light that trickles through the cracks.
Thanks for always calling me "pretty lady".

My table is gone and I am sad. It seems such a silly state to be in over a piece of furniture, but I am sad and it doesn't feel silly and that is a fact.
The thing is, I did not have a whole lot of time to sit and reflect over all of the memories stained into the wood. The people, those people from down the hill with their precocious Tasmanian devil of a daughter, came and picked it up earlier than planned and I just did not prepare.

Dolores Park. I moseyed on over this afternoon with a jug of ice water, a big towel, my book, and my iPod. Bikini clad. I found a spot that was half in the shade of an oldtimer tree, and half in the sweltering sunshine. It was on an incline, and I actually thought to myself, “you never lay on the hilly part of the park; let's try it today”. So I did. And I spread my towel out and I flopped on my brown belly, and with a sigh of contentment I opened my novel. Over the Swedish Rock band belting in my ears I heard the strum of an acoustic guitar.

There are all kinds of dancers dancing at the club.
Notice them.
See the two girls in the middle, busting out moves from decades past;
it is impossible not to notice these two. That's the idea, I think.
The smiles enveloping their faces and the bounce in their hair is genuine.
They also genuinely want you to watch them be silly, be loud, be in your face.
But maybe not.
Maybe they just like the setlist and want to thank the dj in his language.

My friend on Union Street is a man named Dave. I have mentioned him before, both in this blog and in conversation, because his life nudges mine.
Today he accompanied me to my bus stop, which was a sweet and gentlemanly gesture, though I think his motivation was more because he did not want our conversation to end. He had just had his cast removed, and he wanted to update me on his leg's progress.

Today I found myself sitting in the lobby of the Tom Waddell Free Clinic down on Lechwalesa Street near the Civic Center. Lobby spurs visions of comfy couches, a small table strewn with People magazines, and a small, but colorful fish tank. In real life, that is what most lobbies look like, so maybe I should have used the words “waiting room”, but even that gives off an inaccurate impression of my surroundings. Even a waiting room is generally more inviting than the cell I stewed in for 2 hours.
Yep, 2 hours.

Last Saturday night I went with a crew of friends to see Bajofondo perform at Bimbo's. They rocked the house and my world. We saw them perform for the first time last summer at Stern Grove, and then again in spring at Bimbo's. You can't help but move your body and your head to the rhythms and the beats and if you bump into the person next to you, a stranger or a friend, even better.

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