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Beware the Ides of March! - 10:00 p.m.

Moats and Triangles

This early Spring sunshine is really helping to pull me outta the funk. I've been outside soakin' up the rays for days--on foot, on bike, it's been just amazing out. Last Sunday, Raquel & Chauncy and I headed out to Ocean Beach to see Jim Devenan work on his sand spirals.

It's always so fascinating to me to see the work of artists who cannot, by definition, attach themselves to their work. This man spent hours raking out a mathematically precise spiral, at least 300 feet in diameter, only to watch it carried away by the tide. Can you see yourself spending all that time creating, and not having a "product" to show for it? It becomes entirely about the experience of creation, and not about leaving a legacy of physical or visual substance. Quite like Andy Goldsworthy's work, and not at all unlike the sand mandalas of the Tibetan monks; it's about being present in the moment.

I laud the concept of "being in the now" and I try really hard to remind myself to be here, all the time. But, damn, if it's not the most challenging construct to live up to. I'm always thousands of thought-tangents away from what is going on right here. For example, if I'm writing something on my computer, and I realize I need to use the bathroom, but I'm also hungry for a snack and, all the while, on my way down the hallway, I'm inventing scenarios in my mind about what I would say to an old friend if I ran into her on the street or fantasizing about what kind of charming response I'm going to send to a potential online date who has emailed me, I may end up in the living room instead of the loo. And then I will just stand there for a moment, blank expression on my face, not knowing why or, really, how I got there. At length, I will remember that I had needed to pee, and that's why I'd gotten up from my desk in the first place, and I will shake my head and thank god that my faculties are still somewhat intact and I will make my way, slightly sheepishly, to the bathroom.

The other thing that compels me about this kind of impermanent art (remember, that was what I'd started out to discuss above, pre-illustrative tangent) is that the artist is really committing to being okay with being forgotten. The art is washed away, and so is the proof that anything had ever existed there, other than the expanse of sand and the waves, the ghosts of lovers walking hand-in-hand down the beach, and of the kiddies in diapers splashing in the moats of sand castles. But, of course, there are photographs, video documentation, and the living memory of passersby to escort the spiral to an existence that may well be infinite, for all we know. That's pretty beautiful, isn't it?

I'm all about leaving a legacy; thus, I blog. In my mind, the equation goes something like this: Fear of death=need to prove I once existed=leaving a legacy of words, of how I put thoughts together, of what I cared about, of who I've loved. That's pretty much why I write, in a frickin' dark little nutshell. But remember, I'm in a good mood, the weather has lifted me, and I'm beginning to remember who I am again, so, as the hippies say, "it's all good."

A couple weeks back, Natasha and I took a walk around the Albany waterfront, or the Bulb, as it is sometimes called. A former landfill and eternal hallowed ground for people out walking their dogs and teenagers looking for a good place to spark up a joint, the waterfront is peppered all around with found-art installations, created from industrial debris and organic materials from the surrounds.

I'd taken photos of some of the garbage sculptures and graffitied slabs of concrete, and had intended to get them up on the blog sooner, but now's as good a time as any, since we're talking about art and all.

My friend, Guillermo, and I took a nice long bike ride around this fair city of ours on Sunday. We started out in the Mission, biked south of Market out to the Embarcadero, and then biked north on the Embarcadero around the perimeter of the city, along the bay, up to the tourist insanity that is Pier 39. That whole side of town smells of the frying oil from so many overpriced fish and chips baskets.


Our route is in blue; the little red upside down "u"s are supposed to be hills. You can tell I'm very adept with Photoshop--think I can put it on a resume? haha

I'd never biked to the north end of the city before, and I was concerned about getting home, since the most direct route from there to my apartment in the neighborhood my friends and I affectionately call "TriBeSa*" is the most fiercely hilly route imaginable.


Guillermo is in deep thought about matters spiritual, no doubt, as we view the majestic Golden Gate.

But Guillermo and I realized that we only had to climb a couple blocks up, and then shoot over through North Beach to downtown, which was a completely reasonable way to go, albeit a bit trafficky. It was a really fun ride, about an hour and a half of solid bike time, with a couple rest stops to look at the scenery. The very sad news is that, on his way home after our ride, Guillermo slid on some gravel, flipped over his handlebars, and caught road with his face! I feel so horribly! It took me about three weeks to get back on my bike after the little spill I took a couple months ago. I can't imagine landing on my face, man. Fuck that.

So, I've put up profiles on a couple dating sites, most recently nerve.com. Unless you know me personally, you won't be able to find my profile, 'cause it ain't linked to my identity as "breezip." The dating experience has completely changed since I was last single, five years ago. I'm not sure how this whole online thing is gonna pan out, and having recently been reading essaywriter's trials and tribs on "madtch.com," as she calls it, I do believe I have the Fear. On the other hand, I'm not at all interested in getting serious with anyone for a *long* time, so I can treat this whole new dating thing with the levity it deserves. This is all theoretical, 'course. A couple days after posting my profile at nerve, I got my first message from someone. I checked out her profile, and though she's not the kind of person who I'd have contacted off the bat, she seems very down to earth and smart, and I liked the note she wrote me. She told me I was cute, and seemed to be on the same page about just wanting to have some fun, so we'll see where it goes. I'm very open to making connections with people, and I'm trying to be open to meeting people and not automatically falling into bed with them. Don't get me wrong, I'm definitely down for action, but I want to try to be selective. I have the tendency to go for quantity over quality when I'm newly single; maybe I'll aim higher this time 'round. Fuck, who am I kidding? I need to get laid, and often.

____________________________________
*My neighborhood is properly called "Duboce Triangle." At least, that is what the yuppies say. It's a way to differentiate the quality of real estate value in the few blocks just south of Haight Street and west of, well, the Safeway on Market Street, from the "less desirable" Lower Haight, and from what was once called the Fillmore District (ooh--Black people live here! Better move across the street and call it "Duboce Triangle"). So, in honor of the shallow distinction that is made of Duboce Triangle, I like to call the neighborhood "TriBeSa" instead, which, of course, stands for "Triangle Behind Safeway," restoring the neighborhood to its true glory through a catchy nickname which, I believe, was coined by the one I call Sebastian, but who often leaves comments on my journal under his LJ moniker, magningning. He is a clever man, he is. I think I speak on behalf of my whole gaggle of pals in the city when I say we love TriBeSa.

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