And holy shit does it feel epic.
That's right. I'm still in my sweatpants, my hair is an absolute mess from showering at 12 am and not bothering to put anything in it, the bandaid on my burn looks disgusting (I changed it just after I saw that, don't fret), and I'm here. Writing. Sipping on boiling hot chamomile tea and taking tablets of trader joe's 1000 milligram of vitamin C to the face because I'm positive I've finally caught what Lopez was spreading around the apartment.
And holy shit does it feel epic. Minus...the possibly getting sick part. Fucking Lopez.
Last night was well-needed. It's been so long since I've been around such a plethora of creativity, I couldn't help but feel I'd discovered the fountain of youth. There were musicians, old timers and green horns. There were writers, mostly there for Rich's sake, and artists. All drunk or strung out. All shaking hands and talking the good ol' days. All in this small, dilapidated bar far from downtown San Francisco and the usual yuppies.
The perfect petri dish if you will.
After hours of decorating and scrambling about to put the final touches on what would be the 4th annual Frisco Freakout, I tucked myself into what would be the merch spot and sat.
Watching.
The smell of vegan chilli clashing with the weed seeping from the staff's private room above the kitchen. There's a pause as the next band sets up, I take my earplugs out and scan faces, taking mental notes of all the John Lennons and Bob Weirs weaving through one another. I feel out of place momentarily. I'm not with the band, I'm not even really with Rich who put all this together. I'm just here.
Watching.
The smell of vegan chilli clashing with the weed seeping from the staff's private room above the kitchen. There's a pause as the next band sets up, I take my earplugs out and scan faces, taking mental notes of all the John Lennons and Bob Weirs weaving through one another. I feel out of place momentarily. I'm not with the band, I'm not even really with Rich who put all this together. I'm just here.
The young married couple at the table next to mine smile.
This one really does look like John Lennon.
They run a literary magazine out of their apartment in North Oakland off the MLK. He took a short story class with Rich at City College. I thumb through and happen upon one his poems. It's good, really fucking good. We get to talking about what the process has been like to start Drift. The struggle to get the word out - literally, the cost to print in black and white versus color, the fear of pursuing an MFA rather than a Masters and getting pigeon-holed by passion rather than logic. We exchange war stories on editing. I'm introduced to their friend visiting from Australia.
Someone who's interested in a subscription approaches the table, so we step aside. His eyes are a phenomenal blue-green that close every so slightly when he smiles. He tells me that he's just returned from a cross country trip of the lower 48 and up through Canada.
We talk school, we're both elementary school teachers. He encourages me to get my credentials and move to Melbourne. We compare Americans to Australians. We discover we're both incredibly severe on our own countries. He makes fun of Americans for saying Koala bear, when in fact they're not bears, but marsupials - pouch and all. I chastise him from driving on the wrong side of the road. He tells me that his favorite author at the moment is John Krakauer, I tell him he should read Dave Eggers. He mentions he was going to volunteer at 826 Valencia. He brings me a Blue Moon as I man the merch table. We go in for a high five which reverts to an awkward in between greeting gone wrong: hand over thumb. We laugh. He tries to teach me to snap my fingers together as shake we hands. Mine are too small in his and I can't make it without having to throw my whole body into the motion.
Electricity, he calls it.
Feelings of belonging are suddenly insignificant.
Replaced instead with a desire to no longer be stagnant with myself. To find my motorcycle and map and conquer whatever it is I was meant to discover. To not be so afraid of what life is outside of what I've programmed myself to think it is. After all, I'm meant to be here, at this exact moment.
The drive home into Oakland is quiet, nearly intoxicating. I decide after dropping the three off that I'll take the 13 and skyline home. From the top I pause, starring out from what seems to be where the Earth meets infinite space.
The bay looks on fire, surrounded by the red of light pollution.
I dance in its shadow, celebrating this burst of self-realization.
After all, I was meant to be here. At this exact moment.
After all, I was meant to be here. At this exact moment.
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