That Song by Elton John, or, Litquake

I have been a little out of sorts over the past few weeks, floating just under the surface of a freshwater pond, looking out from under the water to the blue sky above and telling myself to maintain optimism.  I am happiest when I do that, and lately it's been a challenge, particularly with my writing, or the writing world in general.  Folks are lined up, on Twitter, on Facebook, in my Google Reader blog feed, with writing miseries and how I am to expect that the writing world sucks and will never change.

Yet, it's supposed to be worthy of writing about.

Where, I ask myself, holding my breath in the pond, is the hope of being a writer?  If all is screwed, then why make notes?  Why curve off some letters into thoughts?  I needed a Church of Hopeful Optimistic Writers, San Francisco Parish.  I needed a family of fellow scribes from all walks--poets, journalists, novelists, short story writers--to comfort me.  I didn't want the answers.  I just wanted hope.

I have lived in the Bay Area for seven years, and have always wanted to go to Litquake, the Bay Area literary festival held every year in October, but have never been able to go.  The reasons why are no longer important, but finally making there is.  I had my writing groups on Monday and Tuesday nights, an interview on Wednesday morning, and then Thursday came and the reasons for staying away were irrelevant at last.  I reviewed the rest of the week's events and found the following:

Thursday Evening, San Francisco Public Library's Main Branch

• Religious Renegades - Writing about religion in a secular city
• Literature as a Window to Iran - Self-explanatory
• Where News is Headed In the Bay Area - Partnering Technology with Getting the Story Out in the Bay Area

Saturday Afternoon, Z Space in the Mission District

• Short Story Writers Panel - Discussing their craft
• Novelists - Discussing their craft

Saturday Evening, Litcrawl

• Various venues in the Mission
• My destination was 826 Valencia, but they were full up before the "doors" opened, so I headed home

I required only one thing of myself:  to attend with no expectation of what I would hear.  I wanted hope, but if the panels were full of negativity like the internet, then I had the option to head home.  I didn't find what I wanted to see based on preconceived notions, like "Iranian literature...they're all going to talk about American stuff in Tehran," or "Nobody reads short stories, so why listen to the writers?"  None of the world outside of the pond surface came with me.  

By expecting nothing and shelving everyone else's negativity for the day, I found I could come up for air, even get out of the water.  Let me stress again, there were no answers given, no solutions established.  Writing doesn't work that way.  But there was hope in abundance.  One woman had written a novel about Hester Prynne's child, and she was from East India; she spoke of how people asked her at the time of the novel's release, "Are you supposed to be writing that story?"  She too saw the negativity, the giving up of others.  The panel joined her in saying that, given the choice between squashing the external force keeping you from writing and writing the thing everyone feels you have no authority to write, you should go for the thing you have no authority to write.  The others, they all agreed, can sit back there and complain about the world and hold its rules to gospel while you learn to fly.

We're not going to tell you how to fly, mind you, they said.  Just know that you can.  That you have your own answers, no matter "how the world works."

Play ball, and bless you, scribes.  

P.S. - This song is the inspiration of today's post of Life For Rent.  The video is choppy, yes.  I picked it because the lyrics fit for me and the courtesan's character seemed to represent the world above the surface, while the poet sings of hope, a bird insistent to rise out of the pond.  Oh, yeah, and "Moulin Rouge" is my and my brother's favorite Baz Luhrmann movie.  The French subtitles are free of charge.

That Song By OneRepublic, or, What There Is To Complain About

I've been trying a little experiment lately.

I've been shutting up while I read the internet, when I get around to reading it.  I just read with an open heart, take it in, and move on.  I used to converse with it.  Now I'm trying to be quieter.

I'm also enjoying other things besides the internet.  I am reading much more.  I'm finding new ways to make my resume better.  I'm writing a novel that I can't wait to read myself.  I'm reading others' good books, too.  I'm walking in the sunshine until there is none, until the Pacific rains come.  And I am still enjoying baseball...I'm finding more boys to fall in love with.

"It's hard not to be romantic about baseball." ~ "Moneyball"

I know, I've been quieter.  But there's really not much to say this week; I've been too busy living.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is the inspiration for the title of this week's post.  I would love to say that I'm rooting for the Brewers, but I just liked the look of pure joy on Fielder's and Betancourt's faces here.  I really haven't picked a team to win it...all four teams are underdogs and I'm just enjoying the game.  I.  LOVE.  THIS.  GAME.

Pablo Stairs

Some of you have been hinting around..."What are the 'Pablo Stairs'?"

Well, other than reading my earlier post, here are some pictures.  I did not take them.  (The only electronic gadget I take up the Pablo stairs with me is my iPod.  It provides more inspiration than my phone.)

Stairs leading up from Moraga Street (five of the flights, the other two flights are below the buildings in the center of the picture.  My neighborhood is pictured.  Photo courtesy Jason DeFillippo):

The bench at the pinnacle of Moraga Hill/Grandview Park/Pablo stairs (provides view of Golden Gate Bridge.  Photo courtesy the SF Chronicle):

Ocean view (Pablo stairs are also apparently called Larsen Peak, according to unnamed credits):

Boardwalk stairs on Daly City side, on what I call a "treehouse effect" day (meaning you can't see any view at the top due to the marine layer, or, you're enclosed.  Photo courtesy Derek Sisson):

View of Downtown San Francisco, approaching Pablo stairs for descent (blogger also calls this "Turtle Hill."  Photo courtesy The Toasted Blog):

Now you know where I am every morning after breakfast.  I wouldn't sneak up on me, though--I tend to be combative during workouts.  (It's all that Taylor Swift tunage I listen to.)

Onward, dear reader.

That Song by Buffalo Springfield, or, The Myth of Sisyphus on the Floor of a BART Station

Blogger's Note:  I will not respond to comments to this post.  Rip me a new one on your own.

Ah, yes, Monday, and time for another set of protests from our friends at Anonymous or No Justice No BART.  I feel for commuters.  I feel for the general public.

I feel like more and more of my posts these days should open with an apology.  This one won't.  I have been reading all kinds of input on the BART protests since July, and last week I almost thought that I wouldn't have a desire to write this post--Anonymous came up with something closer to making sense than anything else they had previously tried by trying a "Spare the Fare Day" with the gates, but that wasn't exactly what I was thinking of.  (And it didn't exactly work out for them, either.)

I should probably take a couple of steps back for a second.

First of all, I'm going to dwell on "Moneyball" again for about the length of a sentence or two.  Reading "Moneyball" taught me that the best player in baseball has accomplishment, proven experience of winning through small steps, and not just sex appeal and "heart."  The best baseball player has proven himself:  in high school, in college, in the minors.

So, Anonymous?  No Justice No BART?  Let's remove your "heart" and media sex appeal from the equation and consider this situation.

Ready?  Show me your accomplishment.

You need to hit BART with competition.  Period.  I don't know what that "competition" is, exactly; chartered buses over the span?  But make it easier, sexier, to NOT ride BART, with a viable alternative other than sitting on the bridge.  You need to hit BART in the moneybags.  Make it sexy to not...ride...BART.  I'm sure there are corporate enemies of BART who would love to fund their downfall.  To convince these enemies to back your better idea you do need a very important trait, though:  professionalism.

You can demonstrate, yes, but you can't demonstrate professionalism.  That's your biggest problem.  It's like a batter that can't get on base.  "Look!  I can hit!" you say, but you're only hitting pop-ups and fouls.  You need to get on base.

Tell me, how professional do you look with a bunch of masks you won't keep on ("Whaddo I wanna wear a mask for when I can be on TELEVISION???")?  How rational do you look yelling in the face of cops who can't change the policy or action of one of their fellow men in arms while they're standing in formation protecting the public?  How rational do you look shutting down traffic on Market Street and angering the public?  Who, in fact, are you saving?

It's too late to save those men who died.  And if BART really wanted to stop these cases of mistaking guns for tasers, they would have already felt enough public pressure to do just that.  But they won't if the only protesters and media bring the drama.  Things won't change until you have the public overwhelmingly on your side.  And right now the protesters and media have the wrong poster children. The public is dismayed, yes.  Outraged?  Nope.  The BART police haven't shot the wrong person yet.  Will they?  The odds are there.  It just doesn't look inevitable.

Bottom line:  if these protest groups want to change BART, they have to get the public behind them.  I don't care what right is being violated here--you can't accomplish anything without the public behind you.  (Hint:  Getting innocent bystanders/commuters hurt or killed in your protests won't do it.  Just sayin'.)  If you don't get the public behind you, BART looks like the sane one.  I'm not saying they ARE the sane one, they just LOOK like it.  That is all you need to continue your actions.

I can show you calm, rational, effective grass roots movement.  It was called Barack Obama's 2008 presidential campaign.  It was called the Civil Rights movement of the 60's (on the minority side, not on the law enforcement side).  Did both of those movements hit all of their targets?  Nope.  But they made a DAMN FINE START.  I'm not sure what Anonymous's and No Justice No BART's objectives are.  I'm sure there are printed documents somewhere (knowing our luck written in crayon left-handed), but the point is, if your public doesn't know from your actions what your goal is, then you're just wasting your breath.

Sadly, some of those protesting don't even know the particulars.

You can protest smarter.

You protest smarter?  Hell, I'll join you.  I'll write your demands.  I'll meet with BART myself.

That's not the goal, though, is it?  The goal, ultimately, is to get on camera, isn't it?  And that's all the commitment you want.  If you wanted actual change, you would have a message your public could get behind once that camera is on you.

But what do I know?  I'm just counting stats in the cheap seats at the ballpark on this one.

P.S. - This song is the inspiration for the title of today's post.  My apologies to Albert C.

That Song by Marvin and Tammi, or, Mountain Out (of a) Moraga (Hill)

When I was about thirteen my parents decided to have a pond dug on our property--3/4 of an acre, and deep as the contractors could haul it without getting the equipment stuck in the grade. Deep, of course, meant that the contractors had to displace a lot of dirt.

Normally backfill dirt is pushed around the area surrounding a pond, so that the dirt not only looks like it's part of the grand design (after some grass grows on it, that is) but so the pond appears deeper. But my mother would have none of that--she loved to travel, and her intention was to have her own mountain. Now, anyone who has seen that movie with Hugh Grant or has lived with in the mountainous parts of the world knows how high a mountain actually is, and we tried to correct the semantics on this one for Mom. In fact, the running joke was that this was not only not a mountain but it probably couldn't even be considered a hill--more like a "mosquito bite." But my mother stood fast--"Don't make fun of my mountain."

I don't anymore.

I climb a "mountain," too.

*****

It's no secret that I love the San Francisco Giants--in case you've forgotten, you can refresh your memory here. One of my favorite players on the team drifts back and forth along the infielder positions, and his name is Pablo Sandoval. In 2009 Pablo looked like the next Barry Bonds--making every pitch into a hit or a homer, with one exception...Pablo was happier than Bonds. You couldn't miss it--it was all over his face.

Pablo was happy ALL THE TIME. He was happy batting, happy in the dugout, happy blowing a big pink bubblegum bubble just as he caught and threw a fielded out. They started calling him the Kung Fu Panda, just like the cartoon, or Panda for short.

Last year, in 2010, something changed. Panda spent the season losing his batting average and adding pounds, and became quiet. It was hard to watch Panda benched. He looked benched in the body and the face. All that happy, gone.

My coworkers laughed at him, blaming food and food only, and Pablo's lack of willpower with food. I thought at first something was injured, somewhere, but he wasn't on the DL. You don't go on the DL for a broken heart.

I hesitate to give away too many details of Pablo's story from 2010, because a good measure of it could be rumor. But the rumors, what I heard after the season in December, made sense. Pablo was going through some personal life experiences last year that would make some tough guys cringe, but what was worse was that he was trying not to let the camera see these problems. In covering up the problem, he created a new one--get out of shape and sad (and worse, useless at what he loved) in front of the camera. When I found out what created all of this, I found myself to be a little rankled at all of the jokesters.

When you get what you want but not what you need, writes and sings Coldplay, and I got the feeling someone saw that need in Pablo on a level of friendship. Pablo knew he was out of a job if he couldn't start hitting, and he couldn't hit with the extra physical and emotional garbage hanging on him. So he worked with a trainer. They took him to hills, hot and sandy, in Arizona, and told him to run up those hills.

I'm sure to him, at the bottom both literally and figuratively, those hills looked like a mountains.

Lost souls, creating what they can't find but desperately need. My mother created a mountain out of a hill, and my happy hero leveled mountains. Today Number 48 for the San Francisco Giants brings a higher batting average than weight scale reading, which was not the case in 2010. Does he look any different? From the chin down, a little. Pablo has genetics and frame working against him to even think of being mistaken for Nyjer Morgan. But that face...oh, it breaks the heart. He's beautiful. He's that kind of unabashedly happy that I haven't seen in eleven years, that happy that takes the observer by surprise with its innocence and complete lack of agenda, the happy my mother used to have.

Have mountain. Will travel.

*****

There is a hill six blocks from my apartment, formally called "Grand View Park" because, once climbed, it gives you a view of almost the entire City, as well as Daly City to the south, the Golden Gate Bridge to the north, and the ocean to the west. To many locals in the neighborhood it is called Moraga Hill, named for the street that the hill severs between 15th and 16th Avenues.

Moraga Hill is steep--like many hills in the City--and there are sets of stairs on the east and west sides. The stairs on the west side are a zigzag set of wooden steps, like a vertical boardwalk. Those on the east side--my approach--are concrete, half drifted with sand, sometimes slippery with fog or rain. Each flight on the east side has a small landing. Sometimes, depending on my body, I have to stop one of the landings to catch my breath. I'm hoping that won't always be the case, and little by little I get to a higher and higher landing before I have to stop.

There are seven flights of stairs up the hill.

Do I want to climb the steps when I get up in the morning? Hell, no. It's work. Sometimes the fog is so thick that there's no view. (I call those my treehouse days--the fog closes in walls in the sky.) Regardless of the day I come down from the hill sweating and steaming like a Budweiser Clydesdale.

Do I need to climb the mountain? Hell, yes. I like my writing so much better when I get back to the apartment and scribble a few notes, fresh from the air, streaming sea spray and perspiration. Dogs meet me on the walk back and I offer my hand, knuckles first and slow, and they sniff and lick the salt deposit with absolute...unabashed...joy.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where the inspiration for today's post of Life for Rent comes from. Marvin is so dreamy... :)

That Song by Amy Winehouse, or, Nyjer Morgan, or, Badass

This is the third morning in a row I've been awakened by a nightmare I was in the middle of. I hope I'm not screaming when this happens. I could just be a man about it and say, "Oh, it's your hormones."

Sigh.

When I worked at my last "traditional" job, I used to have nightmares that I was operating the counter all by myself and my employees were standing behind me laughing at me. Then I had to do it (without the jokesters, but still), and I was able to say to myself, "Well, at least we know you can do it." Which is roughly on par with saying, "Well, at least we know you can fire a gun at someone to go into war." Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

The nightmares the last three days have been the larger social circle walking away and laughing at me living. I'm not sure where this renewed ridicule cycle comes from, except I do know this--it's probably been going on for a long time in Facebook circles (sorry, didn't mean to mix my Facebook and Google+ metaphors there) and I've just chose to ignore it. That's wise. I have a little less than ninety friends on Facebook and of those friends there's probably a very small number that read me or read at all, so my goal is to write for someone like me. If nothing else, I'm entertained when I go back to the page.

My high school reunion is coming up. I was asked recently if I was going. Probably not--I don't have a family or spouse of my own, and I can't imagine shucking out nearly a grand for an airline ticket to go and be psycho-analyzed for why I don't have those things. "You do what? Lead writing groups? How does that work?" Ten minutes, tops. I can answer those questions on Facebook. In fact, probably the only thing that would be assessed is how I move and how much weight I've gained since high school. I am thicker, but not by much. I wasn't thin in high school to begin with.

It all comes back to the passion. Those years in high school weren't my favorite--not because of the people but because I was trapped in a world that didn't get me. The one I'm in right now doesn't get me entirely either, but it's closer to me. And I've said it before and I'll say it again--I'm more interested in making friends from a passion than having friends from the same prison experience. Sharing the passion tends to keep the friendship longer, and make it stronger.

*****

Speaking of passions...I have a confession to make: prior to Saturday, I had no idea who Amy Winehouse was. I tend to tune out news of celebrities who party that hard, like Winehouse, or Lohan, or even the overexposed Lady Gaga. Gossip, whether in my circle or in Hollywood's, tends to bore the crap out of me. As to the Grammys and Winehouse--I usually don't watch the Grammys. When her last album was released I was unemployed at that time, too, with a lot less money and healing from a crappy relationship--hence, pretty closed up.

So Saturday, in a grumpy mood and feeling stupid, I admitted that I didn't know that "British singer" on Twitter--I called her that because if you use the person's name people worldwide can see your comment just by a person search and read you a riot act for not knowing her (I got a little bit, just a teensy one, of a chastisement for not knowing her anyway). I know this name trick because the night before I made the mistake of getting on Twitter when I was livid about Nyjer Morgan, an aging outfielder from San Francisco who now plays for the Brewers but got all "no you didn't" in the face of center field fans on Friday night. Nyjer is a fantastic fielder and has a batting average of .327, and he knows it. He has an alter-ego called T. or Tony Plush, which is what he tells the media his "gentleman's" name is, and it's interesting to hear him give a "gentleman's" name when Plush/Morgan is not what you would call a gentleman. He has a temper, yo. And a record of utilizing that temper on the field, both at fans and with opposing team members. On Friday he surprised all of us by interacting with the center field fans during a game, something the Giants fans have very little practice with. We get to see clowning for our benefit in batting practice, but other than that, the men play their game and we watch. When Nyjer starting engaging the fans, though, it snapped something in me. If for no other reason than kids look up to ball players and he was a ball player in the stands.

Keep in mind that for the last two games I have had the rotten luck of being surrounded on at least two sides by the opposing team's fans. Nyjer did help me out in that aspect on Friday--they all left when he started behaving erratically. In fact, the Giants' fan next to me with his grandson took that little boy up to the slide when Nyjer started acting like that--so he offended people. I was angry about his behavior and came home and tweeted about it--forgetting the cardinal rule of Twitter and using names. I got read the riot act. No wonder the nightmares. It appears that I'm a "Giants' crybaby" for thinking what I do. I could understand that if all the Brewers' fans around me hadn't left when Nyjer started in.

Brian Wilson = badass

Nyjer Morgan = just plain awful

But, despite NOT using Winehouse's name, I still got referenced. I had to give myself a break--waking up with nightmares, getting lambasted by Morgan fans, I just shut Twitter off, read a book, and listened to Winehouse. I thoroughly enjoyed her music, yes. I celebrated that. I didn't want to focus on the failure of her death. She reminded me of something a chef had mentioned earlier in the week on Twitter: "Why is it that people hype up failure instead of success?"

Well, according to Winehouse, Plush, my high school classmates, and me...I guess that depends your definition of success.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from. I cheated myself, like I knew I would...

That Song by Smash Mouth, or, the Baseball Prom

A couple of times this week I've been asked by on-line and SoCal inquiry alike, "So, are you all excited about the All Star game next week?"

Oh, hell no.

As I have mentioned in past posts, I'm a "let's-watch-the-mediocre-minor-league-team-do-something-miraculous" girl, to start with. I would rather see a game by the Rejects vs. the All Stars. For me, watching a game comprised of nothing but the best is sort of like watching those movies that are written for a lot of A-line actors but end up having the world's worst plot, like "How the West Was Won" or, more recently, movies like "Valentine's Day" or "He's Just Not That Into You."Ohhhh, look. Derek Jeter. Shane Victorino (yes, I know he's on the DL today, but I'm just sayin'). Tim Lincecum. Brian Wilson. If you want a parade like that, join Twitter and subscribe to the MLB feed. Spotlights are for media, and don't really make for good baseball.

Back in 2007 I LOVED having the All Star game in San Francisco, but not for the game. I loved it for Fan Fair. The Moscone Center was filled with baseball activities, history, World Series trophies, etc. I picked up a tee-shirt there with all of the nations minor league teams on it. (Some of the names are a giggle-fest, folks. Go Google and see.) As for the game, well, I didn't go. I had no desire to go. I didn't even go to the parade. And I have never, ever, seen the game.

In my mind's eye, if I want to see an "All Star" game, I have one of two choices:

• I can see a Yankees game, because at those salaries those fellas are "supposed to be" the best, or
• I can go to a Giants game. Because I will always love my scrappy Giants, whether they are at the bottom or at the top.

*****

The comments have been made, of course, that I want to see this year's game because Bochy is managing them and because the Giants are loading up the bullpen. I'm partial to the entire team, though. I'll miss Cody Ross. I'll miss Panda Bear. And, here's the worst of it...the entire team will be rested up while our pitching staff won't be. Ah, purposeful compromise. Yes, it's an honor. How about we just name them, though, instead of putting them through a game? How about every City gets a week of Fan Fair and meet the players and everyone gets a break? You could get named "All Star," like a Cy Young or Rookie of the Year or something, but give everyone the week off.

Pitch on, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of today's Life For Rent post comes from. No, I wasn't thinking of Shrek when I picked it, heh heh.

That Song by the Beatles, Or, Misconceptions

No, this post is not about lonely people or Jude. The Beatles' song came up on the iPod and made me think of what I've been chewing on this week--the preconceptions of how the person who chooses to be unemployed spends two things: time and money. So I'll steal from other music and explain.

Tiiiiime, Is On My Side, Yes It Is Now

Here is what I do not do with my time:

• Watch television. I probably rack up about two hours a week, or six hours a week if I happen to watch a Giants game.
• Eat bonbons. They have too much sugar. I prefer a plain 1x1 inch square of dark chocolate, and usually just one of those. Another reason to avoid television...a lot of food does look good in the ads.
• Read all day. I read about two hours a day during the week, sometimes all day on weekends. I'd be reading all day on weekends if I were working a traditional job, so that's not a big change. The big change is the two hours a day. I'm not too tired during the day to do that now.
• Sleep in. I'll sleep when I'm dead. Most of the time I'm up at 6:30 and writing and job hunting until 8:30 or 9, at which point I have breakfast.

Here's what I do with it:

• Every morning the first thing I do when I wake up is write three pages, longhand, about anything. Better than a cup of coffee and clears my head.
• I spend the first two hours of the day job-hunting, networking, reading tips and tricks on landing the job of my choice.
• After breakfast I hike the hill from the apartment to the Moraga and back. Gets my blood going after the sedentary task of the three pages. I do this hike again several times during the day instead of drinking Monster or Starbucks.
• The rest of the workday hours are spent writing. I clear about four pages longhand of a short story rough draft, and any blogging that I get to.
• Housework: Dishes, trash, laundry, etc.

And my evenings? These are usually taken with my writing groups, but I may do writing or reading in the evenings if I don't have a group or if I took the afternoon off to see a Giants game. I'm trying to work more author and music events in my schedule, but after a day of writing I usually just want to read, so that's taking slow progression.

Speaking of social events, that brings me to the second focus of the unemployed/self-employed/freelancing...

Money Money Money Money...MON-EY!

Here's what I don't do with my money:

• Pay full price for much anymore. When I worked in Oakland I often missed happy hour over here in the City due to getting home after it ended. I also drank more when I was traditionally employed. Now I pay half-price for drinks that I only drink at about 10% the rate that I used to. When it comes to entertainment, I find deals on-line or don't by the front row tickets (Giants promotions on Facebook, or the Treme tickets at the symphony that cost me $60 less than the Springsteen concert that I went to four years ago--and the Treme show was a better show. Not sorry I went to Springsteen, just saying that the jazz concert was top notch and was an f-in' BARGAIN.)
• Eat entrees. I usually make due with appetizers or sandwiches.
• Eat out as much as I used to. I still eat out, but about 80% less than I used to.
• Reward myself. I used to spend money on stuff to reward myself (handbags, journals, fountain pens, books). I have a whole can of pens I'm happily working through, I have a whole basket of journals I'm working through (and pretty quickly on both, since 90% of my written work is longhand), and I love how I spend my time and what my work is now. My reward is my time.

Here's what I do with my money now:

• See my City.
• Donate the books I have read to the library instead of selling them to bookstores. (My community contribution is in books, not money. If a homeless guy every asks me for a book I'll hand over. You can get drunk on a book better than any tequila or wine I've ever sampled, and you can escape.)
• Get around. I'm saving about $190 in transit fees not going to Oakland. I'm also saving about $140 a month additionally in City Car Share fees from not going to physical therapy or renting the car to drive to manager meetings or branch events. With that gap I can visit towns like Palo Alto and San Jose for art events, or to catch up with old friends via Caltrain, which is my favorite mass transit. (No other mass transit agency in the Bay Area lets you eat and drink on the transit, none other will sell you alcohol before you get on in San Francisco--little wine bottles be cute, yo--and none other has restrooms on the train. And the homeless really can't get on.)
• Buy groceries and cook more.
• On what I need to fulfill me. That can come in some strange packages (and more on that in future posts).

The Healer once said to me that I didn't owe anyone an explanation of my time or my finances. I know this, but I offer it freely anyway. I realize that there are those who see my situation and have one of two reactions:

1. "Yeah, sure you're doing that, whatever."
2. "Must be nice."

To the first group, I could take pictures of my activities and show you, display receipts, etc., but I do think there's a line where I have better things to do. To the second group I say, you're right. It is nice. After 50-hour workdays during inventories and dreaming about how I'm going to cover for three people out at Christmas and four years of digestive issues and broken bones and lifting things my ObGyn would rip me a new one for lifting, it's very, very nice to be where I am. To those of you in the second group I think fondly of those nights when you were with your families while I cleaned up an accounting snafu, while you were on vacation or watching a ball game while I put away a trailer in the dark, when you were watching "American Idol" the next day and chatting it up while I missed it cleaning up after production shortfalls. Thanksgivings, birthdays, holidays missed...dentist and doctor appointments rescheduled...yes, this is nice. I didn't win the freakin' lottery. I'm making a career change and I'm discovering work/life balance, which, compared to the life that I used to have, is going to make me look like a selfish slacker. As long as I possibly can. The life of a traditionally-employed martyr was killing me.

With my genetics I have a 50% chance of living to retirement. I've been told this. I don't have to tell you what retirement age is--you've probably got in your crosshairs too. I look at it this way--if I get to work at a profession that I love deeply, I'll beat the odds. I'll make it to retirement, but I won't want to retire. You'll find me walking the path of Larry King or Oprah, "retiring" to work on something else that I'm passionate about that I've always wanted to master.

Regardless, I won't be rocking in a chair. Or spending money on an RV. Or eating bonbons.

That's at two months out in this ocean.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S.--This is where the title of today's post of Life For Rent comes from. And no, I'm not going to start wearing suspenders or buying up cocker spaniel pups, although the idea of my own book club sounds intriguing.

That Song by Gloria Estefan, and the Food Network Teaching Me

If you've read any of the other posts in this blog, you'll know my writing history. Perhaps it would be best to give a brief teaching history, if only for philosophy.

I started teaching in 1997, for a sporting goods company called Bass Pro Shops. When I first began, the goal was just not to fall on my face--someone had selected me as a teacher, with no prior experience on my part, after having me as a student in their class. (Sadly, I wish I could say that teacher was good. She wasn't my cup of tea.) After teaching a while though, I found I got a high from one thing specifically--watching that wave of "Oh, NOW I get it" crossing the face of the student. I live for that moment. It happened a lot when I first started, too, because most of my classes were beginning employees, and, against modesty here, I'm good at teaching.

The second phase of how to be a good teacher didn't sharpen in me until the last four years, working at Grainger--if you want to be a good teacher, beyond beginners, you better enjoy listening too, so that you create a learning plan that gives back more and more of those "Oh, NOW I get it" moments. By the time I left Grainger I was damn good at listening--but the missing link was having very little or no empowerment, as an ASSISTANT manager, to make changes. I taught things and watched them fall flat, sort of like flying a kite by running all day instead of having a good wind behind you.

Leaving and working alone, you would think I wouldn't be able to teach anyone. I'm alone about 85% of the time now. (When I define alone, I mean, not with people interacting with me. In a City like San Francisco alone is all relative. I've been known to go to bars and coffee shops to CREATE interactions, but, I digress.) I'm a writer, which, for overall best productivity means that the writer sits alone, even in a cafe, and spins out a world of words. My expectation of REACH, either by association or by teaching, is low for two reasons: I'm in a solitary occupation, and in the last occupation I did get a wind to keep my kite up from the Airman, but no one else. Not expecting to having impact, I keep writing, and I keep going to my writing Meetups, even on nights where no one else is there or only one person shows up. Read me, or don't. Meet me, or don't. My devotion has to be the same whether I have wind or not.

This past week all kinds of wind brought in all kinds of "Oh, NOW I get it" on faces, even when I couldn't see them. Tuesday I wrote a piece about an event at a local bookstore as part of my work as a contract writer with the Examiner, and got all kinds of feedback from readers. I was stunned. Someone was reading me and, of all things, LIKED what they read. The article created new interactions on Facebook and on Twitter, and my audience got bigger. I REACHED someone. No, I'm not teaching at Harvard yet, but I'm teaching. Somebody learned something. Including me.

Last night I hosted what may be my final facilitating gig with Meetup for a little while. (When I first got into Meetup I had no intention of EVER being a facilitator--I was a manager at the time and just wanted to be a "student"--but people had the tendency to see dependability in me, so if they couldn't lead then they asked me to.) I have to be honest--I was dreading it. The facilitator who asked me to host has been asking about four weeks out of six, and I was wrestling with taking care of this group with a) no credit to my name for doing it, or b) no compensation for doing so. Facilitators of Meetups don't do it as a profit, but I was looking at this from a just-a-few-weeks-ago manager perspective: "What? I'm not listed as the Big Kahuna? Screw you." I sat down the last couple of days and did a lot of writing about it, and remembered why I teach, and tried to apply that: "Look for the recognition in the eyes, Jo, and give the group a place of no judgment from which to write." I had to go back to the writings of Natalie Goldberg, to the teachings of the Good Doctor, and to the question from the Healer asking me two weeks out of managerial jail, "Why do you want to write?" I want to write to reach someone. Normally, filling in for this facilitator, I'm all nervous because I want to make him proud that I can hold down the fort for him. Last night, nothing to lose, no judgment and wanting only recognition that the participants can do what they desire as writers, I OWNED that time. I was a teacher again, the good kind, and this morning two of the participants voiced how much they were able to accomplish with the group last night. REACHED them again. (To understand why I think that I've reached them is to know that I haven't seen comments the next day from this group since I joined in 2007. For ANY facilitator.) Five pairs of eyes, "Oh, NOW I get it."

God, I love teaching.

(Before you ask, I will probably facilitate again. But I have to be a student again for a little while, with a different branch of my writing Meetup, to help get it off its feet. Going where I'm most needed, I'm off to be someone else's wind. Selah.)

*****

Along with teaching and re-grounding myself, I'm seeing something else happen in my art...I'm getting leaner.

I'm sure all of my readers have seen the Food Network, so this analogy might be best unfurled with the following metaphor. There are two reasons to strain something when you are in food preparation: one is to strain to get out the big unwanted pieces, as in jelly, sauces, or stock; and the other one is to remove unwanted liquid, as in marinades, starchy vegetables, and yogurt. Lately my writing has reminded me of the second example--I write about five hours a day and publish about an eighth of that, if I'm lucky. (And most of that is self-publishing, which means a lot of stuff doesn't meet my own standard.) I noticed that the liquid was getting strained out this morning in particular when I came up with a poem. Now, I don't write poems unless I'm sitting in the Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto--for some reason that's the only place I can get inspired for poetry, and where I came up with one about not knowing Spanish in a bi-lingual state. (I'd link it here but apparently it's up and gone, like a fart in the wind. So I'll type it out and get it in the blog another day.) This morning, however, after weeks of writing, reading, and reading a little poetry every morning, I wrote one:

Pears

They're red, not green,

But sit cockeyed in a green bowl

With high walls like a vase.

Their red necks turn this way

And that way,

Leaning on each other

Like fat, rednecked drunks

Wearing their union stickers

"308, Inspected by Local,"

Proudly.

Whether or not it's good is up to the reader. I like it, but I like the imagery of pears as blue-collar fruit, so sue me. What was most interesting to me was that I wrote something compact and poetic in a place that didn't involve black-and-white film and a huge organ. I squeezed out the formerly necessary setting, a lot of extra stuff that I don't need in my daily round, and now...Something's changing in how I do this writing thing, and I like where it's going.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S.-This is where the title of this post of Life for Rent comes from. (The Olympics in the 90's meant something to me, what can I say.)

Loaded Question, and First of the Eighty Answered

Sooner or later the question is going to pop up, for those who are curious or just hope to view a car wreck:

What have you been doing lately?

And this is how I will answer you, for now. I have been:

• Running every morning to the ocean, despite cold and on some days threat of rain
• Listening to podcasts from Fresh Air, literary groups, Latino music, gambling gurus, and Writer's Almanac
• Visiting the library
• Reading at a frustratingly slow and decadent pace
• Writing at the same
• Eating at the same
• Experiencing meditation instead of attempting it
• Relishing baseball

And you?

*****

Today on my Twitter feed there was a lovely link to a list of 80 Journal Writing Prompts that one could use to prime the pump, so to speak, and while I think they make great journal prompts I realize that having neglected my blog in some time they might be helpful for those suffering from insomnia to enjoy. So herein commences the first of the list...Name something that you lost or gave away that can never be replaced.

This is a tough one--for two reasons: a) there are two that stand out, and b) neither of them are material. The first one is my mother--I would say it was a combination of losing her and being so far away from her for the last ten years of her life (which could be construed to mean that I had, in some essence, given her away) that make her stand out as the first. No one can replace her--and several women have tried. (What I find most amusing is that people who have tried to replace her have been opinionated, and my mother was the least opinionated person on the face of the planet. Not quite sure of that need to fill the gap, but, there it is.) I appreciate the attempts--it's just not possible, ladies.

The second one is pretty unseemly, so skip the rest of the paragraph if this kind of thing makes you squirm, but it's my virginity. I both "lost it" according to the crass saying and it can never be replaced. I think I would be far more trusting if I hadn't lost it and didn't have the desire to replace it, for I was even more gullible than I am now before losing it. On the flip side, if I still had it and I was this age, the self-consciousness might be burning a hole in my brain.

Onward, dear reader, until the next prompt.

What I Have Been Doing Lately

A lot of my New Year Resolutions are going well:

• Try one new thing every day - Mostly circles around wine, but I'm trying it too with breakfast locations
• Do not buy any new books - And the pressure seems to be off so that I can just enjoy the 600+page book I chose to read next
• Do not buy any new pens - I still have a whole cup of new pens at work, and thinned down the disposables at home
• Give up Facebook - well, the worst parts of it
• Tweet more - and having fun at it, whether I'm read or not
• Blog more - what this post is hoping to help with
• Give up sex for a year - which will be easy after you finish reading this post
• Not hoarding food - good days, bad days, but mostly a success
• Want what I've got - a challenge this week, but I got back there
• Stop reacting

Still working on that last one.

Here's what put that last one into real practice. In the last week my father went from having had a heart attack to having had one in the last year to getting hernia surgery to being uncommunicative to being unavailable when I tried to return calls he asked for. After a distinct and well-established level of gullibility, I decided that he is getting a letter. He has a girlfriend he is currently living with and a best friend who knows more about his health than I do, so really, trying to take care of him from 3,000 miles away seems futile and draining. I know, I'm awful and will go to hell. I've been told that before I stopped worshipping him because I'm Unitarian, so no real change can be claimed there. But I am defensive about the whole thing, which means that everyone else wins while I hate myself for not being able to do something I can't do.

So letting that one go is step one.

Then, if I get past that, there is another.

Turns out the guy that I got all excited about at the end of the year is not only a jerk that dated me in hopes of sex, but the one reason I went out with him turns out to be a lie--like the others, he's married. Has been. The whole time. Found that out on Facebook yesterday morning. Suddenly sex seems gross and love seems even more than a joke than ever before. I was reading my chosen paperback this morning and the hero falls in the love with his lady and I had to put the book down--it was the suspension of belief that I couldn't muster. I was reading an article in the New Yorker this afternoon on psychology and how men fall in love much faster than women and the comment that sprang to my lips was, "Must just be in New York." When you're 38 and no man has ever fallen in love with you, that truth seems much stranger than fiction. More self-hate piled on the initial foundation of the father dilemma.

And yesterday afternoon I developed my second cold in a month. So this morning when I woke up I made it simple. Yesterday was my day to explore--I went to North Beach. Today was my day to soothe--I ate eggs, with cheese. I had tea and water and soup. I talked to myself in the grocery store just for the companionship. I am sipping another red wine that I'm trying out for the first time tonight (see resolution number one), and a new chocolate brand I'm trying. I've been writing all day and feel human again. I'm wearing a Giants shirt because my boys comfort me. Tomorrow, I will not be at work, or at my work. I will be volunteering in the morning with a food bank and then meeting some friends in the afternoon, and then getting a massage in the evening, thank God. I will not be surrounded by enemies. Hopefully tomorrow will be another comfort day, before I go back to Oakland and its charms on Tuesday.

When I left work Friday afternoon, one of my employees asked me what I was doing on my day off on Monday. I told him I was volunteering at the local food bank. "Oh, so you DO have a heart then!" My boss thought that was hilarious.

No, you're right. I will probably go to hell, my dearest charge, for putting up with your bullshit and getting insulted by you for it. But my heart is called there. I was asked and I said yes. I was asked to call my father and I said yes. I was asked out by the fifth married guy and said yes.

In the words of Natalie Wood's character in "Miracle on 34th Street":

I believe, I believe. I know it's silly, but I believe.

Someone, somewhere, loves me for what I'm willing to be.

Onward.

Where I'm Headed and What I'm Looking Forward To

Yesterday I addressed what I loved about 2010, after being inspired to do so by writer Susan Orlean on Twitter. I also promised to provide a list of what I am looking forward to in 2011. I got this list from a combination of resolutions and processes that I'm working on right now. In no particular order:

• Maintaining breath, instead of holding it
• Trying one new thing every day, no matter how small or large
• Not buying any new books in 2011. I'm reading down the formidable stack in my room that I've already bought, reading some of my roommate's books that tempt me on the shelves in the living room, and rediscovering the San Francisco Public Library
• Not buying any new pens in 2011. For those who have seen some of my pens, you know this will be a challenge, but for those of you who have seen my pens, you know I have way too many
• Finding my peace with Facebook. I received some tips on how to make it better this past week from a friend (thanks much, Mike!) and I've put those in play and already feel better
• Being more entertaining on Twitter. I crack myself up
• Writing more of these blog entries. It's something I love to do and something I've sold myself out on
• Giving up sex for a year. Liz Gilbert seems healthier for it, and I could use an adult relationship
• Enjoying food again, instead of hoarding it in case I don't get to eat for the rest of the day
• Wanting what I've got
• Processing instead of reacting and resenting
• Dreaming
• Getting back on a saddle, literally
• Trying the trapeze again
• Opening Day at At&t Park
• Meditation
• Walking to the ocean more
• Meeting new people
• Learning a language so that I'm fluent

Not saying that they will all come true...I'm just saying that I'm looking forward to the effort.

Onward.

What I Loved And When I Loved It

Interesting thing I saw from writer Susan Orlean today on Twitter--she posted a series of tweets about what she loved best about 2010. In that inspirational spirit, here's my list, in no particular order:

• Being able to use my right hand again
• Finally getting a Mac
• Discovering Alt.Latino podcasts
• Meeting my boss
• Trying trapeze
• Living in my City, as always
• Rediscovering red wine
• My team, the one everyone thought was a joke, winning the World Series
• The Yankees not winning the playoffs
• The extra time that I got to spend with my brother in September because he was working up here
• My friends, virtual and live
• My Visconti pen
• Jon Stewart and "The Daily Show"'s impact on the news
• The books I read, particularly "The Lacuna"
• The movies that I saw, particularly "The King's Speech"
• Trying new things and failing, like cooking goose
• The orchid that I bought in August that still has one lone bloom on it
• The concerts I saw this year--Huey Lewis, Rufus Wainwright, etc
• Trying on a wedding dress, even if it was probably for the last time
• Falling in love with anejo tequila
• Learning new words in Italian and Spanish ("Attraversiamo," "Que milagro")
• Writing...one more year

Tomorrow--what I look forward to in 2011. Onward.

Magic, Magic, Magic...M-M-M-Magic, Magic...

Okay, here's the deal.

I headed to my favorite watering hole tonight to have raw fish (healthier than fish and chips, dammit) and some tequila, wondering what could possibly occupy my mind on the sports screens, when I glanced up and saw a match-up between the Orlando Magic and the Utah Jazz. I hate basketball because it bores me (with scores like 104-98, what kind of challenge is that?), but something snagged my eye.

See, I thought basketball players were tall and thin, and that's it.

Since when did they get those SHOULDERS?

It's like one big Michelangelo painting, triceps the size of my leg, and I gotta shamefully admit: I can't tell you what happened in the game, or who has the best face, but number 12 of the Orlando Magic? I...uh...shoulders. He...uh...shoulders...I...

More tequila, please. ONWARD, ahem.