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May 9, 2007Have you ever wantedto stop loving someone?THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR LOVIN’ MEWell have him rip the swollen scab off your heart till it bleeds out. When there’s nothing left, maybe you’ve got a shot at it. If you’re lucky. MY OLD FLAMEof years ago, whom I broke up with to have a nervous breakdown, and who has ever since laid claim to a special chamber of my heart with a pilot light like the Centralia, Pennsylvania mine fire that won’t go out, finally sputtered and died. He could have chosen to turn the heat up; instead he turned it off, and as Warren Zevon put it, it wasn’t very pretty at all. I lost something, but I’m not sure what. I am reminded that my boyfriend Mark and I on a date relit the extinguished eternal flame at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Washington Square (Philadelphia). It was after that that a friend told me, “Gesture is your medium.” But my eternal flame has been doused and I have no gestures to offer at the moment, just wet ashes. RIGHT AROUND THENI had an encounter—oh all right, it was a one-night stand—but you don’t always know you’re having one till the next day. You’ve been there. No biggie, I was leaving for Mexico, and he was leaving the country, period, so there was a two-week window for a sweet little fling, but the fling got flung that night. No biggie. Didn’t know him that well. I JUST WONDER,where is the humanity? If it’s so easy to be physically intimate, is it so much harder to reach in and give just a little more, to make contact with someone that isn’t skin-deep? I’d rather not walk away from someone feeling subtly diminished. He claimed to not be a player, and then played me. With my consent. After all I was the one who took my shirt off while he was in the bathroom. I saw a homeless guy’s sign on the street: Ignore me for a dollar. Maybe some tentative interpersonal relationships are emblematic of the general alienation and suspicion of society at large. Sometimes if there’s a moment of awkwardness as someone is walking toward you on the street and you feel wary, think of Mexico where everyone greets everyone with buenos diás, buenos tardes, buenos noches. This establishes contact, civility, a stance of welcome rather than suspicion. I guess if a prehistoric man, wandering alone amid an inhospitable landscape, saw another of his species, his reaction would have been to be terrified or defensive. Now that there are so many of our species, it’s easier to ignore each other, but next time that stranger on the street passes by you, smile and say good morning, afternoon, or evening. It’s a nice…gesture. I’VE GOT IT EXACTLY RIGHTLeggings, socks, boots, sweatpants, a turtleneck, sweater, hooded sweatshirt and lined wool jacket, hat and gloves. IT’S UNCOMFORTABLEin the sun at Crissy Field the morning of Bridging Communities, but the layers will be perfect for the Golden Gate Bridge, where +/- 3,000 of us assemble to cross from the city or the Marin side, meet in the middle and join hands to form a human bridge. They said it might rain, and I dress for gale-force winds, adding the yellow t-shirt and bib and I traded my registration email for. I am No. 2012. I get there on time at 7:30 a.m., and have a free breakfast of fruit, croissants and coffee, then move from bus to bus and back again while the volunteers decide who belongs on what bus. When we finally board and take off, the PA system, surprisingly, is playing Bach, and I tell the driver, “I like your choice of music.” I HAVE OPTED TO TAKE THE SHUTTLEto Marin to avoid the uphill walk from the city side. I’ve forgotten my camera, which I’m happy about. Instead of constantly looking through a lens for the next great shot, I get to simply enjoy the spectacle. The pictures are stored in my mind’s eye, which you will no doubt someday be able to download to your own mind. WE ARRIVEat the starting point at 9:15, but are told we will not take off for another 45 minutes until everyone assembles, at 10:00.“Maybe I should walk across the bridge while waiting to walk across the bridge?” I say to the woman standing beside me. “Are you on your own?” I ask. “I thought I was the only one.” Vernelle, though married with children, prefers to travel on her own. “Then I don’t have to deal with people’s agendas.” Turns out we both looooove solo train travel and agree on one reason why you don’t want to take someone you know with you, but love meeting the people you don’t. It’s because of the secrets. The secrets you tell strangers and that they tell you as you become fast friends for three days and then never have to see each other again. We reminisce about various lines, delays, layovers.“Yes, it’s nice to get just a taste of Chicago.” “We waited five hours for that freight train to pass by.” “The Zephyr is truly spectacular.” “I had to spend the night in Salt Lake City!” “Why oh why did they discontinue the Pioneer?” “Oh, if I actually had to be somewhere, I’d never take the train…” WE TALKED ABOUT NEW ORLEANSand how in antediluvian times I had taken the Sunset Limited there from Jacksonville, Florida, and now, post-Katrina, that ride no longer exists. The Limited now ends or originates in New Orleans. Too much damage to the infrastructure, I guess. Bummer. Now you have to take the Crescent from NO to Washington DC, then the Silver Star from DC to Jacksonville. Or the Crescent to Greensboro, NC where you pick up the Carolinian to Raleigh, NC, where you catch the Silver Star to Jacksonville. Bummer. Luckily I need never go to Jacksonville again, from New Orleans or anywhere else. The Limited was the only coast-to-coast train you could take that didn’t require a transfer to another train—three entire nights on the train. What a luxury! No luggage schlepping, no layover, no transfer, no hassle. And on the Limited I had awakened to the unexpected surreal beauty of Alabama and asked a passing attendant, “What body of water is that?” feeling like an idiot when she said “The Gulf of Mexico.” I would have figured it out eventually. A BORED LITTLE GIRLis in front of us spinning, spinning and spinning, and crashes into my stomach. At least it was a soft landing. “Whoa there little lady.” BUT THE TIME HAS COMEto cross that orange bridge they call golden and we get in line. “Now you’ll tell me, Vernelle, if my agenda is interfering with you at any point.” Vernelle turns out to be what you call a hoot of a companion, and we start in on the secrets, knowing we will part with a hug back in the city. I can’t help waving at passing drivers but pull back, remembering we are not supposed to distract them. But what driver is not going to be distracted by 3,000 people gathered on their route? There is no holding back, it’s like a holiday. Drivers honk, we wave, and all is right with the world. We walk and walk, then it’s time to get into formation. I say to the guy next to me, Virgil his name is, “Hello, I’m Alexandra. I’ll be holding your hand today.” WE SPEND A VERY WINDY HOURor so shifting left-left-left, right-right, left-left as the volunteers try to spread us out evenly by arms-lengths for a uniform presentation from a distance, because KGO-TV, one of the sponsors of the event, will be filming the human bridge to appear for about three seconds on the evening news. PEOPLE ARE GETTING IMPATIENTas we continue to hold our arms aloft. Some are wearing only T-shirts. “Take the footage!” a guys yells at the helicopter. “I’m not here just for the fun of it!” “I am,” I counter. “I’m here just for the fun of it.” I wonder, then, why he is here. Then the fellow, a loner-looking guy with a limp, asks Vernelle, “Can you help me?” handing her a limp T-shirt. “I want to take my shirt off [the yellow event T-shirt everyone’s wearing] and put that one on and then put this one back on over it.” WE STAND THERE STUNNEDas this total stranger strips to the waist and stands before us shirtless. He is covered with hair, moles and freckles (Elaine on Seinfeld: “Naked? That’s not a good look for a man.”] and performs his quick-change routine. How intimate! I can see both Vernelle and I find the transaction distasteful. He could have put the shirt on the ground or the bridge. Never ask a stranger to hold your used T-shirt. FINALLY,the helicopter zeroes in on us and we all hold our arms aloft. “Hey Vernelle, you know what this is? Hands across the water!” This part doesn’t take long at all, and we are back on the march. I tell her how patiently, obliviously, actually, my grandmother sat by reading her German novelette as I played the 45rpm “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” about a zillion times. My grandmother never gave us a hard time about anything. She just raised us while my mother was at work. Hers was an unconditional love. HOW FAR I HAVE COMEfrom that time, I think, gazing across the vast expanse of the Bay. KGO-7 weatherman Spencer Christian is on the bridge at midpoint to shake our hands and as I clasp his I remark, “I thought it was supposed to rain.” Was that rude? We’re moving too fast to see his reaction. The 70th anniversary of the bridge is coming up on May 28. Two hundred thousand people walked the bridge upon its opening in 1937. Since then, over one trillion cars (I had mistyped cats) have made that trip. You’d certainly need that Multiple Cats litter box for a trillion of the little tykes. I’M GLAD TO BE BACKin San Francisco County and blurt, “San Francisco, here we come!” getting a smile from the young girl in front of us. I’m sun- and wind-burned and am ready to return to my city. We have crossed the 8,981 feet of the bridge (1.7 miles). Back in Crissy Field Vernelle and I hug and part ways. There’s a post-walk festival happening with United Way booths and a stage featuring headliner Eddie Money. Yes, Eddie Money. His top hit on ITunes is “Take Me Home Tonight,” an unbelievably mediocre song. A review of his Greatest Hits says “the best of them really do define what album-rock was all about at the turn of the 70’s and early 80’s.” Blech! Luckily, they’re handing out green canvas Earth Day bags so I can strip my layers and carry them home as the day is outright hot. I also pick up a dozen free granola bars, an awful lime soft drink (only flavor left) and some chocolate milk—an odd assortment of favors. ANOTHER SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAYThere’s the all-day Green Apple Festival going on in Golden Gate Park, the Cherry Blossom Parade in Japantown and any number of Earth Day events, but I go home and take a nap and a bath because at 4:00 p.m. I am set to climb the hill to Calvary Presbyterian Church at Jackson and Fillmore to hear the most sublime piece of music in the world. If you have to be told, you have never experienced Bach’s Mass in B Minor. Either that or “Take Me Home Tonight.” SAY IT ISN’T SOThis is the first time I’ve seen this word—on the website of The Nation—and I hope it’s the last.
Real, real, real. Then why does it sound so fake? Come on, people, we don’t need this. A letter is a letter is a letter, whether in the mailbox, your treasure box, or on the web.The San Francisco Sentinel is now using PHLOG for Photo Log. That can’t be a first, but once again, ugh. That reminds me I once advertised and have not yet followed up on a new occasional feature, THIS WEEK IN BAD WRITINGI’ll start with some I’ve collected, and this is the worst. I won’t disclose the author (very kind of me) but it appeared in a piece on some yoga studio, in the SF Chronicle. THE RECORDING SOUNDS LIKE RAIN, BRAINIACHere’s the email I wrote the guy, which received no response:
And this p.s.:
Then for reasons uncertain to me, I sent this comment to then-second page columnist Scott Ostler in an email with the subject line: You ARE an asshole!
He loved that nasty talk. Except that I don’t want a job writing lame-ass puff pieces for a second-rate rag in a first-rate city. HERE’S A DOOOZIEfrom the September 2006 “TODO”—“to do,” that is, the little monthly booklet (“Little guide. Big town.”) given away in cabs about stuff to do around town. This is a description of the redesigned Octavia Boulevard that replaced the freeway overpass.
Warning: Metaphors should not be taken to their illogical conclusions. CRAP FOR THE KEEPINGLooking for the above tidbit, I searched an email folder I call “Crap for the Keeping.” But all I found in it was amusing porno email messages I used to receive at my office and found worthy of preserving: Subject Line: Big Diicks Clawing Cuunts Apart; Message: Huge deecks riping tight poosies apart Subject Line: Daughter and Father; Message: Son with Mother / Nephew with Aunt / Anxious relatives doing in-and-in actions in bedroom Subject Line: Curious about what happens to gerls walking on the streets late night? Message: Want to know what happens to grls walking on the street late night? Bohunks draw them to the cellar, possex them mercilessly videotaping it all for joy… We got that tape… Subject Line: Dog Blows Big Cock; Message: Horse’s cock gives gallons of white liquid Subject: Iraqi peasant shooted an american helicopter with a gun when he saw US Navi officers raping his mule; Message: Real animal copulations / Tenage Mule fckers / Horse’s cocck blow jop Subject Line: Maybe your pet is dreaming of sekx with you; Message: Airedales facking Marina / Men with long coocks intercoursing with Elks Subject Line: They broken my virginity; Message: I strolled about dark boulevard half an hour before midnight. / Ominous boors captured me. / They ripped off my breeches and bra. / I was innocent… Subject: They broken all my intimate life; Message: I was strolling about dark alley in the middle of the night. / They clutched me. / They torn asunder my culottes and bra. / I was pure… Subject: They broken all my intimate life; Message: I walked on gloomy alley late at night. / Strange men seized me. / They ripped off my skirt and bra. / I was chaste before… Subject: Three Sluuts in a bed (To Say nothing of the Dog); Message: My father was upset when he opened the door and saw me sucking airedale’s pizzle And finally, my favorite: Subject Line: Grrls swallowing loads of semen after being fukd by monster 19 inch diicks; Message: Grls gluggin’ gallons of cuum after being fusked by massive 19″ coocks that the elephant would be proud of. Not just any elephant, the elephant. “BEING COMFORTABLE WITH YOUR LIFEis the worst thing that can happen to a writer,” says Michael Erler, one of eight college seniors writing about their futures for the New York Times.He refers to a 22-year old with an “artistic bent,” whose “only concession about her future is to declare, ‘If I work in an office by the end, I’ll have failed.’” THE TAURUS PARTYA couple dozen people filled my flat the other night, at times walking slowly, gazing at the walls like it really is the “Bohemian Museum” Luke Thomas christened it. But lovely though it is, if I don’t sell a book by year’s end I will have to sell the flat, because I am not going back to work, period. If I work in an office by the end, I’ll have failed. I’m not getting a job, or taking a roommate, so I can be comfortable in this flat. That would be the worst thing that can happen to me. It’s why I left Portland in 1996, it’s why I sold my Portland house instead of my SF flat, and it’s why my freedom is more important to me than hanging onto this particular incarnation of my life. I love not knowing what will happen. Keeps me on my toes. Or it might put me out in the street. If it does, you can ignore me for a dollar.
The picture the author didn’t take on the Golden Gate Bridge. ------------------------------------------------------------ "The Accident"
They broken all my intimate life... copyright Alexandra Jones 2007 |
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