Subtle

The dominant m.o. here in the Castro is clearly subtlety, as this sign outside Judy's Garland (a local florist) reminds me:

Imagine our tu-lips
on your organ!

Damn

One bad dream can really ruin your day, especially when said dream involves your boyfriend inexplicably leaving you, which makes you so sad and weary you can't quite function properly until you actually hear his voice (for real) saying, 'It was just a dream, Em,' at which point you start to breathe again.

Oddly enough, my notoriously irrelevant Yahoo! horoscope (Cancer) sort of almost maybe applies to me today:

Dreams continue to be a big part of your life today, dear Cancer. It is likely that you have been having some unusual ones lately, and you can't help but wonder about their significance. Why not go to the library and check out a book or two? You may be fascinated by what you discover. And remember: dream interpretation is an art, not a science. Do your research to get a general idea about the meanings of things rather than trying to do a direct interpretation. If you're really curious, seek out an expert.

I think I can do without both the expert and the library research, although I surely will bear in mind that dream interpretation is an art, not a science.

Don't empty houses ring?

It's the first day of National Poetry Month (who decides these things? and can a month be dedicated to more than one cause?), so it seems more fitting to keep my rambling to a minimum and let an Actual Poet do the talking instead. To Richard Hugo, then.

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg

You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs--
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won't fall finally down.

Isn't this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn't this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?

Don't empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it's mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

Fear and Loathing in the Farmers' Market

It's funny, in that unfunny way: thinking about going to Farmers' Market tomorrow sort of stresses me out. I mean, shouldn't it be a sort of soothing experience to browse through tables of produce, tasting stuff and feeling all earthy? Maybe that's just some sort of deluded pipe dream, but it's my Farmers' Market ideal.

Ferry Plaza is another story, though. I'm seriously considering dragging my sorry self out of bed at 8 tomorrow just so I can get there early and avoid having to do battle with all the Mercedes SUV drivers who are determined to find close parking at any cost and who, once parked, use the market as a see-and-be-seen venue. Sure, yeah, everyone has the right to partake of fresh produce on a Saturday morning, but can't you at least be nice about it?

I digress.

If I do manage to screw my courage to the sticking place and make the trek down there, I'll surely make a stop at Mariquita Farm's stall, because it's awesome, and they have great stuff. I'm mildly impatient for strawberry season to be upon us, because their berries kick ass.

Escape

Is it normal to deal with disappointment and/or frustration by wanting to flee? I mean, do other people, when faced with a weekend that's a holiday (read: long) for others but not for themselves, and in which their plans as of Thursday involve little more than a doctor's appointment and a bridesmaid's dress fitting, want to hightail it to Vegas?

Maybe it's just me. But doesn't it seem, sort of, that if you're lounging poolside in Vegas (I guess it would have to be an indoor pool, since it's still chilly) and are contemplating your nickel slots strategy while hotel employees ply you with free alcohol--doesn't it seem like your other cares would melt away? That you wouldn't rail against your company for coughing up so few holidays (despite your admission that you really are spoiled as far as employment goes)? That you couldn't possibly complain about all the middling annoyances that pile up and threaten to make you a whiny pain in the ass?

Alas, probably because it is a holiday weekend for others, the cheap-ass Vegas (or LA, or Portland, or Palm Springs) weekend getaway packages that seem so abundant at other times are not to be found. I think having to shell out a thousand bucks for an escapist weekend would make me more cranky, not less. If I'm at all wise, I'll use my time this weekend to do all the stuff I've been putting off, like finally giving my garden some attention beyond the occasional watering, or catching up on New Yorkers, or drinking myself into a caffeinated frenzy via Proper Cappucinos in North Beach. (If I'm not wise, I'll sit around and mope, but here's hoping I come to my senses before that happens.)

I have to admit that Eric's joke about calling vegetarian pork products "soysage" is pretty funny. Really, has no one thought of this before? Off to investigate....

Lileks

It's true that James Lileks' site is one of the best procrastination tools ever. I'm especially fond of the new-ish restaurant and motel postcard sections.

One

The office smells like smoked meats today, for reasons I don't care to investigate. Combined with the nails-on-blackboard voice of the woman having the LOUD phone conversation with her office door open (why? why? why? you have a door for this very purpose) and the looming dread of my impending 90-minute conference call (pretend to listen, occasionally release the Mute button in order to make some sort of half-intelligent/intelligible comment to the collective, try to finish today's crossword), said meaty odor is making me want to escape into what really is an amazingly sunny morning.

But dommage for me.

I've come to the (admittedly obvious) conclusion that the man a few doors down from me who busies himself with the task of adhering small slabs of colored marble to the facade of his house will never, ever be done. He just won't. He's been doing this for five years, since the day I moved into my current domicile, and there's just no way something like this could take half a decade, especially since he works on it every single day. Really, he's got to be just killing time now, and whether that killing takes the form of removing and replacing some slabs each day or applying marble to the roof or just moving the piles of crap on the sidewalk in front of the house from one spot to another, I can't quite tell. I mean, sure, to each his own and all that jazz, but there comes a time when one just gets tired of stepping around bags of concrete and piles of stone every time one exits the house and walks half a block north. That time has come.