Day 195

The other day, I was tooling around in George's car when I stopped at an intersection near her apartment. A bum, a dog, and a cat walked by. The cat was riding the dog and hopped off once to walk a few feet and then hopped back on. Craziest shit I've ever seen. If I was in a cartoon my eyes would have bugged out and I would have rubbed them outrageously. I was so sure I had the unbelievable story of the year. The first person I told thought I was making it up and said, "Get out!"

Then I tell George and I'm so ready for her to be flabbergasted but instead she goes "And a mouse right?" What the hell? What mouse? I felt like my entire punchline was getting stolen. But it turns out that this guy and his bizarre trio are famous around San Francisco. Just google "dog cat rat SF" and it's everywhere. If you still don't believe me, here's a video.

I've realized that what seems exciting about living in an urban city is that things happen to you. You feel like you're really alive because at any time, something wild or wacky could happen. It could be frightening, it could be beautiful, it could be once in a lifetime or super mundane. But because you never know which, the unpredictability of it makes you feel alive. It's like being out in nature. You could get caught in a snow storm, you could get attacked by wild animals, you could lose your way, or you might come upon the most perfect little tree in all the world.

Living in the suburbs, your stories might always be some variation of "Guess what I saw at Target today?" Living in a San Francisco, I'd imagine my daily happenings, and little stories I could tell, would be more interesting. Which do I prefer though? The jury's definitely still out. Not every experience is going to be an amusing dog/cat/rat one. There's bound to be some crappy tales around the corner.

But that's living right? That's the realness right?

I'm just keeping my eyes on the ground for dog poop. Seriously, it's like my priority one when walking around. I may get mugged, jumped, or run face-first into a pole, but damn it my shoes will remain feces free.

Fill in the blank. The last time I lived alone was. Answer: never. Lots of people are so past roommates. I need them. I hate coming home to an empty space. I've been working for a few years now on hanging out by myself. I used to go bonkers if I was alone for a day or so. There's been some serious progress, even if much of that is probably aided by technology (which keeps me arguably constantly connected), but I'm still not entirely comfortable with big expanses of time to myself.

Now I have my own place, albeit one I've not really settled into yet, and it's like this mini-experiment for how I'll do alone. As pathetic as it sounds to compare it like this, it'll be like my Walden. I picture myself holed up for a few days at a time, conjuring up magical turns of phrase, cranking out books and writing, and lapping up the juice of solitary freedom.

The last time I was relatively alone, for a few months in England, I was boarding with a very nice family but basically had my own space and company. In my somewhat loneliness, I read the Bible for kicks, just about kissed Jimmy when he came to visit once from Belgium, and maybe wrote some bad poetry. Like really bad. The first line or two was "abeyance of breath / succeeds where the emptiness / of time and space collide." I couldn't tell you what "abeyance" even means now -- maybe I couldn't back then either.

So I guess I'm semi-excited to try to live alone, even if in reality I'm not alone at all and have plenty of people and spaces to visit. It's the idea of being alone that both frightens and excites. Like I'll be symbolically going outdoors, even as I'll probably be cooped up indoors. Come visit!

Bring cookies.