A shot rang out in the forest. The hunter tripped and fell onto my path, the one that the animals dare not tread. His head snapped up, eyes met mine, and he screamed. The horrible sound. I had to snuff it out.
Like a flame, I grabbed his neck, squeezed, and snapped his brittle bones. Head lolling to the side, I had forgotten that there are men out there in the world that they parade around the streets talking into mechanical devices demanding things from one another. They are filled with poison, I can tell by the way he smells like gasoline, like the chemicals they create that made me sick to my stomach and made me trek out here to live and hunt alone. I can’t stand these things.
When I grow strong, I linger in the morning light and bathe freely in the deep waters of the lake. Sometimes there is a cougar with padded paws who creeps up to the water and laps it up. She will glance at me now and then surely wondering what I must be doing, a thing like me. The cougar sniffs the air and wanders back into the tree line. I’m not prey or a threat, I just am, like a ripple, a slick stone covered in moss, like discarded bird bones mixing in the sand.
Below the mist, I lay on wet soil among the rubble and ruin of past selves. Crisp outlines of shadows dance with the fall leaves and cascade into the still lake beside me. A scuttle of creatures, the movement of stones, as they scurry to the water’s edge to drink or clean bloody claws.
I am waiting for the moon to rise, to peak out between the mountain scape so I can join the owls and other night animals in their hunt for fresh flesh. Once, I lived in a city, now I’m just another thing gnawing on bones. What am I?
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.
It’s a quiet Sunday morning, and our Boston Terrier, Nora, is in a deep sleep. Curled up on the bed, her eyes twitch, and she huffs and gives a little bark. What’s she dreaming about?
The window is open, and the brisk 50-something air creeps into our apartment. It hasn’t rained in more than a week, and I’ve been enjoying my second chilly yet sunny winter in San Francisco. I’ve been taking long walks in North Beach and Chinatown, and last week took Clay Street all the way to the Ferry Building, where I hung out and read by the water. I can’t say it enough, I love this city.
Now as 2022 is easing into 2023, I’m hoping next year won’t be as chaotic. Approaching the third-year anniversary of the Pandemic and I can’t help but feel like I’m wedged somewhere between whiplash and a gnarly hangover.
It’s not even ten in the morning but I’ve already gone to store and stocked up on groceries for the week. I’m sit with my cup of cold green tea wondering if I should take a stab at writing 1,600 words of my new novel today (about 2/3rds done) or if I should try to scribble out a poem or two. But honestly, I want to read.
I’ve been reading constantly for the past few weeks, blasting through a few 300-something-page novels, and catching up on the most recent issues of Poetry Magazine. My reading goal for 2022 was to read 25 books, I’m behind, but it’s not as bad as I would’ve thought (18 books read). It’s an itch I need to scratch, and I know I could spend the next few hours getting lost in a book or two. What am I reading?
What are my plans for the holidays? Staying home, writing, and reading more books. I’ve settled into a nice rhythm with reading, and I feel like I could quickly begin reading as much as I did in college (4-5 books a month).
This slow winter month feels like a gestation period. I’m thinking of new ideas and trying to wrap up chapters of my NaNoWriMo22 novel (no, I didn’t finish it by November 30th, and that’s alright). There’s been a lot of progress and I feel like I’m levelheaded enough to take on a big project or even start an online course on top of everything else I’m doing.
Recent obsessions? Cooking. I’ve been watching a few shows and would love to take a class, really learn how to properly chop up vegetables would be helpful.
Nongshim Shin Ramyum cooked with baby bok choy and a handful of sliced white mushrooms and topped with an over-easy egg.
What am I drinking? Wassail and gin.
While I’m not reading, working, or deep in a writing jaunt, I’m listening to music a few hours a day.
What am I listening to this week? Here’s a link to my SF Dec(ember) 2022 playlist. Some old and some new stuff but really it’s a certain atmosphere that I’m going for when I’m putting together a monthly playlist.
Are you writing or reading anything fun? I want to know. Leave a comment below!
Thank you for reading, and I wish you Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year!
