Christmas lights are strung on the moulding. They are plain white and don’t flash. I have a fake plastic tree in the corner. But I have seven or eight real plants in other corners. One of these plants, on the window sill, is dead. But I haven’t gotten rid of it yet. I have a porcelain green monkey holding a turnip. I have a cluttered desk. I have to dust. I have some sort of strange instrument that can’t be played. I don’t think. I have overdue bills my heart can’t pay. I have a corner-shelf filled with colored glass. None of it is useful. I have a wood and wrought iron coffee table. And matching end stand. Both haven’t been taken from me yet. Though they should be. I have a box full of blankets. And a box full of magazines. Another full of photographs. I have a suitcase record player. A coffee cup stolen from an all-night restaurant. I have tropical temperatures on the coldest of days. I have the perfect lamp for a 25-watt bulb. A dripless candle that smells ok. And I could use more light. I have a taken down the drapes. Because I like to look outside. An acoustic guitar on a stand. I’ve got only 2 photographs on the walls. But I don’t want more. This room has a lifetime full of memories. A ratty sofa that nobody really enjoys. Often open windows. Sometimes there’s a phone call from far away. “So what did you do today?” There are always shoes on the floor to trip over. Pools of my life gather in nearly every available depression. I have games. But I don’t play them often. Maybe I’ll open a jigsaw. I have a warm embrace. My ceiling has few right angles. And a fan. Which makes it nice to stare at.
It’s pretty much guaranteed I stink to high hell right now. I’ve been sick all weekend, not deathly ill, but enough to make me roll around in sweaty hot flashes while sleeping. And I didn’t shower yesterday. Why shower when you’re not feeling well? Why bathe when it’s known that you won’t be leaving the sofa, let alone the apartment, all day? It’s allowed. I allow myself to wallow in my own sick when I actually am sick. So when I woke up this morning and the water pressure in my apartment was shot, I mean it wasn’t even trickle pissing, I was a little disappointed. I waited for about fifteen minutes before I went down and bitched to the manager who had no real excuse and said she had already called the landlord but didn’t know when it would be fixed. So I grabbed a pitcher half full of water from watering plants the night before and dumped it over my head so as to semi-style my hair. Then I put deodorant on my unwashed pits, which is, let’s face it, really just putting perfume on the pig. I used the last of the water in my Brita filter to brush my teeth and swallow vitamins. I’ve still got four days worth of stubble on my chin and cheeks. So I avoided as much interaction with office-mates as I could today, feeling sorry for them cause I can smell my own ripeness sitting here at my computer. Good god I hope the water pressure is back when I get home.
The night before last I smashed my finger in the apartment door. It didn’t hurt too bad. I mostly just ripped my skin. The heavy door ripped it good and deep, right around the knuckle. I began bleeding immediately. Actually it didn’t bleed as much as it gushed. I held my finger in my mouth, tasting the metallic saltys-weet of blood mixed with saliva, until could put my keys away and get to the bathroom . I put my finger under the running sink faucet and the water was just barely able to keep up with the flow of blood. Eventually I figured to apply some pressure in order to slow the bleeding and get a bandage on. I probably needed stitches but couldn’t be bothered, a bandage would have to do. Well the cut finally stopped bleeding this morning. I’ll have a scar and this entry to remind me I’m still human.
Late last night I went outside to have a cigarette. Around the corner from the entrance of my apartment building there are a couple of benches that sit underneith a large tree that provides protection from the sun, rain and stars. I sat on one of these benches and stared into the street. From out of nowhere (in fact thinking back upon it, it seems he just sort of appeared) comes a skinny, older, man with a gap in his two front teeth, a startched white oxford, shiny black shoes, and a nice hat. He asked me if I would sell him acouple of ciggs. Of course I abliged. He sat down on the other bench. We both lit our smokes off the same match and he pulled the filter out of his. He told me about his brother and sister, his mom with alzhiemers, his relationship with god, the fist time he got laid, his job and how he got it, who he appreciates and why. He told me his name was Greg but all his fellas call him Magic. I told him my name.
On the top floor of my apartment building, in the laundry room, is a “free table”. It’s an ordinary card table of fake brown wood, pushed up against the wall. There is a sign that is taped to the wall above the table, written out in yellow highlighter on white notebook paper, it reads “free (with an arrow pointing down toward the table)”. Residents who have belongings they no longer need or want, possessions that hold old unwanted memories or unfulfilled dreams, or just plain old junk, leave them on this table for others to take. Most of the items you find on this table are useless junk. But one mans trash is another mans treasure and all that crap. What isn’t claimed by residents is then donated to the church next door or trashed (depending on its quality). I have put a half closet worth of clothes on this table over the two years that I have lived here. I have also gotten some pretty cool stuff off this table too:
San Francisco is a wonderful city. The weather was perfect. There was nearly no fog. Unfortunately, I only got to spend about 28 hours there. It was definitely whirlwind. I did however get to spend a little time in China Town, go to the ferry building, and walk around Knob Hill and Downtown. I stayed at the Omni which was a beautiful hotel with all the luxuries. I’ll be back, there is so much more to see.
My presentation went great. I spent most of the day in meetings, groups, and discussions. It all went well. But it was still work.
I got back home last night around 1:00 am. There was a giant hole in my shower wall. This is a good thing. The leak in bathtub faucets is finally being fixed after getting progressively worse for the last year-and-a-half. A new shower head has been put on so now I don’t have to squat my knees or bend over to rinse the shampoo off my head (which as small as it may sound, is actually quite a luxury).
Thanks for all your luck, I know it helped.
1. How many houses/apartments have you lived in throughout your life?
A quick count says that I have lived in at least 6 houses, 4 apartments (including the one I live in now), and 1 dorm.
2. Which was your favorite and why?
For a year, right after college, I lived in a 100-year-old mansion in the Capital Hill neighborhood. It was huge. It had a large yard, remodeled kitchen, hardwood floors throughout, pool table, porch, deck, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, four fireplaces, and all the original built in bookshelves, cabinets and mantles. I know for a fact that unless I win the lottery I’ll never live in a place that nice again.
3. Do you find moving house more exciting or stressful? Why?
Stressful, because it is just a lot of work. Once I’m all moved then I get excited.
4. What’s more important, location or price?
Location. Price is dependent on location.
5. What features does your dream house have?
A warm place to sleep. Oh yeah, and a swimming pool.