One major thing that I have learned from this writing class is that I am not a good writer. The second major thing that I have learned from this writing class is that I'm okay with that, as long as I keep developing as a writer.
I may never excel as a writer. The devotion to what is left is what I live for now.
Ah, today, dear reader. This week made me mortal, and here, on this Saturday, I became ethereal, like Cinderella, if only for flash of hours. I awoke at 5 am, curled up with the prose of Tobias, fell back asleep in Stanford dreams, awoke again at 7:30, washed, dressed, collected the week's laundry and trash, and stepped out into the sunshine. Sunshine. So basic, a taste like that of sourdough bread, but something I don't get to enjoy all week. Sunshine blushed me. There is a fuscia "V" widespread like wings just below my collarbone, ringing my shoulders at my sleeveless sweater, lighting my face in embarrassed pleasure. I had breakfast, egg and spinach on wheat bagel and fresh juice, at the Music Concourse in the Park. Then a brief wait for the 71, down through the colorful Haight and through Downtown to the Ferry Building, tasting fresh food from the farms of the area. I bought white peaches, tomatoes, sweet onion, mint, strawberries, Sweet William--three big bunches with the thicket of small flowers. Zucchini. Fresh yogurt in a crock. I popped open the crock at the closest pier and dropped the red berries into it like fondue. Pure pleasure in food that wasn't laced with four hundred grams of cholesterol or fat or sugar.
The most basic.
There were other errands, but later in the afternoon there was a nap, and then some favored films, and then the sounds of KFOG's "Kaboom" in the dark as I sipped a Reisling and chopped the savory vegetables for a thick pasta rendition.
I'm not a great writer.
But it's wonderful to find gratitude with words.
Sleep well, dear reader.