Nested in the “Productivity” pocket on my iPhone is a “Notepad” with 9 entries, dating from Aug 18, 2010 (shortly after my arrival in SF) to Dec 4, 2011 (not so long ago). Looking over them on the train tonight, I was struck by their titles and range. In the interest of exposing my *productive* side, I’ve decided to record them here:
485 days ago: Buddhist deity Guhyasamaja (Sandui)/Guru Nanak, Life Stories (Sikh)/Istanbul: The Collected Traveler (Kerper)
198 days ago: Laundry/Pack/Taxi res./Sublease/Talk to Nancy/Italian/Dinner/Bath/Dr. appt./Call: Gigi, Skip
181 days ago: 1. Baci i Bari: It begins here. Qui, in la plaza di … It begins with Andrea’s scraggly beard, phosphorescent eyes and Milky Ooolong. Whisks and canisters, ice tea for the crowds. My very own alchemist, my very own Sufi. Sufism as a “patch” (I think he meant to say “path”).
88 days ago: Because I want someone to go to the Middle East with, and someone to walk with through the markets of North Africa (everyone tells me it is not safe to travel there alone). Someone with whom I can drink uber-sweet mint tea. Someone to come home to. Someone to share a beer and an inconsequential story with. Someone to tell the truth to, to collapse before, to spill open before, to cry with, to make love to, to fuck, to mingle with and transform, to co-create with, to baptize the mundane with, to steal away with, to forgive, to see, to love. To really love. Someone. You.
74 days ago: Stockholm 1/Stockholm 2*/Copenhagen 1?/Aarhus*/Paris*/Greece
67 days ago: Goddamnit, Riccardo. Throw me a fucking line. Say something, anything. I want to shake you, slap you, wake you up. What the fuck was all that for?!
18 days ago: Poets: Mahmoud Darwish/Yehuda Amichai/Ed Hirsch: The Living Fire … You (Turkey, Koc, Psych are great)/Me (I’m great)/We (We’d be great together)/Why (You should hire me)
12 days ago: Does it get any more “Sex in the City” than this? I don’t think so. Late night beers and tortilla chips in North Beach post-Christmas party … a drunk friend, a handsome Phillipino with freckles who pays for everything and admits he has a crush on me, even though I don’t seem sold on San Francisco and seem hung up on an Italian lover-boy. He’s right, and I feel sad for him as I peddle down the MUNI steps, but not as sad as I feel when I see a young man collapsed and crumpled beneath an “anything helps” sign … not only a young man, but a veteran of the Iraq war. My contemporary. So sad. Why don’t I want Gabriel, who wants me? Why didn’t I want Greg? He is a beautiful man! Why am I pining after someone who likes but doesn’t quite want me? This all seems so fucking ridiculous. We’re a crowd of heart-breakers, a crowd of self-made victims. But whose hearts are we really breaking, whose hearts are we holding at bay? Our own, of course. This, my friends, is getting old.
12 days ago: I give thanks to the one who had the guts and grace to tell me the truth: that the gift and burden of self-love and validation is mine, not his, that I am wonderful, but that he is not in a rush to convince me of this. He didn’t want to say it, but damn, I’m glad he did. His words have given me a lot to think about, a lot to confront and remedy (and love) in myself. This was his bouquet of roses, his offering, and it was in wild bloom, all beautiful.
Tonight: As it turns out, looking for a place to live in San Francisco is kind of like online dating. Tonight: a squinting New Yorker with tight curls and too much to say, followed by a Native American beauty named after a butterfly. The first flat was too dark, the second flat was too far. I am reminded of the Rumi poem, “In Baghdad, Dreaming of Cairo.” In other words, I am beginning to realize that I’ve got it pretty good. I would’ve absolutely gone for the place on 17th, but alas, it was not offered. Now I find myself at Pomelo on Church (PaPai lives on 30th and San Jose), supping noodles and feeling bummed that things fell flat with Justin. This is really a sweet, atmospheric place. In retrospect, I feel honored that he brought me here. But never mind. I put it out there, I tried. The good news is that I am now on winter break, and that I have a few unscripted weeks before me, weeks to fill with writing and yoga, morning coffee with Mama Middy and Bella, sister and niece pow-wows, solo hikes in Forest Park, Shannon at the Dragonfly, New Seasons, boots and beards, kombucha and reclaimed wood (Portlandia! Home!), and then Boulder … my God, so much to look forward to: so, so much fierce and homespun Love to look forward to. I am going to be just fine. I AM just fine. I guess you could say I am in Baghdad, loving Baghdad.
