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.
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