Tired, tired in the bones and hours to go until I come off the color of the late winter sky.
If you’re into that sort of thing, sure.
What we can all agree upon: feh to Muni, yes to this moon.
You want to stay angry, want to turn your back on her like she’s done to you a hundred needling times, but then she gives you a look like that and it’s all you can do to keep from falling to your knees to beg forgiveness for everything you haven’t done. What was it you said about leaving? It won’t always be golden, but when it is, how sweet and good it is.
An hour’s hike later, you find a pool of anti-freeze. Good for you.
And it smelled like summer, that green plant that covers California north of San Luis Obispo, that nameless (to me, anyhow) plant perfuming the air with a matchless dusky scent that is always the scent of sweat and hikes and look-who-forgot-their-canteen-again?
A tourist stumped me on Sutro’s money (silver! He made his fortunes in Nevada, but then again who didn’t?), and I didn’t stay as long as I liked, but spent plenty of time here when the Musee Mechanique used blue tarps to keep the rotting infrastructure off its delicate 19th century machinery, and the parking lot was dirt and in the trails you’d as likely find blackberries as little camp-outs among the hardier homeless population.
The new building? A wood-and-glass motif is just so–and I’d say that even if I didn’t have a friend who was operative in the process. What took me so long? It’s not so far, not far at all, just the end of the continent, where the world falls off and it’s all seal poop and sea spray. Really, should get out more.
Some overachiever video game startup probably, mixing land art with retro 8-bit nostalgia. Doesn’t realize that we’re all over-saturated, over-stuffed, and want only for the days of a tabletop Ms. Pacman and a cupful of rootbeer with the good, crunchy ice. Simple times were never simple, but we were younger then and that was all we knew. The illusion of simplicity is just that.
We Have Always Lived in the Castle, by Shirley Jackson
This year we shall summer in the void.
A day away from June; a morning without a biting wind, a sun that warms. You’d do well to look upon this with suspicion, for ours is a city does not give its love so freely.
Forget the nose, overlook the weak chin: Market Street is in possession of a most regal forehead.
Say goodbye to those tired tropes and been-there-seen-it scenic vistas. The Tenderloin Geographic Society’s Scenic B-sides will have you wondering why you ever bothered to leave home in the first place. We take the guess work out of tourism, and will make your relatives shrug in wonder when they receive these positively questionable postcards. Coming soon: more pictures of stuff on the street.
Come for the views, stay for the sport.
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