Blog-azic

I was becoming a wizard at fried bread, white rolls cut in two, fried in hot butter then topped with sharp cheddar and an egg. It was a Zen karma gift to my wife and hosts: many mornings of happy bellies to you. This day was bright and sunny. The fog was absent for the second day in a row, and we took advantage of the weather to climb up to the top of Bernal Heights Park where Rob, Kate, and Marley, the black wispy dog, were walking. They gave us a bird's eye tour of the city, everything that could be seen, which was north to the bay, east to Oakland, and west just to Twin Peaks. We made plans to visit the wave organ just east of the Presidio on a narrow jetty of land stretching into the Bay. Our driver wound through the streets until we reached the Marina District where we abruptly jumped out of the cab and walked down Chestnut street in search of food. When we settled, I ordered a big plate of Thai rice along with a glass of purple wine. The walk to the wave organ was ex...

This morning at the bakery down at Ellsworth and Cortland, halfway down the Bernal Heights hill, I sat with a black, wispy, fog-haired, nervous, pacing dog and waited for Susan to get a mug of coffee. Across the street, St. Kevin's church, pink Spanish stucco, and church bell a-ringin', was open and three big, burly guys were exiting dressed fine, smiling somewhat and chatting, and a big black hearse was parked out front. They were also going for coffee, and it reminded me that a funeral, in the end, is more about life than it is about death. We grabbed a Lyft south to Pacifica to hike out to Mori Point, and we felt the summer, dry desolation hills, and the cross winds and heard the roaring ocean, and watched the kelp sway, and the birds hover in the air. I grabbed some dried out seeds from a dead yarrow and crushed them in my hand, and Susan did the same, and it was pungent spice perfume. The ocean was blue then grey with fog, and ghost ships were floating out near ...

Our hosts left early for a natal check-up. That first evening when they broke the news to us, I felt a warm rush of happiness. Children. There's great joy in a house of clean emotion and the thought of it growing like a garden is one to hold. After breakfast, we picked an Asian bakery near Geary and 2nd and went in for some dumplings - bloated, sweet-doughed, pork buns, little soup dumplings filled with shrimp, and balls of sticky rice and sesame seed with red bean paste inside. Umami delights. Tickling my senses and coaxing me to sleep on the long winding hills past Marin City. In fact, I really had to shut my eyes since the turns were making my head reel. We found our way to the National Monument. The great cathedral for the immortal tree, of the immortal trees. Always, sempre. The woods were truly stunning, familiar, foreign; immediate, far away. Later, at the beach, I sat cross legged and meditated on it all - and the biting wind - and just the idea of warmth to keep me...

We rose joyful for another day of exploration. Down the hill, Susan and I bought coffee and bread. I heated pads of butter in a black iron skillet then fried white bread in the butter and topped it with sharp cheese and egg. Down Mission Street today towards Embarqadero. Sunday morning promise on the streets. Shops with doors wide. Yucca roots, waxy brown and creamy white. We missed the bus, and so, tried the BART instead, the banshee subway. The moan of an angel choir. Impermeable sound. Hollow, hot "oohs". I half wanted to cry in wonder and half wanted to yell in terror. I settled for a quick recording on my phone. I sat on the Sausalito Ferry, astern, and watched the churning water and the pier recede. The Bay Bridge seemed manic, long, jutting, spanning half the bay in two bounds, then linking with some island, and another bridge, and a causeway for the remainder. In Sausalito, we drank wine at a restaurant overlooking the water, feeling the Bay's expanse...

The morning was shrouded in - what else - fog. The whole day was an undulation. Experience the breadth of the word. Topology. Contoured lines. Every perspective was skewed. Nothing was close. We stretched our legs. From Mission Street, we went to Delores park. Kids gathered on the lawn out front of the high school. It was textbook. Cider. Then, lifted up and down to China beach. Cold winds and the bridge was still in tatters of wispy bay fog. Cliffs melted: trees, juniper rugs, scree, to boulders. The ocean was grey to green. I could hardly stand it for the cold. So, we rose on a string of pearled houses. Blue iridescence spread out in the bay. Sunlight hit the magic angle. We saw depth and shallow in the water, or maybe they were kelp beds sheltering mermaid's purses and skate eggs. And finally, the old orange sentinel was uncovered, burnished, glowing. Jasmine tea. Burhma and Russia. Peru as the night went purple. Tart purple wine, too. Hominy. Ceviche. There was...