Homeward Bound.

I followed a homeless man today. I hadn't intended to; it just kind of worked out that way.

It began as a friendly neighborhood jog. I headed out of the house around 9pm, and it was dusk at best. One of those glorious summer nights where daylight seems eternal, and there's not a cloud in sight - a rarity for San Francisco. As it was relatively late, I ran my usual abridged route down Irving, a mile or so and back. Enough to burn off the Milka squares I had just consumed. There was still a glimmer of light in the darkening sky, so I veered a sharp right.

I have this secret spot that I escape to that I haven't shared with very many people. By day, you get an amazing panoramic view of the city, the Golden Gate Bridge to the north and the Financial District to the west. From time to time, I go there to clear my head, and it does the trick. I can't think of a better remedy. I felt the sudden urge to see the skyline by night. I couldn't resist.

Fear is normally not an emotion I associate with this place, but it was my first time there at night. Being a relatively isolated area, I suppose I could have been dismembered and stuffed in a trunk without anyone noticing, but it's a good neighborhood and I'd rather not think about that. I followed the dirt path up and that's where I saw him.

He was a bearded man - more Cuban dictator than Colonel Sanders - and with him was a striped shopping bag. He seemed in a daze and plodded down the dusty wooden steps the moment I arrived.

I inhaled the cityscape, marveling for twelve seconds. Then I re-assessed the possibility of dismemberment and proceeded to race downhill.

As I neared the bottom of the steps, I noticed the man again. He was a block ahead of me but seemed to be going in my direction. I wondered where he had come from. Did he come here every night, wandering as he pleased? Did he see what I saw? Was this place his lucid haven? I imagined a day spent in Golden Gate Park and lunch on the Haight. Or maybe that's too cliche. Perhaps there were other nomadic friends. Did they travel in packs? He seemed alone.

With each block, I neared home. I had a final destination and a cozy Victorian to call my own, with scalloped trimming to boot. But was he nearing, or was he leaving? To what, from what? Perhaps this was his home, just not in the physical sense as parochial Americans perceive it. And just like that, he disappeared down a side street, a solitary silhouette walking into the horizon. I imagine he was headed down to the Mission district, both coming and going.

Mise-en-Scène.

So. It's been a while since I've sketched..

The Penicillin Effect. Some of the best inventions were results of serendipitous flukes. I was playing around with Photoshop, while cropping this image, and ended up with this. The flower print would make a fun textile. Warholian lithographs without even learning to silkscreen.

Scenes from the Yerba Buena Gardens by night. The Creative Arts Ministry of GRX went out to capture images of God working in the city. I saw the flag, not as sentimental Americana or propaganda, but as a symbol of the star-spangled liberties we take for granted. I read a story about the plight of 3 North Korean children this morning, and all they wanted was to find freedom in the States. What could possess a 12, 13, and 17 year olds to risk their lives with the singular objective of attaining basic human rights and mobilize them with an indomitable spirit light years beyond that of an adult? At the age of twelve, I was watching as my peers emulated Janet Jackson's "If" dance while trying to convince my parents to buy me a bottle of CK One.

I was momentarily distracted by these rustic flowers one lazy Sunday afternoon at Dolores Park Cafe. Intending to write, I ended up sketching away.

And for good measure.. I saw this dog patiently waiting for his owner outside of Tully's in Cole Valley one morning that I missed my shuttle. You can't live in San Francisco and not love dogs. They're everywhere.


And last but not least, I leave you with some thoughts..

Reading Rainbow.

I like to buy things. In fact, I like to buy many things. I go through periods where I'll stockpile anything from CDs to stationery to vintage rock t-shirts. These are subject to change according to mood and stage in life, of course, but the one thing that remains constant is books. I love used book stores: Green Apple, City Lights, Pegasus, Black Oak. Pages lovingly worn and vintage hardcover editions for a fraction of the price. I can never say no to a book, and I spend a ridiculous amount of money on literature because after all, how can you put a price on knowledge and culture?

From my stint as an English major to my overflowing bookshelf, everything about me suggests that I voraciously read. Having run out of room on my [strictly decorational] fireplace mantel, I have resorted to amassing piles by my CD collection and even more piles under my bed. That's not to say that I actually ever get around to reading, however. What I've realized is this: I buy books primarily to place impressively and ever-so-thoughtfully upon my mantel. And when I'm feeling especially artistic, I'll rotate the featured display, as if visually merchandising a boutique window. Books strategically purchased for what they represent, from the aesthetics (who doesn't judge a book by its cover?) to the eclectic genres, creating a telling persona without me having to even open my mouth.

Case in point: I walked into Barnes & Noble one day and stumbled upon newly designed pocket editions of Francis Bacon's On Empire and Plato's The Symposium - essentials for any self-respecting intellectual. Inspired and on a self-betterment campaign, I took the two books straight to the counter and promptly whipped out my credit card. Once the transaction was completed, I felt instantly smarter. Visions of grandeur and culture, of being engaged in philosophic discussions about shadows against a cave wall and what they represent.. all spurred by a lovely handpressed fleur-de-lys motif adorning a book cover. Will I ever study said manuals? Who knows? But should I ever have the desire, I have the option to.

Maybe it was my upbringing. While riddled to guilt at even the suggestion of shopping anywhere other than TJ Maxx, my parents would shell out the big bucks for anything with a binding. It was an educational investment, they said.

And so I continue to buy. Just this weekend, I bought seven*.

I don't know when the last time I actually read was. I simply don't have the time. My productivity ratio for the past month breaks down as follows: 10 books purchased to 1 fashion magazine perused. I recently ordered subscriptions to the New Yorker and the Economist as an alternative, but I wonder if I'll even get around to thumbing through those. If I were more practical, I suppose I would finish what I owned before carting home another dozen. But I'm not, so I can't, then I won't but.. continue to be anything other than idiosyncratic me.

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* Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie, The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood, The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green by Joshua Braff, Mountain Man Dance Moves (McSweeney's book of lists), and This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, in case you were wondering (but most likely weren't).

A Wrinkle in Time.

Have been meaning to post, but since I have been working 10+ hours a day this week (on top of 2+ hours of commute time) , I will have to keep this random rant a short one.

I missed my shuttle this morning by one minute because of an eyelash. And as the shuttles are one hour apart, I spent the morning writing at the Tully's on Cole, sipping on a drink I didn't really want (but was surprisingly good).

I have my morning routine down to an art form, snoozing and hibernating under the covers until there is exactly ten minutes left on the clock, at which point I leap out of bed, braving the freezing temperatures of our Victorian shaped igloo, mentally dressing while brushing my teeth. This doesn't leave much room for flexibility, however. Today my contacts had a run in with an intruder, and the occular diplomacy required to resolve the situation tacked on a whopping two minutes to my morning regimen - a 20% increase if you want to get technical. And one of these two minutes resulted in my just missing my 6:50 AM shuttle.

I'm tired of pointing fingers, of making my faithful gas-permeable lenses my scapegoat. I have contact-bashed for the past eleven plus years, and really, I should be thankful for the gift of vision. That being said, damn eye lash.

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I'll leave you with a couple of drawings from my impromptu sketchcrawl this past weekend:


Humble beginnings.. It v. much bothers me that I can't draw people. There's so much character, style, and expression that I can never seem to capture. Some rough sketches while at It's A Grind (love the free WiFi!) in Nob Hill. Practice makes perfect, I suppose.


And on to cityscapes and random decor. The first is the somewhat improvised view from Montgomery & California outside the notorious 555 building, while sitting in my car parked by a fire hydrant, waiting for a friend. To SF based I-bankers, this view must be torturous, but to a girl who can't get enough of the city, it's a whimsical dream. The second is the counter at Cafe Puccini in North Beach. I was fascinated by all the colors and the cluttered coziness. I think the beauty of sketching is the improvisation. Perceiving and simplifying.. you're creating an alternate universe of sorts - one on your own terms.

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Okay, so this wasn't as short as intended, but still stream-of-consciousness. Am so not going to be able to wake up tomorrow. TGIF. Good night.