In front of the Chinatown public library, I look across the street at a garage and the Transamerica Pyramid poking out from behind.
Depending on your positioning, the slant of the hill, the gaps between passing cars at intersections, and the weather, it’s possible to gain new perspectives on iconic buildings and the Bay Bridge. These are the views I’ve been searching for for the past few months.
A cable car on Powell Street grinds by heading southward. A slight burning odor hits me when it passes; a mixture between metal and oil I still can’t figure out.
Since the start of the new year, I’ve read more, written here and there, and thought about a few poems I’ve yet to scribble down. It’s all been swimming in my head as I balance starting a new job, spring cleaning, and upcoming birthdays. And it’s already April. How did that happen? Lately, it’s felt like time slips by faster, and I’m left trying to catch up.
I walk south on Powell Street. Nag Champa floats in the air by the Buddhist and Taoist Association building, and I take deep breaths to get as much of it as possible.
The sky is blue with a few clouds, but they’re moving fast, so it might change to gray skies and a slight rainy mist. Riding out all the atmospheric rivers and turbulent winds in the city these past few weeks, I’ve been calmly waiting for Spring. I want a sunny hot day to go to the beach and read.
There are plenty of current events to talk about, but I’m somewhere between exhaustion and nausea every time I try to write about any of it lately.
I keep running out of time to process the most recent mass shooting before another one happens. As hateful rhetoric spreads and takes hold in multiple states, as reproductive rights are stripped away, and as fascism continues to grow – I worry about the future.
How can I write about it all? How can I process what’s happened in the U.S. in the past few years? I’m struggling to grasp how other writers have done it.
So I take moments to look at the city, I take moments to sit and eat lunch in a park, I take moments to read a book at cafes I haven’t been to before, I take moments of peace because I’m not sure how many of them I’ll have in the future.
I make it to California Street and hear the rhythmic grating of another cable car, this one coming up the hill and heading north. Small groups of tourists, families, and couples crowd near the stops on the street corners, waiting to jump on.
Crossing the street, I glance at the Bay Bridge down below, framed by the layered buildings downtown. It’s unbelievably beautiful.
Over my shoulder, the Transamerica Pyramid is hidden by a strip of grayish clouds; the ever-present giant I imagine to be a hybrid symbol (modern and ancient) of longevity for the city. I hope through it all; it’ll continue to stand.