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- All alone in San Francisco. In the early morning, the line for the cable cars is much shorter. A family from Ohio sits next to me on the wooden step. I don't take pictures. I look. At each intersection, the cable car stops for a moment, hovering there on the side of a hill, and you see down a long avenue, past buildings and cars and streets and people. At the end of the street, there's the bay, and the bridge arcing gracefully between buildings, and little puffy clouds scooting across the sky.
- After wandering through Chinatown I return to my hotel room for a nap and wake up at midnight. The cool moist air of the city surrounds me. I roll over and go back to sleep.
- In Petaluma we stay at a Sheraton at the edge of a marsh. I walk the path that skirts the dense, low vegetation and the mudflats. Highway 101 roars nearby and the marsh is ringed with litter and office buildings. It's a long, long walk, and my muscles, complaining after three days of San Francisco hills, soften and then tighten again. At the farthest point, I see three egrets and two herons. This is one of the last wetlands on the California coast.
- The Cathedral Grove at Muir Woods has been designated a "quiet zone." The redwoods stretch up forever, a thousand, two thousand years old. Determined to make it to the grove, I push on ahead of the rest of my family. My six-year-old niece walks with me, and she is so very good about remaining silent in this silent, sacred place. Other tourists blather on, take photos. She shushes them. In spite of the chatter here and there, I can hear and feel the silence, the weight of these old, old beings, here long before the cars and chips and subdivisions.
- On the way to Petaluma, we stopped and took in the perfect view of the bay, the city, Oakland, the hills, and the graceful orange curves of the Golden Gate. On the way back, fog envelops the bridge, the thick suspension cables fading into the mist.
- The eucalyptus trees, heavy and shaggy and fragrant. Lining the highway, brought here by missionaries one hundred and fifty years ago.
- My brother's house is an Eickler. The facade is a blank wall, softened by native plants artfully placed. Inside, glass walls and the high, sloped ceiling, draw in the greenery of the atrium and the back garden. It's like being inside a work of art.
- At night in Santa Cruz I cross the boardwalk with my family, then leave them behind and greet the ocean. In the dark, seals bark to each other and the sea practices her endless rush. On the boardwalk, roller coasters and ferris wheels sparkle in the darkness, and people scream on the rides. I walk the strand between the two worlds.
- The next afternoon I hike from the boardwalk to West Cliff. Signs remind me to keep right. From time to time I stop and listen to the pounding of the surf, a whump I've never heard from the Atlantic. Surfers lay atop their boards, and from time to time one pops up and rides the curving white head of a wave to the edge of the rocks.
- At the beach below the Surfer's Museum, I sit on the sand and watch four teenagers talk about their summer jobs. From the cadence of their speech I can tell they are from Northern California. The sun, the blue oceans, the waves, lull me. I roll over on my side. My niece calls to me across the sand. I sit up and she runs to me. I pick her up and swing her around. Her father and my mother trail behind. Her father, my brother, has lived on this coast for 20 years. He's a different man now than the boy I grew up with on the opposite side of the continent. And still my brother. Still family.
- Feeling:
nostalgic
See the monarch summit
- Feeling: nostalgic
2. The ice broke. An email about bacteria count.
3. This morning, wavelets.
4. Will the swans mate this year?
5. I want to slide into the water, skin to water's skin. I want to guide him there, swim the dark waters with him. Fearful of the things below. Rotting leaves.
6. The cold makes you vital. Zip the tiny jacket, slip into sleet.
7. For Puritans, dancing is a sin.
8. Homeland is a beach in Santa Cruz. He surfed there. In the valley beyond, he died in a public men's room.
9. My mother's dancing makes me cringe. Unabashed. Skin to water's skin.
10. Tilt the map. Loose nuts roll to the Pacific.
11. Snow on tulips.
12. Curtain of sleet in the streetlamp. I am alive. Yes. Alive. Yes
13. At the egg moon. Alive.
Frances Donovan
March, April 2008
- Feeling:
alive, yes, alive
2. Whenever Gramma and Grandpa came to visit, she'd take me shopping. Usually to Lord & Taylor. I remember getting this little red-and-white-striped shorts and top set that was just the heighth of fashion in 1985.
3. We ate out at the nicest restaurants with Gramma and Grandpa. We always sat in the smoking section, and she would light up a cigarette and then wave the smoke away from me with her soft little hands.
4. She carried a boxy purse covered with cloth and with metal accents on the corners. I always considered it a kind of treasure box. At some point when I reached adulthood, she sent me one. I wish I still had it.
5. She had this lovely Japanese Geisha doll, the kind you see in Japanese restaurants, in the living room, inside a glass case. When I was a child, I always wanted to play with it. "You can have it when you're 30 or married," she'd say to me. As conservative as she was (she wanted me to go to that nice Jesuit school in Santa Clara, not Cal Berkeley! But she decided that Vassar was good enough), I think she knew me for who I was and loved me in her repressive, crazy sort of way. I think she knew I was gay, even though I and the rest of the family kept that knowledge from her like a sausage from a hungry dog. She didn't wait until I was married or 30 to give me the doll. It has pride of place in my living room now.
6. She died two months after Grandpa did. Toward the end of her life she dipped in and out of the present, often lapsing into very unladylike rages and diatribes. Grandma was always very ladylike, an iron fist in a kid glove. She did some horrible things in the name of love. But I miss her.
- Feeling: nostalgic
- Listening to:Louis Armstrong - Muskrat Ramble
I went there looking for stuff I could use to write up Waltham. And Moody street.
Which made me think about Badger.
Watching the Odyssey last night on the SciFi channel also made me think of that... of that/this whole period of my life. All those witches and Goddesses tempting Odysseus into their beds, begging him to forget his wife, while she waits faithfully for him for 16 years. He refuses, of course, and shrugs off the lovely women who care for him like so much chattel. Never mind that he lingers in their beds. He's the victim of their magic.
My story is not identical. I went out there trying to forget about Quick, not the other way around. But I find myself back in her difficult embrace.
And homesick for San Jose, a home I haven't known since I was a toddler.
- Feeling:homesick
- Listening to:Pink Moon, Nick Drake
