|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
June 2, 2008Welcome to your new home!It’s good to have you in the neighborhood.CLEANING OUT A DESK DRAWERin the course of cleaning out my life, I found a typed page folded in quarters that sparked my curiosity; I opened it up and saw the above salutation. It’s not from my new landlord; it was a letter from Pottery Barn dated November 4, 2003, right after I bought my flat, offering me a welcoming 10% discount on my next purchase. If I didn’t find it so dryly ironic I might have cried. Why do the years pass so quickly when the workday takes forever? I so clearly remember standing on the sidewalk in front of my building the day I moved in, chatting with my new neighbor while hyperventilating with excitement. I climbed the entry hall stairs thinking, “I wonder if I’ll live here the rest of my life?” I’LL LOVE YOU ‘TIL I NO LONGER LOVE YOU. I PROMISE!If you’ve read my archives, you know I’m not big on the “rest of my life” idea. Never count on forever, as I have put it. Things, times, cities, people change. So goes the universe. BLACK AND WHITE AND BACHI blew off the $300+ Black and White Ball starring Seal, for the $36 performance of the Bach Bm Mass at Mission Dolores, my new stomping ground. As an SF Symphony patron, I love the Black &White, but Bach trumps the Ball, especially at one-tenth the cost. Still, it’s a rare occasion when it’s truly appropriate to be glamorous. I dress up for the Symphony—they dress up for me—but sitting beside you will be jeans and running shoes. But it was too cold to go glam—I probably would have gone formal Diane Keaton style in my white tie and tails. CH-CH-CH-CHANGESIs there anything more disorienting, or exciting, than trading one life for another? Same star, different movie, new location. The cast of cats remains the same. I met the black beauty in Apt. 3. She poked her head in front of the door curtain to check me out. My little Jackson was a blackie. I couldn’t stand the thought of another that might remind me of him. But I started collecting black cat art in his honor. The collecting bug must be exterminated, howe’er. That’s how I got myself into this suffocating mess I call my life. ADIÓS, HAIGHT CALLE MÁS BAJAThis is coming to you from my top-floor digs on the street where I live, a regular little ol’ block-long they insist on calling an avenue, which is over-scale and pretentious for this sweet out-of-the-way thoroughfare. “Street” has a homier, cozier feel to it. Anyway it’s my cozy home now, though I’m still tethered to my flat until close of escrow. From the top floor my view includes Twin Peaks, Sutro Tower, lovely roof lines, the old Mint, the ugliest apartment complex ever, palm trees and blue skies. I am sitting on the bare hardwood floor in a rhombus of sunlight with no furniture but the gilt bejeweled standing boa-wearing Buddha I dragged over here in the old-lady shopping cart I’ve been using since I bought my first house in 1989. It’s all the car I need. HOLA, MISSION DOLORESThe place still lacks my special touch, my eclectic sensibility, my collections of…captivating randomata, but it already feels like home. I hate to leave 94117, but, finances aside, the railroad configuration of my flat was getting oppressive. Life segmented into isolated rooms, no flow, no unity, no harmonic convergence of spaces. Claustrophobic, ultimately. Here I have an entry hall fronting on two rooms opening onto each other by French doors. And I will still be able to fit in ten chairs and one couch. Not making the cut are my oversize living room couch, medieval groaning board of a dining room table, my conversation piece square glass coffee table with 4 pillowed seats that slide out from under it, the grandfather clock, an oak library file cabinet, massive combo desk and shelf hutch, wine cabinet, the biggest coffee table on earth (75” long, 38” deep with collapsible leaves extended), my wool rug and my Chinese rug, 3 bookshelves, hundreds of books, a gallery of original art, and on and on… GROOVY ABOUT MY MOVE TO THE MISSION:Always sunny FUNKY ABOUT MY MOVE TO THE MISSION:Never foggy Kind of feels like a mini-exile—but as I trod the streets this afternoon, LH seemed like a distant dream fading from memory. Its urban grit is no match for the Mission. I found my corner store, my pizza joint, used clothes store, free internet coffee house, fresh fruit galore and pan dolce. Now all I need is a man. And Spanish lessons. I be happy.
The author sends greetings from a Black and White Ball of yesteryear
The author messes with the hired help
The author in Jean-Paul’s tentacles Nice tongue action, J-P ------------------------------------------------------------ When you're feeling small
¿Dónde está mi hombre de amante? copyright Alexandra Jones 2008 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
