That Song by Enya, or, The Neighborhood

Come to think of it, I've never written of where I live.  I rarely think about where I live in relation to the City I love.

I tend to think of my home in terms of the entire City, and not necessarily its parts.  To draw generalizations about San Francisco (or any city--I just learned yesterday that Denver has a neighborhood called LoDo, for Lower Downtown, and the baseball announcers were trying to sew that place up neatly, and probably failing to any local listening) is to invite criticism from someone who lives there, used to live there, had a sainted uncle living there, etc.  I don't like to grant generalizations either...the practice assumes the door's closed.  I am simply thrilled to suddenly be made aware of my neighborhood in terms of description from my perspective, which is through the eyes of an amateur writer.

Why that perspective?  Well, I find it a great starting point, since branching out our writing group to this neighborhood has opened my eyes to the fact that this neighborhood--in fact, the whole western half of the City--is crawling with closeted creatives.

Why would I say such a thing?  What makes them closeted?  What puts them all out here in the Avenues, desperate for the creative acknowledgment that it's acceptable to be a writer?

Some points to consider:

• The Inner Sunset is, for the most part, NOT a tourist destination in San Francisco.  Tourists pass through here on their way to the ocean, to the Park, or to the museums;
• The Inner Sunset is mostly residential.  We don't have THE bar the hipster crowd is chasing.  We don't have THE best of any one ethnic cuisine (although there are some eclectic delights here).  There are a lot of family places.  It's very much like living in a suburb;
• Graffiti, if found here, is usually tagging, not art;
• It's cold and dark, mostly (ask Garrison Keillor and Natalie Goldberg about differences in writers from cold climates to warmer climates);
• By assumption, more writers are seen working in cafes in North Beach, the Mission, the Haight, or the Castro.  If you look over someone's shoulder in a cafe in the Inner Sunset you're more likely to find a medical case study (UCSF is up the hill) or a spreadsheet;
• Residents here live here to get away from the "weird" San Francisco.

So we're all closeted weird, I suppose.  I know that's why I love it here...it seems sane compared to the rest of the City.  MaryAnn of "Tales" would have thought she went back to Ohio--until the fog started. But in that sane comfort, there's a compromise--lack of creativity.  So when I announce a writing group in this area and the relief floods out like a swarm, it's, "Thank you SO much for putting this together!"  You're welcome, but...are you afraid of coming out in the light on your own?

No matter.  I was too, in my own small way, and had to head to a tourist trap to write in the past.  No more.

Onward, dear reader.

(By the way, I was writing at the beach this morning, longhand, and a woman walking her dog drew up short next to me on the bench.  "My goodness," she gasped, "look at your handwriting.  It's like graphic art."  I smiled and thanked her, patted her dog, and they continued in the sun.  The waves of my up- and downstrokes lapped the page edges, and I was grateful to be standing alone, tagging a blank page like a gangsta from the Haight.)

P.S. - This song is the inspiration for the title of this post of Life For Rent.  Waves waving...Ruskin's rolling in his grave.