Welcome Home

The place to see picture shows in Berkeley.

The people in my neighborhood aren't eating chalupa's and cinnamon twists for dinner. They're not rushing through their Statistics and Meteorology homework in time to watch the State of the Union address. They're busy enjoying the walking trails and running lanes as their tiny dogs trot alongside their children on bikes.
Life in California has begun. Work is exceedingly consuming but in a way that let's me know this challenge will lead to the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.



In only 3 short weeks I've learned to drive a forklift and manage my bank account with meticulous attentiveness.



In just three shorts weeks I've met a girl who sends who me poems and looks at me like she wants to save my life. A girl whose heart is tremendous and strong but young, far too young. She still believes that love can save the world. When I look at her I see myself 7 years ago, wishing to be invisible to everyone except a chosen few; wishing to be fulfilled through desire and rescued by the most fleeting emotion in the world. She has no idea how much the world will attempt to smother her sensitivity and my instinct is to protect her ferociously, but I cannot. My heart is so scattered, so preoccupied. Friends still call in crisis in the middle of the night, joyful in mid-afternoon, boasting at dawn. We are learning to live without one another but recognize the enormous gap that exists when you are far away from what makes you feel whole.


Dusk.


I force myself to leave the house on a regular basis. Having sanctioned my impatience to both a budget and a realistic time management schedule, I only see the city on the weekends. The week is for the suburbs, for work and my education, but when the weekend comes I am off to brave the new world before me. There's a $5 cover charge to enter the city of San Francisco. It seems astronomical until you're driving across the Bay Bridge in absolute wonderment of mankind's achievements.



There's a friend in every face, a guide on every corner. It's as if no one is certain how or why they arrived in this Utopia, but they are content in their destiny. I find myself nestling into the idea of being home. This is where I will make my fortune and see myself as I really am. As I was waiting on a crew of friendly gentlemen to finish detailing Sonny, I stared very hard at my reflection in the car wash window pane. Who is this woman? I hardly recognize her. Nearing 30, healthy and happy, in love with the reality of never having to run again.



I gathered with the gay community (and allies) of all ages and creeds at Wild Side West on Sunday. A new friend invited me to the city for the 49ers game. The bar is nestled in the Bernal Heights neighborhood where I hope to one day reside. It feels like the San Francisco in the movies, with it's mountainous hills and multicolored shops. A gaggle of preschool-aged birthday party attendees raced past me on the sidewalk, their heads and hands adorned with orange and green balloon creations. Small businesses of every sort flourish here. Art and books and the soft air of the bay breeze. Perfection.


An accidental find, an obvious message.

In its worst history, the police only stepped into the city's gay bars to bust up the "immoral behavior" occurring inside. These days the neighborhood foot patrol police step in, tip their hats and ask the score of the game. Women in jerseys, women in diamonds, they're all screaming and stomping and cheering and booing at the television as the bar owner, Billie, brings food down to the party from her loft above the bar. Her bar doesn't sell food, but why not feed everyone from her own table? Cakes and wings, burgers and salads- bring your own or let Billie feed you, either way, you're at home here. Michelle (my new friend) kicked open the front door with her right foot and swung into the bar, homemade pizza in hand. Its delicious beer-batter dough and fresh toppings saturated my mouth. The bartenders kept an eye out for an arm in the air requesting another drink. Mardi Gras beads dawning the 49ers logo were passed out to the patrons, free raffles for free drinks- there's a community here like I've never known. On a single wall hangs portraits of Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Gertrude Stein and Virginia Woolf. Unsigned art is displayed from ceiling to floor. Mannequins and shoe collections, totem poles and strands of pearls. This tiny bar retains the tales of so many who've come before me in search of a similar sense of peace. The garden verandas sheltered us from an endless week of rain as the smell of grass wafted across the garden. San Francisco is the place of my dreams. It is my heaven. I am finally home.


Brian Andreas, San Francisco fog... my favorite metaphor thus far.

R.I.P. Regret

When I was a teenager and even before that, I knew I was a born to see the world. Many of you know how humble my upbringing was, how much my parents struggled emotionally and financially to keep themselves and their children clothed, fed, sane. I spent a lot of my life resenting the fact that I more or less raised my younger siblings as my parents worked 50-60-70 hour work weeks. There I was, a child looking after other children. I use to hear my friends and coworkers talk about what they were doing when they were 10, 11, 12 years old- and while I'm sure I had my moments in the sun, what I remember most is the weight of the responsibility of Jeremy and Abby. The moment my mom and dad conceded to let me go, I was out the door. I was 16 and claimed to be unafraid of the world at large.

I knew everything then.

For the next 10 years my actions would be sporadic, driven entirely by restless dissatisfaction. I was petrified of being boring, of settling, of winding up in a life where all I did from dawn until dusk was work without the slightest sign of atonement.

Discontentment with varying situations fueled a large part of this move to California. I would like to say that I accepted things as they are. I wish I could honestly tell you that I closed the Midwest chapter, that I made my peace with everyone and everything – but part of my heart still burns for outcomes that may never manifest. Part of me may always wish to go back in time, to make different choices, to hurt myself and other people less, to have more compassion and less to say. But what never changes is how grateful I am for every.single.experience and every.single.person that entered my life.

My friend Clint died.

Something shifts inside you when you read the obituary of a friend. The gravity of knowing that someone who laughed with you, wrapped their arms around you, slept next to you, said "I love you," is dead- is unlike any other reality. Suddenly all you can remember is the anger you feel at the loss of their life and the overwhelming sense that perhaps everyone you care about should know that you love them as much as you do. That's my reaction anyway. So this is me making sure that, even though I say it frequently, I say it again.

I love you.

If we have been blessed to have crossed paths, there is a reason. From one another we grew, expanded, we evolved into something more complex than our singular originality. If I have known you in any capacity, you have changed my life. If you've known me, I hope that somewhere within our interaction, I left a positive message or at least a humorous one. As I review the last 10 years of my life a tremendously beautiful slideshow of happiness rolls on the reel of my mind. All of the faces of possibility, the faces of my journey, remind me that while initially this new chapter may be intimidating – I love and have been loved, deeply.



I love you Erin. I love for your softness, for your generosity, for seeing me as no one else ever did. You taught me to have hope, to see my potential, to give the world a chance to surprise me. You and I shared nearly 5 years of the an unparalleled adventure. We saw the world, we raised children, we had homes filled with laughter. We had pets and hard times. We had each other.



I love you Rachie, Ryan and Eric. Rachel, for being boundless with your love. Ryan, for beautifying everything you touch. Eric, for seeing beauty in every face, in every place. Whether the 3 of you believe it or not, I will always maintain that you are the most talented, inspiring, genuine, generous people on the face of the earth. It will always be the four of us, the 4 bears against the world and we will always have art to keep us united, no matter our geographical location.



I love you Johanna with your earth-shattering energy, your intense love that commands the attention of the universe. You pieced together my heart and provided me a tailwind when I was broken and directionless. It is because of you that I can't dance without laughing or go to Home Depot and dream of a suburban contentment.



I love you Joy. You brought poetry, passion, watercolors and metallic's to my life. You redefined everything I understood about compassion and communication, because your perspective is like none other. Your capacity to love and accept people as they are is endless and the rarity of that never ceases to amaze me.



I love you Marie. I love you more than I love air or water. More than cigarettes and Diet Coke. You changed everything. You healed broken hearts. You united friendships and love affairs. You brought everyone together in a celebration of life. Because of you, I truly understand unconditional love. Because of you, my father smiles brighter than the sun. Because of you I know that my family is capable of overcoming and accomplishing anything we unite ourselves in. Because of you, I believe in a kind and beautiful Creator. You are the epitome of perfection.



I love you Abby and Andrew. I love the strength and resilience of your dedication to one another. I love your drive to pursue the American dream. I love you little sister for what you have overcome, for your dedication and ambition. You can do anything Daffodil.



I love you Mom. I love you for taking us to the library as children. I love you for tending to gardens with the most gentle touch and observant eye. I love you because you held our family together when we were crumbling. I know you don't know it, but you are the strongest woman in the world.



I love you Dad for teaching me to be proud of working hard. You taught me not to take short-cuts, to never compromise my integrity, to believe that doing the right thing would reap its own reward.

I love you Jeremy for possessing the strength of our father and the gentleness of our mother. I love that you can't hide your sensitivities, your softness. You are the most upstanding man I've ever known. When I look at you I believe that patience and love can save the world because it is through those attributes that you have touched everyone within reach.



I love you Grammy for teaching me to be strong. I love you for your perseverance. Every lesson I've ever taken away from you hasn't been relevant until recently, but now, more than ever I know that a woman can see the world, fight the disadvantages, survive the struggle and find her own piece of happiness. Because of you, I know it's all within.



I love you Beth and your daughter, Sarah. I love you for precision, for your unwillingness to give up in the darkest hour. I love you for sheltering your beautiful children from the storms of reality, but letting them look out the window to know what to expect. I love you for believing in purpose and for fulfilling your dreams from the ground, up.



I love you Sara Steele for being both a mother and a friend to me. I love you for cradling my broken heart when Ryan left to see the world. I love you for believing in happiness, for making cooking an art form, for calling Nick and Ryan "my boys." Thank you for sharing, repairing and preparing my heart for this new chapter.



Lastly, I love you Clint. I loved you for your animated character, for your silliness, for your stories. I loved you for your lack of inhibition. I'm only sorry now that you died without resolve. They tell me that at your funeral innumerable people shared their affectionate memories of you. I would've done the same but would've also said this:

The truth.

Clint died of his own hand. He'd been dying for years. Much like the rest of us he was pacifying loneliness, a broken heart and a lack of direction with any earthly substance to help him forget. I don't blame him, as I hope no one does. Virginia Woolf knew that an innocent had to die in order for the rest of us to appreciate living and that's how I think of Clint now. We forget to live until someone we love dies. We get caught up in our mistakes, we obsess over past, present and future decisions. We numb out when we should be feeling the most. We deny ourselves true happiness because we are afraid of what our desires will reveal. We're afraid of the struggle. We're afraid of failure, of letting go of the comfort of our misery. And then suddenly, it's too late to undo all of the damage done because you're taking your last breath while begging for just one more.

There's no bringing my friend back. There's no changing the paths any one of the people above will take. There's not enough words in existence to covey how much I love each and every one of you. But remind yourselves as I remind myself, the only breath you have is the one you just took. Make it count.

"There's only us, there's only this, forget regret or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way, no day but today."

I love you.

Berkeley

This is Jem-Yang, who owns the Buddhist gift shop "Om" in downtown Berkeley. I was in his store yesterday, kneeling down to rummage through bowls of deity charms when I felt his hand on my shoulder. His touch startled me and I jumped to face him. "You've got to learn to discipline your mind for the positive," Jem said with tears in his eyes. His stare was so intense that I was torn between panic and fascination. My discomfort ebbed and surged for the next hour as he spoke and I listened. At first I thought, "Run. This man is crazy," but I know better because these sorts of encounters have been happening to me since I was a child. The scenarios are similar in that I am in a state of distress, whether it is internal or external and someone with an absolute lack of inhibition about maintaining eye contact reaches out, puts their hand on my arm or shoulder and tells me what my soul needs to hear. These messengers are always strangers and it is these encounters that keep me spiritual, force me to recognize and allow me to believe that I am not only blessed by an energy force I cannot rationalize, but I am never alone. Jem conveyed many relevant answers to questions I never asked him, but what stood out was this. He said, "When you plant an apple seed, you nurture and nourish it, knowing that what will be produced is an apple tree, which will give you apples. Why then do you plant an apple seed and pray for oranges? This is your undoing." He asked me if I'd found the peace I was seeking? I answered that the process is unveiling itself favorably. "You won't find happiness with any consistency until you learn to release all of your expectations of the world. Acceptance will allow your life to flow effortlessly."
I fight this concept regularly because I feel it's a position for the weak of heart. I don't accept that life just is the way it is and there is nothing one can do about it. I don't accept that the universe will intervene. The universe gave me a functioning mind and capable limbs- to me, that's enough intervention. My success and fulfillment are entirely in my hands. But Jem wasn't talking about controllable variables such as my happiness regarding 'me,' he was talking about the insufferable actions of others and my aspirations to control them. He was talking about the hurt and sadness that are a side effect of hoping for change (within another) that positively affects you. That "hope" is not obtainable, it leaves you broken and misguided and there's no distance that can cure such pain. The remedy is releasing the devastating longing disguised as hope. Only then is one capable of finding true peace with any situation.



I don't know that Berkeley is full of angels or mystics or wise men, but I do know I felt something coming when I woke up that morning. I pacified that uncertainty with chemical alteration, attempting to calm my nerves. En route, I sang Joni Mitchell as loud as possible, certain that I'd been gravitating toward this epicenter of change my entire life. I was enthralled at the idea of my destination but still filled with hesitation. I debated my fear of Berkeley being a disappointment. It's not the 1960s after all. Every musician I identify with and appreciate is dead and most of the causes I would've advocated for (had I been alive) have moved their fights from Berkeley Hill to Capitol Hill. What if no one remembered what happened here 50 years ago? The panic subsided as I coasted in to a sedated community of art supplies, bookstores and food. There's food everywhere. The flea market was my first and only scheduled stop.



Rows and rows of vendor tents harboring equal amounts of memorizing art and junk filled the fenced in parking lot. I'm not sure what purpose the space serves during the week, but gathering from the lack of retail establishments surrounding it, the flea market may be this areas most exciting weekly event.



There was a lack of clientele but a deliciously intoxicating assemblage of Rastafarian's. A drum line wafted from beneath the nearby bridge, keeping the beat of the reggae blaring from a vendors boombox. I smiled as the canals of repurpose and resale artisan trinkets glimmered in the sunlight.





More than one vendor advised that Sundays were rarely becoming worth the effort, but that on Saturdays, this was the place to be. I didn't mind the lack of a crowd. It gave me a chance to really talk to people. I spoke with half a dozen men who had immigrated from South Africa for varying reasons. Most were selling beaded necklaces and hand-carved statues. I bought turquoise and coral strands and draped them around my neck. I've waited my whole life for love beads from Berkeley.



A beautifully dreadlocked woman appeared from out of nowhere and told me I needed a smudge stick. It was written on my list of things to buy yesterday, a last-ditch effort to cleanse myself of any remaining negative energies. How she knew, if she really knew, I'll never know. But her eyes were bright and her daughter's crooked smile was endearing, so I handed her a $5 bill and she handed me a bound collection of lavender, sage and lemongrass.



My obsession with Tibet and India grow more so every year. When encountering the beauty of the cultures, the resilience, and vibrancy of the colors in their every day lives, I am often left both stunned and enhanced.



I purchased this Americanized good luck charm of the elephant-headed Indian god, Ganesha. He is generally acknowledged to be the god of luck as well as the one who opens the door to your happiness. Being in Ganesha's good graces is a positive thing and so, with their trunks pointed up, a strand of decorative elephants now hang by my bedroom door.

I carried on throughout the flea market for hours, eucalyptus soap, incense, jewelry- some made it through my strenuous purchasing guidelines, others did not. I wandered the streets of Berkeley, finding this gem at Pegasus Books:



And it was shortly thereafter that Jem found me.

It seems only appropriate that I met Jem on the same day I was purchasing good luck charms for my optimistic self and Bukowski for my pessimistic tendencies. The duality of my nature is ever present but Jem reinforced what I know and tend to overlook; peace is found in accepting things the way they are. And this is the way they are: "Sustenance is just 10 letters, it can't keep you alive."

We all need something more than words to survive, something more discernible than hope to make the day feel less Sisyphean. Faith and coffee are not enough. But almost daily, the kaleidoscope view of the Bay fragments my internal turmoil and allows me to see the spectrum of beauty in it all. As Berkeley knows best, finding, retaining and maintaining peace is a process from the inside, out.

Wednesday Wandering

There is a singular photo of me that inspired this entire California adventure. This photo encapsulates my youthful fearlessness and the entirety of my being. I'm 15 or 16, riding in the back of Dustin's 80-something Mustang. Alissa's in the front seat, camera in hand. Long before cell phones entered our lives, we were never without disposable cameras. The effort to take, develop and copy photos was extensive in those days and that is perhaps why I've held on to so many of the pictures from a life that is as distant to me as the Atlantic Ocean.
But it is in this photo that I am in my truest element. My hair is bleach blonde, I'm wearing sunglasses with blue lenses, a tank top, a necklace sent to me via postal mail by a woman who taunted and placated my infatuation of her. The windows are down, the wind is whipping my hair in every direction and I am smiling. I am fearless. I am hopeful. I don't know yet that I will make a 5 years of horrible decisions, spend another 5 recoiling and repairing both internal and external damage and then wind up here, in a coffee shop in suburban San Francisco recollecting it all. In this photograph I'm only concerned with pacifying my consistent ache for adventure. I use to say that I wanted my life story to be a series of unbelievable experiences. As I evolved, I learned that memoirs can be written about even the simplest lives- it's all in the wording. But I didn't know that then and my every move was audacious.



This photo hangs in my bedroom now; a daily reminder that I am (humbly) the bravest woman in the world. I am still fearless and hopeful, but in possession of common sense that, unlike the past, is exercised on a frequent basis.
Last night I reached a breaking point in my ambitiousness. I pushed aside the pages and pages of work and school to-do's piled up on my desk, slipped into my skinny jeans and Warhol's and took off for SF proper.



I feel safest in this concrete jungle, where my level of anonymity is entirely self-derived. I got off the train at Montgomery, the only stop I'm comfortably familiar with and I began to walk. I had no destination, no purpose, just a coffee in one hand, a smoke in the other and an insatiable need to be immersed in a crowd. The business men and women rushed past me, briefcases flailing wildly as they hurried to the subway. A chorus of horns sounded for block and blocks and I laughed without restraint. I love the sound of blaring horns, the tangibility of impatience. I'm an incredibly impatient driver so to imagine the ranting monologues of all these individuals in their cars, pontificating as to how this entire traffic jam could've been avoided- it was glorious.

Suddenly I snapped out of my traffic analysis and realized I'd been walking for blocks, it was dark and I had no idea where I was. Somehow, perhaps fatefully, I'd managed to wander to the front door of the San Francisco Chronicle. Fate or coincidence? I suppose only time will tell. I am happy with the aspirations I'm currently pursuing. It was however, a bit curious, to wind up there of all places.



Now, the one benefit of technology is that smart phones have navigation applications. I exercise mine on a regular basis. Googling "lesbian night life," I found a staple establishment and headed toward the bus stop on 3rd & Mission. 30 minutes later I'd reached my destination, Wild Side West, whose "lesbian-friendly" atmosphere caters to all the locals but is an obvious haven. The petite, punk rock, bleach-blonde bartender mixed my drink, lit my cigarette and led me down two flights of stairs to an eclectic and ornate garden, flourishing with innumerable varieties of plant life, art hidden within the woven ivy and overgrown Clematis. She introduced me to lovely Michelle and Kat- who only stayed long enough for introductions. Granted, I sat down without an invitation, but I rarely have time for customary etiquette. Michelle and I discussed literature, she speaks a little French, we laughed as the smell of pot drifted across the courtyard. In San Francisco people rarely make an effort to hide their harmless indulgence. Pot's more common here than alcohol but as Michelle explained, it's a compact community- ducking into a dark corner to flare up a pipe is entirely unacceptable in Santa Cruz and even L.A. San Francisco is a league of the most avant-garde and we make our rules here.



I didn't stay late, but I did find a BART station 6 blocks from my final destination. The walk through the Mission District back to the subway was refreshing. The streets are stained, blotted by oil and saturated with the stench of exhaust and Latin food. Graffiti coats abandoned shop windows and then suddenly there's a beautiful jazz restaurant with fine crystal stemware hanging overhead the walnut bar. Mission St. is full of thrift shops and thus I will return, to both the hospitality of the bar and the neighborhood. Everywhere I go I see myself more clearly, which for me means I've finally developed a sense of comfort within my own skin. It only took 26 years.

Cumulative Thoughts

There are no pictures to accompany this post, only random thoughts I've meant to explore in further depth- singular moments so brief and beautiful that only experiencing them can emboss their significance.

Today I stood in line for coffee and watched a young man pull up his sleeve and glare at his watch impatiently. The line was long and slow, the cashiers were saturated with (personally) infuriating retail etiquette. It was mid-afternoon and the shop was full of middle-aged women gossiping, an elderly woman scribbled furiously into a notebook, the posture of a pair of ancient men dissolved in the mahogany chairs as they debated politics. But it was this man, in his moment of hurried impatience, who reminded me that I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen someone check the time on their wrist. In some aspects, I believe cell phones may have ruined everything. The intricate beauty of a wristwatch has long since been forgotten. Horologists are now wild-eyed sub-characters in science fiction plots. They reveal a clue to move the storyline along but carry no further significant value. It's a tragedy that the brass gears and tiny silver screws, the delicate glass placement and design forethought have become an antiquated art form. From now on, I will wear watches.

A few nights ago I was driving past Todos Santos Plaza at dusk when a balding man halted his bicycle in the middle of the crosswalk, surveyed the crowd of anxious rush hour participants and then popped and rode a wheelie 10 feet to the sidewalk. That is the sort of childish foolishness that I miss in my daily life. Perhaps he just wanted to test his capabilities? Maybe he was showing off? Whatever the reason, I too live for 10 seconds or 10 feet of silly showmanship. I would've offered him a standing ovation had the light not turned green.

The full moon is so bright from my sheltered haven that you can nearly walk through its penetrating beams and feel as if you've bathed in Christmas lights and luck. Orion darts from the front porch to the back within a couple of hours as Jupiter's gaseous glow rages only a little further South.

In Concord, everything is in slow motion. Expressions freeze. Walks are paced. Life takes longer to experience when you're attempting to observe every detail.

I realized tonight that I don't fall in love with pretty faces or a certain "type" of woman. I fall in love with qualities, attributes, potential. The positivity in those concepts makes a woman most beautiful.

On my way to Ikea I would've picked up the stranded motorists walking along the highway but it was 9 a.m. and she was wearing 5 inch gold sequin heels. Her companion had a hood so dark and deep I couldn't see his face. I don't trust hoods or sequins.

I love that there are places here with names like "Upper Happy Valley," "Blueberry Court" and "Rising Dawn Lane." I have to believe that the neighborhood developer smiles at the morning dew and steam rising off the mountaintops at dawn, just as I do, and feels that this may be where heaven and Earth overlap.

Of course, these are just my thoughts- little notes I take during the day to try and remember that when I pay attention, the world is a fascinating place. The work week is inundated with projects that thrill me to the core, and then there's homework that's already begun to accumulate. C'est la vie. "Aimer, travailler et souffrir," as Kerouac would say.

Where to begin?

WHAT a weekend! It's been impossible to blog since Friday, as I've been in the midst of "Furniture-O-Rama." I like to name seemingly mundane, but entirely sentimental events in my life with huge, outrageous names- as to mark their significance in my personal evolution.
For starters, I left cozy Concord and traveled to Emeryville, not just once, but twice. That's a 25 mile drive. To the city. Away from the safety of home. In a car. My car.
Let me be more specific: I've become addicted to Ikea and I went on Saturday and again on Sunday. Did you hear me? I went to Ikea. On a Saturday.
In comparison, it's like going scuba diving (for the first time) during shark mating season.
It all began with a little adventure in minimalism last October. I got rid of EVERYTHING that didn't fit in my car. U-Haul rental was too expensive to transport my meager possessions across the country, so I gave them all away, as you well know by now. Thus, when I arrived in California, I had, well, nothing to speak of- just plastic containers with my uniform of jeans and holey t-shirts and idealistic tokens of the past. In 4 days I've purchased a bed, for which a picture will never do justice, a writing desk, bookshelves, a desk chair, ridiculously overpriced (but orange and eclectic) cardboard boxes, 2 lamps and a plethora of chocolate.



The Desk (where brilliance will pour out of my mind and through my keyboard)



Ikea LACK shelves, which, thanks to roommate Joel, will stay mounted to the wall through the most horrendous earthquake possible.





Oh, and I got a renters insurance policy in the event that I burn down the house trying to power all the machinery it takes to bring you this hilariously lively recollection of my daily happenings.

So, you can see that I was Ikea's favorite shopper this weekend, but oh wait...there's more. I have a bathroom. Yes, my very.own.bathroom. Whoever heard of such a thing?



Watercolors. My heart. My happiness.



A touch of Johanna in my bathroom!



And the most colorful collection of towels in existence

Now you make think I'm ridiculous for posting pictures of my newly decorated abode online, but this weekend marked a very significant event in my 20's. Not only have I driven 2,200 miles to live out my California dream- but until this weekend, I'd never bought entirely new furniture, much less had the MONEY to buy entirely new furniture, on my own. By myself.

THE DECLARATIVE SENTENCES ARE FOR EMPHASIS!

I did this on my own. With my own money. I made my own decisions and I am proud of them, fulfilled by them.



Of course I have the "Wall O' Ryan," a shrine to my most beloved man.

What I have yet to enlightened you on are the 3 interstates that whip and wind, crossing over and dipping beneath one another- the labyrinth of bravery in which I (not once, but TWICE) overcame in order to get to Ikea.
The trip started out innocent enough. The view from anywhere on the California coastline is marvelous.



I live here? What?



Emeryville rests near the water. Upon entering Caldecott Tunnel you smell the damp ocean wind trapped in the cylindrical pathway that leads you from your landlocked blues to a skyline full of sails and barges. The entire route the GPS yells EXIT HERE, MERGE HERE! We're back to the winding maze that initially terrified me. CA-24, i-680, i-580, all coming up at a moments notice.
Something I learned this weekend: never, EVER get on to a California interstate if you think, for even a MOMENT, that you may have to urinate in the next hour. Traffic can suddenly halt for no visible reason at all and stay that way just long enough for you to debate the shame of leaning against your car and peeing in front of strangers. Additionally, have a pack of smokes- a full pack - whether you smoke or not. You'll need them. I promise. However, this also requires that you have an ashtray in your car. A portable one is preferable so you can empty it regularly. No one likes a stinky car and there's a sign every 5 or so miles warning of 1) Littering is a $300 fine MINIMUM and 2) All litter winds up in the ocean. If you've ever seen Finding Nemo or the Bay at sunset, you'll never again throw a smoke out the window.
And so, the week begins with two reminders that I have made the best decision of my life.
The first reminds me of my mother, of the greenhouses, of painting on the sides of my dressers while listening to Jewel during my angst-y early teen years:

This single yellow snapdragon survived the menacing canines of the previous tenant and is blossoming in the cracks of the backyard landscape.

And finally...the most telltale sign of all.



This, my friends, is the exact same species of plant, and nearly the same size, as the one that inhabited my apartment with Ryan for a year. He loved this plant more than life itself because his gram-gram gave it to him as a housewarming gift. When I drove him to Chicago it wouldn't fit in the car and we gave it to a lovely pedestrian who drug it home with her. But here it is, somehow, miraculously, growing full force in my California backyard reminding me yet again, that my loves may be spread across the country, but my heart is always within my chest. What a wonderful life I lead.

Quiet Friday

It's been a week since I said the final farewells to my life in Kansas City. The 4.5 day drive presented me with an enormous challenge, to quiet my mind and really listen to my own thoughts. It was during that drive that I evolved into a much quieter version of myself. What a curious notion, that someone so boisterous and flamboyant is suddenly bashful, tongue-tied, observant. I must presume it's part of the settling in process, the introduction to a self-reinvention that I've craved for years. Few people will ever know my true self and these days I'm much more guarded in what I reveal. While it's difficult to silence the old tapes that keep replaying through my head, but I now have the presence of mind to realize that the uncontrollable circumstances I keep obsessing over are 2,000 miles away and it may be time to retire the worry as it's only leads me to a bottle of Xanax.
I'm at Peet's again. The barista's have learned my name and learned to lean over the counter to hear me order. My voice is so small, my throat chokes at the idea of projection. I'm not in my element yet. Something similar happened to me when I was 18. Suddenly, after years of enjoying theme parks, I became terrified of roller coasters. Perhaps an adventurous and fearless spirit redirects its strengths from time to time. My strengths are innumerable. I've worked hard to be a person of integrity, a person of inexhaustible work ethic, honest and generous but also unruly and unconventional. I've followed my heart and its led me here to a place where I'm reintroduced to me, and I have changed.



I love Kirker's Pass more every day. Driving home last night I wanted to pull over, jump a barbwire fence and run up the sides of the soft mountains singing "The Sound of Music." But, I didn't- only because there's not much of a shoulder but something about those mountains and the gentle littering of calves and sheep keeping the terrain orderly, I love it.
My first 8-hour work day happened yesterday. I make my own hours, wear whatever I like, and participate in manual labor so strenuous that I ordered pizza delivery on the way home last night, too tired to get out of my car and walk into a restaurant. Before it arrived I heaved my exhausted body into the shower and watched as the dirt and grime of the warehouse rolled off my skin and down the drain. The first and foremost goal on the way to a tangible bookstore is to get inventory under control. This is the view from the loft in the warehouse:



One by one we unload these gaylords in front of recycle bins. If the book has no monetary value, it gets recycled. If it does, we resell it. Everything else is just a dream until the kinks in this process are smoothed out. I took another shower this morning trying to loosen up the tender muscles in my biceps and calves, but it still hurt to bend over and tie my shoes. The pain is my reward though, reminding me of the countless days at the greenhouses, carrying hundreds of buckets of tomatoes out of one hot house and into the main building for buffing and packaging. And when we expanded, leaping into the backs of semi-trailers to cart out 50 lb bags of cattle grain, bales of alfalfa, salt licks. I loved that life and I love this one- with every movement I'm earning my dream.