Feeling quite glamorous, even while apartment-less and boiling eggs for breakfast. Holed up in Niva's swanky flat above Dolores Park for nearly three weeks while bikini'd hostess cruises the Galapagos Islands, I stalk up and down the sunlit hall like I'm some fancy-lingerie model on a runway of my increasingly frivolous imagination, agent provocateur uprighting overturned cacti, chasing Oliver who has eaten yet another sweater, and tearing up lettuce for patient Jose.
Remember to water twice a week and change the kitty litter every so often. But eat well, don't lose too many bobby pins, and find that place, ok, preferably a large room with large windows, overlooking a garden or alleyway.
Yes, I know, I shouldn't dream too big. This is San Francisco, where housing is still pricey, despite the exodus of thousands of ex-dot-com'ers. But, as D. reminded me yesterday over shwarma, being a newcomer can be neat-o; your romance with the city is still quite new--no ideals have been dashed, yet. (And yes, of course, the degree of neat-o-ness for a newcomer is contingent upon privileges of class and race and nation.)
So let me dream. I want room enough to breathe well. Room enough to read more properly--rather than stolen, like not-enough hunks of air whilst nearly drowning, on train trips between work and home, city and city. Room enough to craft more fully-realized fiction and render awake the missing and the unfamiliar. Room enough to plan more adventures, those heart-necessary and necessarily creative escapes from what would repress and ultimately annihilate me.