-San Francisco
So much for the vaunted post summer summer in SF. The death mist ( insert adjective laden bit here; creeps, sleathes, crawls ) over the city, bathing us in Ire-worthy palour. No wonder the Brits built an empire of the sun; who could live like this.
Were I better with metaphors, I’d finagle in something here ’bout the uncertain space between dark and like standing body double for my life @ the moment. The works for/of the playa, the film, the recyling, camp katrina, the NYT piece, are all done, and in their place there are some things pending, but yet undone. The film, but properly done. Several stories, waiting to see if they’ll fly. And other things, as well.
I’m giving myself permission, however, for the moment, to not decide. To sit it the fog, contemplate the gray, be ok with just not knowing.
And reflect on things. Like the absurdity of people lining up at Bloomingdales to apply for a credit card, and receive their black, yellow, and white signature umbrellas as a thank you gift. “Here, in return for applying for credit you can only use here, we’ll give you this umbrella, a walking billboard, which in a few weeks time will scream “see how outdated I am? the christmas ad campaign has already rendered these colors and looks obsolete!” Estimated time till homeless people are seen sleeping under them: November 15th.