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as if you didn’t know the body unrules, hand-feeds the mind the reasons it needs.

May 13, 2010

I went down to South San Francisco to write.  Already this sounds like a bad idea.  Anytime you feel compelled to travel an hour from where you are so you can do something that you could have done with much more ease where you were originally you know there’s more going on there.

And there was more going on.  I was meeting B for lunch.  When you’re unemployed these are the kind of activities that define the days if not weeks of your life.  On Monday: “Well, I might have this lunch thing on Thursday so let’s plan for next week, when things have calmed down.”

We had lunch, which was nice, and then he said I could take his car to Pacifica.  I figured I could find somewhere to write once I got there, and everyone who grows up driving needs at some point or another to get back behind the wheel of a champagne Pathfinder and just cruise.  I mean it really does feel good.  Pacifica turned out to be a bit of a letdown after the drive, and the writing I did there was metaphorical at best.  Then I sat in the parking lot of a restaurant called Nick’s Sea Breeze something for about 20 minutes before I realized the day was about to become a total loss.

I drove back to South SF and spent the next 2 hours intermittently driving and stopping around a large Oyster Point office park while singing along to Rihanna, “You’re gonna BE a shining STAR.  Everyone KNOWS who you A-ARE.”  None of this is a good argument for unemployment.  I watched the planes taking off from SFO, and called my friend Sara to try to explain this to her while she was on her break from teaching pre-school, “I really don’t understand what you’re saying,” she said, “Are you in a wind tunnel?”  Well, yeah of course I am. I am in a wind tunnel that explains it.  Thank you.

Then I immediately got back in the car and wrote for about 10 minutes, and felt so exhilarated by my prose that I needed to take a break.  I got back on the freeway and headed to The Shops at Tanforan (a place that is much less Celtic than it sounds) hoping to get a look at some Cynthia Vincent for Target wedges I’ve been eyeing.  I knew I couldn’t buy them, but thought that maybe just looking would be enough, and after that whatever happens happens.

They were predictably sold out so I got some gum.  On the way back to the car I vaguely pretended to be a secret agent fueling up on gum before she heads back to headquarters.  It would have been difficult for most people to discern that this is what I was doing, but that’s kind of the point I guess.

One Comment leave one →
  1. Kent McMillan permalink
    May 14, 2010 5:18 am

    One reader wants to mention Ernest Hemingway’s nostalgic account of his routine as a writer in 1920’s Paris found in “A Movable Feast”. Hemingway’s version was wrapped up in an old guy’s knowledge of how the story ended, but in his letters of the time, it was much more just a tendril of some plant of yet unknown species that had barely begun to grow.

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