Saturday, In the Park...

Okay, no, that's wrong, I wasn't in the Park today, not yet, but it was either that or "Come Saturday morning," and it's 4 pm.

Me and my music.

Anyway, good Saturday...I woke up late, to begin with. When I say late let's get some perspective:

• Weekdays I am up between 4 and 5 a.m.
• Weekends where I have done my own damn laundry, 7 a.m.
• Today when the wash and fold doesn't open until 8:30, a block and a half from me = priceless.

I was still in bed at 8, writing my review for "Better Off," taking my time, and loving life. Then I got up, took my laundry in, went to Kate's Kitchen on Haight and Fillmore for breakfast, and I am just now hungry from that feast. I went there for Mike and Serena's visit too and had hash that time...this time I had what they call a "French Toast Orgy." And SO IT WAS. Full of good stuff and not so good for me stuff, but I had been good all week.

Then back downtown to window-shop--hell, why not?--and then write at the Metreon. High crime or no, I like writing there. As MH said in his blog, everyone's moved to Westfield and I get peace to write out the wazoo. I usually park myself in the food court and write for a good hour or so, sipping a beverage to belong legally.

Today I finished up my journal-writing for the week; I was behind 6 pages and wanted to put those pages to bed. The new direction for the pages is this--no complaining anymore and no rumination. I will also be taking the weekend off from journaling because my bag is too heavy to strap on 7 days a week--on the weekends I will carry less and take in more, during the week I will carry more and deliver more journal pages. Sort of a balancing thing.

This is from today's entry, just because it was so wonderful to me (not necessarily the writing, but the event):

I am at Yerba Buena today again, pleased to have put in the time. I get to spend time with people without having to face the worse parts of their natures. I don't think that the man and his daughter that I sat next to today for the better part of 45 minutes could have HAD worse parts though...it was like watching two angels. He looked to be my age, calm, relaxed, good-looking, and at the most I would say his daughter was four years old. He took off his parka and her small coat, and then cut off a third of his sandwich (hoagie-style) and took the flimsy knife and fork of plastic and cut up the third into tiny pieces. He also took a few vegetables from his salad and cut those up as well. They were both silent and peaceful. She watched his hands (since you ask, yes, they were capable-looking hands) with rapt attention. When the second plate was full of tiny pieces of food, he placed it in front of her with a plastic fork, and slid the chair opposite her around so that he was sitting next to her. They commenced eating.

In the Midwest the only thing missing from that picture would have been grace, but there was grace in my eyes. He deftly ate and helped her when things wouldn't stick to the points of her fork or when she clumped two pieces on the fork and tried to chew them anyway. Nothing says love like eating while you cup your child's chin with a Kleenex waiting for too much to come out of her mouth too chewed.

At one point a man and his toddler son walked between our tables, the small boy staggering around in walking practice. The father of the girl was watching the boy, and my eyes fell on the girl. She was watching my pen fly with the same rapt attention as her father's hands earlier. I smiled at her, then winked. Her whole face lifted like kite string into the shape of a smile.

I could see a million sights and travel the world for wonders and always have that. I would rather have that one exchange. Fuck the Eiffel Tower. Someone that small and trusting smiled at me.

The guy with the capable hands is really, really lucky. But I imagine he knows that, even if he is raising her alone.

*****

After that I walked to the Embie again, watching the waves in the overcast. There is a time frame on the laundry, and back to the Sunset I came, picked it up, and here we are. The mere effort of typing this has worn off the last of the "Orgy," so I need to find food. Until next time, dear reader...

Selah.