dear muni diary

I am honored to have a post published on Muni Diaries, a blog dedicated to San Francisco's sometimes-loved, sometimes-hated, never-boring public transportation system. It's a wonderful site featuring all things muni: news, photos, stories and more. My story, originally posted on this blog a few years ago, can be seen here. And they even found a pretty picture to go with it! Happy reading, happy riding.

adventures in hobodom, a room of one's own & a lesson in humility

My boyfriend doesn't really like it when I joke about being homeless. "Well, technically, I am. I don't have an apartment, or anywhere I can really call home." But not for long, he counters. "Alright, temporarily homeless."

Let me be clear: in no way do I mean to make light of the plight of the truly homeless, or in any serious way compare my current situation to any of theirs. I'm not trying to bemoan my situation and feel sorry for myself. I'm trying to, I guess, be self-deprecating, humorous. I'm making light of myself. Mostly, I think, because if I joke about it, it won't seem like a big deal. To others. To me.

Because even though most of the time it's not a big deal, even though most of the time I fully recognize that I am far better off right now, even with most of my earthly belongings packed sadly up in storage and living out of a few bags; that I'm lucky to have an incredibly understanding significant other and sympathetic friends to stay with; and that hey! it's only for a little while--even despite all that, sometimes it just is. Sometimes, just for little moments in my own head-space, it's HUGE.

And in trying to figure out why, and stop myself from freaking out, I realized a few things about myself. Because of course part of it was the stress of still trying to find somewhere to live; scouring craigslist, looking at apartment after apartment, being put on hold again and just waiting... waiting... But there was a greater underlying sense of helplessness too, one that made me restless and uneasy. Because, without an apartment of my own to rent, I had been left pretty much at the mercy of others. Now, luckily I happen to know some incredibly merciful and wonderful people and have found an overwhelming amount of support in my current inconvenient predicament.

But here's the thing about me: I hate to ask for help. Or sometimes even accept help once offered. Once in high school I suffered a severe sprained ankle from a car accident and hobbled around on crutches for over a month. Of course people's natural instinct is to help someone on crutches by opening doors, offering to carry books, backpacks, etc., but I was so stubborn in wanting to do these things for myself that I started to get extremely (and unreasonably) annoyed with all the well-meaning do-gooders' actions. Pride? Partly, I guess. But I think even more it's a fear (however rational or irrational it may be) of losing my independence, my resourcefulness, my good old-fashioned can-do spirit.

And it's the same "I can do it myself!" attitude that makes me hate the fact that right now--as an adult, or at least someone who does a pretty good impression of one some of the time--I have to rely on others for one of the simplest basic needs a person has: a roof overhead. But what I've come to realize--and have to keep reminding myself-- is that there is no shame in accepting help, or in sometimes asking for it. Sure it can be dangerously easy to become used to and comfortable with letting others do things for you, and become complacent--and eventually completely screwed when eventually you find yourself all alone and helpless. But allowing loved ones (or sometimes even strangers) to provide assistance every now and then doesn't mean you have to be reliant on them. It doesn't mean you have to be helpless. I don't have to eschew help; I can accept it gracefully and still help myself and then pass it on, instead of lashing out and bearing my teeth like a cat when you try to unhook its claw from the carpet to set it free. And I've found that even when the very last thing you want is to be is dependent, it is nice to know you have people you can depend on.

The second thing I realized about myself is that I am a person who so greatly values--and has often taken for granted--the concept of, as Virginia Woolfe put it, "a room of one's own". I recognize that I'm extremely fortunate to live in a time where equal rights have progressed to the point where women are independent of father or husband and can easily have a room/apartment/house/career/business/empire/etc. of her own. I also admit that I do not aspire to a career as a fiction author. I have been lucky enough to (usually) have a room of my own, as well as income and time enough to write purely for the enjoyment of it. But "a room of one's own" also carries a more personal individual meaning for me. It's a space to think, to read, write, daydream or plan, pick out tunes on my uke without terribly offending the ears of others, to hide from the world for a little while. It's privacy and refuge. A place I can decorate how I want, turn the lights on or off when I want, put my clothes away or leave them strewn about like a colorful hurricane, be by myself or invite company, all as and when I wish. Ever since childhood I think, as far back as I can remember, my room has been my sanctuary.

And so to have that sacred idea of a unique space that's just mine taken away, even for just a little while, is discomforting and somewhat disorienting. Especially when "just a little while" remains an undefined, abstract length of time, dependent on relativism and subject to the whims of roommates and fickle landlords. When the word "homeless"--facetiously used to describe yourself--tumbles off your lips with just a little less ease and a little more forced of a smile as it starts to become just a little more true in your mind with each passing day.

And then the other week I went to a bar. And I got drunk. And lost my purse. It didn't come back. Nor did my wallet or the keys to unlock my car. And in the midst of alternatively trying to cajole and getting huffy with the AAA driver who refused to assist me because I didn't have ID--"What, do you think I just found this key on the ground and somehow knew it belonged to this car?!"--suddenly a mental picture of how I must appear flashed through my head: hungover, mussed-haired, bleary-eyed with mismatched clothes and giant overnight bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, boots hanging carelessly in hand, twitchy from stress and about a half a minute away from tears of frustration. OMG I do seem like I could be a crazy homeless person trying to steal a car!

what I looked like in my head. ok, maybe without the beard.

Up until that moment, despite the joking and nagging feeling of dependency and instability of my housing situation I had never really felt homeless. Destitute. And standing there with no current home address, no phone, no money, no way to get into my car and no identification in order to prove that it even was my car... let's just say that was about as close as I ever want to get. Because ultimately I had the option--after nearly an hour of phone calls and begging and finally convincing AAA that I was who I said I was--of driving back to four walls and a roof, to comforting arms, a well-needed hot shower and sandwich and bed. And even if it wasn't my own room and even if I had to admit that I needed help, it was exactly what I needed.

And I got even more of what I needed last Friday when I was finally able to (thank the heavens!) sign a lease for a beautiful new home with wonderful roommates. But that lesson in humility sticks with me, as it should; in one swift kick the universe telling me to get over myself, get on with my life, and remember this very crucial fact, which should always be my mantra: That just because things aren't going quite as planned doesn't mean my life isn't pretty goddamn motherfucking good.

don't hang your heart

Don't hang your heart

On things, on love

A name, a face, a place

On dreams of yesterdays

Cause things will fade

And things will start

Don't hang your heart on anything

-Chris & Thomas

Sometimes decisions can just be so hard. Sometimes you find yourself suddenly faced with so many different paths in front of you and only a moment to choose, and the indecision and fear of turning down the wrong way can be paralyzing. And it is precisely here that I know I need to sit still a moment and listen to the words of loved ones, reread the personal epiphanies I occasionally stumble upon in my bloggish ramblings and remember the lyrics of a song I haven't listened to in well over a year. And they are saying: don't hang your heart on any one choice, any one place or idea of how things are supposed to work out. Because there can be no "bad" decisions made in this positive step for change, only different ones. And I can't know what different affects each choice may have on my life, the various ways they may take me. It's like those "choose your own adventure" books except in life there's no going back and choosing different endings. And that can be terrifying, but you know what? It's also ok. Because I know that wherever I end up I am still me, and whatever path I go down I have love, hope, free will. The choice to be happy. And that's the most important decision of all. Don't hang your heart on anything, when there's so much possibility in the world. Instead let it fly free to capture every fleeting, unexpected moment of joy that it may.

home sweet craigslist ad

Be wary of ever becoming too comfortable. For it is precisely that moment that the universe seems to choose to sweep your feet out from under you and give your world a good shaking.

And so, after almost two years at my current residence and countless vows that it would be "the very last place I ever move as long as I'm in San Francisco", I find myself once again immersed in the seemingly endless search for a new home. The last time I was looking for an apartment to rent--from an actual owner or property management company, not just just a room to sublet--I was a 23-year-old student with a cat, no stable, provable income and no credit. Not exactly your ideal candidate for tenancy in the fine city of San Francisco.

I have to admit: I kind of thought that it would be easier now, mired in quasi-adult-hood and respectable tax-paying citizenry as I am. But over the past two months I've somehow found myself pulled deeper and deeper into the same heartburn-inducing, hair-pulling-out, anxiety-ridden chase I remember from years ago. Except worse. I think that trying to find a job in San Francisco may be the only thing more frustrating than trying to find an apartment. And only then because you can be locked out of certain jobs for being "overqualified", but if you want to really want to--and can--pay someone an absurd amount of money to to live in a roach-infested closet in the tenderloin you shouldn't have as much of a problem. As long as you have immaculate credit and no pets, that is.

The paradox of San Francisco, as I see it, is that it is incredibly, teeth-gritting-ly hard to rent an apartment. And yet everyone in San Francisco is Always Moving. I'm not kidding. I myself have lived in seven different residences in the almost 7 years I've lived in the city. Going on eight. And the crazy thing is, I've found that this is not uncommon, but rather seems to be the rule. Most people I know--and have known-- in this city move, on average, about once a year. Maybe two.

My first was a hectic 6-person house way yonder in the outer sunset. The most current roof over my head is a quirky Edwardian in the lower haight bursting at the gills with 5 roommates, and at a year and 11 months this April--and I'm praying that is all--actually my longest residency in SF to date. The shortest, for the record, was a desperately-entered-into, month-long sublet a block from USF with matted camo shag carpeting in the lobby and up all 8 narrow flights of stairs, where after being unable to bring myself to cook even a microwave meal in the dingy shoebox of a kitchen or tolerate the high-pitched whining from my otherwise very nice roommate when she would open her bedroom door for 2 seconds and my cat Jasper would bolt in--she was allergic to felines, unbeknownst to me at time of lease-- I quickly realized I must give myself over yet again to the terrible Craigslist Tango. In between I've lived many lives in many different apartments of all shapes and sizes across NOPA, western addition and the haight: alone, with a boyfriend, with boys, girls, cats, dogs, a snake, with 1 roommate and with 4 or 5. All interesting households, and all beloved, at least for a time.

So why, I have to ask myself and the universe, do we San Franciscans persist on torturing ourselves with this crazy, competitive goose chase and with hauling our many boxes of junk and slowly decaying Ikea furniture with us all over the city? Is it because the grass is always greener? Because there are just so many wildly different and wonderfully unique neighborhoods and Victorians and Edwardians and Modern-Style Condos and we're just dying to try them all on for size? Are we all on a never-ending quest for cheaper rent, for nicer roommates, a rooftop view or the ever-coveted in-unit laundry? Or do we just have a terrible case of restlessness and apartment ADHD? What golden goose of a flat can possible be worth the headache of schlepping yourself all over town to see 5 different places a week--4 of which are tiny, dirty holes--and the heartache of losing that 5th one that was just perfect to the group with credit scores one point higher than yours?

I'll admit, all the stress of it all has had me a little down lately. Ok, a lot down. I don't think I've felt this off-balance since my near-nervous breakdown last fall. And yes, like then my crankiness and emotional instability have me even more worried that my long-suffering loved ones will soon be running for the hills. Not to mention that two of my closest friends also now happen to be prospective roommates, and as much as we love one another inevitable tensions and frustrations can arise from the chaos of the hunt. Suffice it to say that this reluctant optimist has seen better days. But you know, today I realized that I'm a little tired of feeling sorry for myself. So I think maybe it's time to pull myself up by the bootstraps and just get on with it, whatever "it" may be.

Because although the circumstances that have brought me to move this time are far from pleasant--see: hypocrisy, verbal abuse, one bathroom for 5 people--at the very least it serves as a push to change my surroundings, to give me a new perspective and a new home to reevaluate my place here and refresh my point of view. And a valuable reminder not to get too comfortable; whether in my home, my job, my relationships...in life in general. Because when you get too comfortable is when you start to become stagnant, cease to grow, and often lose appreciation for what you have without even realizing it. Come to think of it, maybe that's why San Franciscans are constantly on the move. Maybe it's because we are wary of becoming too complacent, too stationary. Too numb to the bizarre, impetuous, fortuitous amazingness that blossoms on every street corner and down every alleyway here.

So instead I will try my best to embrace each unexpected moment as it arises and welcome the chance to rejuvenate my perspective, so that I may always be grateful and that life may always be full of wonder and new surprises. And I hope that--if I am able to successfully control my stress level in a positive way--all of my hair and fingernails will still be here to enjoy it with me.

what's wrong with this picture...

WE ARE ALL WORKERS...

especially little six-year-old boys...?

Ok, I don't know. Maybe it's just me. But I remember when this Levi's ad started appearing on bus shelters months ago, I had to do a double take. Have you ever seen a billboard or magazine ad or commercial that just makes you go: "Uhh... that could really be taken the wrong way..."? I feel like they're everywhere if you're really paying attention, but we've all grown so numb to being bombarded by constant multi-media advertising that we often just don't notice anymore. Anyway, all I could think when confronted with these particular ads was "Uhhm, what now Levi's? Are you trying to say you use CHILD LABOR?" Hmmm. I mean, ok, the kid in the oversized shirt is cute and all, but maaybe not the best use of matching slogan to image, if you really think about it. Perhaps not the greatest advertising choice ever, considering the connotations it evokes. Just saying.

another year bites the dust

If you're like me, you're finding yourself here on New Year's Eve trying to figure out how on earth another year managed to sneak its way to an end while your back was apparently turned (all while scrambling through the back of your closet trying to find a dress to wear). And of course trying to come up with clever last-minute New Year's resolutions, just in case someone asks you (someone will), and because if you put making them off until next week as you're tempted, it will completely fuck up your 2010 resolution to procrastinate less, and that's no way to bid a year adieu.

I sort of inadvertently made a resolution a few weeks ago when I finally joined the 21st century and switched from my $20-no internet-no camera-no regret if I lose it-Go phone to an iphone (second hand, though... BABY STEPS). I vowed to myself that I would not get drunk on the power of all that technology (literally) at my fingertips, lest I become one of those people who seem to have their phone surgically attached to their hand, or apparently find social networking at a bar or restaurant more important and interesting than actual socializing with the people around them. Or, god forbid, one of those people downtown I constantly shake my head at, who are always on the verge of bumping into you because instead of looking where they're going their eyes are glued down at the little electronic device in their hands.

This phenomenon seems to be growing at an alarming rate, and besides annoying, I also actually find it quite sad. I have to wonder, have people become so numb to their surroundings and so apathetic to the world around them that they prefer the little universe in their phone to the physical one? What ever happened to walking down the street head up, eyes open, taking in the sights and sounds and occasional spectacle? Just think of all you miss... the pristine majesty of a skyscraper, the bright-colored new mural on the side of a building, the guy playing the organ on the corner, tufts of cloud just turning pink and orange as you make your way home from work, the waggly-tailed Boxer puppy straining against his leash to try and sniff your leg, the guy in the gorilla suit at the bus stop (hey, I live in San Francisco...). Being alert, present and conscious of your surroundings should not just be for tourists, it should be an everyday way of life.

So all of this got me to thinking that this year, I want to be start living my life more consciously. Not just by avoiding whiling away an inordinate amount of time on my iphone or laptop, but by being more aware of each day and each moment, more observant of the world around me, the needs of others, the beauty in the details. And more than that, more conscious of time as a whole, on a bigger scale. I know it's cliche, but it really seems like as I get older the years start to go by faster and faster, and before I know it the year and so many of my plans for it have gotten swept up in the whirlwind of days trailing back the months on the calendar I'm throwing out to make room for the new. Sometimes I feel like I get so caught up in the tasks and goals and dramas of the day that I don't even leave myself time to look forward. So this year I hope will be the year I figure it out. Or if not quite figure it out, make steps in that direction and start to make bigger plans for my life, for positive change and growth. Make a concerted effort to occasionally take a step back from the urgency's of the moment to take a wider look at time, at my life and the world and my place in it.

This all is a tall task for me, and part of me wishes I'd just said I vow to go to the gym more often and cut down on refined sugar... but deep down I know I have the resolve, and the support and encouragement of loved ones. Looking back on 2010, it's been a pretty dynamic one for my group of friends. It's seen moves, dramas, major life decisions, new jobs, new outlooks and changes in relationships. It's shaken us all up a little, for bad and for good. Mostly for good, I think. But through all of it, I had a solid foundation, people in my life who I was there for, and who were there for me. And I have faith that whatever this new year brings, we'll continue to see each other through.

So wherever tonight finds you, I hope it is filled with glitter, friends and reckless dancing, and most importantly, that your night and your 2011 are filled with love.

Happy New Year!

from now on, our troubles will be miles away

I know it's Christmas Eve, and I should probably be writing some warm, fuzzy little ditty about how the fire is crackly and the lights are twinkly and I'm grateful for such-and-such, etc., etc. And it's not that I'm not grateful, or that I'm not happy that Christmas is here with its family time and cheer and ornaments and chocolate and comfortably familiar pine-scented living room. It's just that I'm feeling a little melancholy and a little reflective. Maybe a bit disillusioned.

I keep thinking back to a post I wrote last summer, a time when I guess the world through my eyes seemed somewhat renewed; fresh and full of possibilities. And I've been wondering if maybe I was just a little naive; blinded perhaps, by adrenaline and new hope. I don't know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe everything in life does have to be difficult and painful, and I just wanted it to be easy. Maybe the good things that come our way are really all just blind coincidence, and we hold onto those and try to assign them deeper meaning in order to make ourselves feel better.

But still, even when it seems like everything's going wrong and that my assertion that things really can be that simple seems like the delusional, naive ranting of a madwoman, it seems that deep down, the die-hard optimist in me still stubbornly insists that things can be, should be easy, as the natural state of things. That it's not life or work or relationships that are necessarily hard, but us making things hard for ourselves most of the time. Because we doubt, we second-guess, over-think and self-sabatoge. Because we're afraid of failure, or of commitment or of getting hurt. Or maybe even of realizing what it really is we want, because then we have to dig down and find the will and the courage to go and get it. And all of this because, after all, we are human.

I feel like when we're kids, everything seemed so much easier. And yes, of course this is due largely to the fact that as children we are generally taken care of and protected. We don't have to worry about rent and bills and deadlines and dating and finding jobs and keeping jobs. We don't have to figure out what we're doing with our lives or wonder if we're on the right path, because, when you're a child, there is all the time in the world for that still. But I have a sneaking suspicion it may also have something to do with the fact that as we grow older, we start to be told, over and over and with increasing frequency, that the universe is cruel. Love is painful. Life is a bitch and then you die. We're taught that we need to harden and prepare ourselves for this dog-eat-dog world, as if going into battle. It almost seems like this all becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I kind of have to wonder how it's even possible for us to have a fighting chance.

So how then, do we rediscover that simplicity, that ease of life? I wish I knew for sure, because... well, it would sure make things EASIER (hah). But I think that maybe: a little more compassion, open-mindedness, laughter. A bit more faith in the world and the people around us. A little less taking ourselves and everything just so goddamn seriously (because we're adults). Being a little more conscious of the energy we hold in our hearts and give out to the world. And a little more surrendering some of the hard-fought control we seem to need to have over every aspect of our lives and giving ourselves over just a bit to intuition and the universe and the mysterious forces that rule it. I don't know, maybe I really am a delusional madwoman, or a crazy hippie. Or maybe I'm just over-simplifying. But I still have to think that if we can let go a little and just get out of our own way, maybe that's a good start. That's where I intend to start anyway.

So I hope that this Christmas finds things easy for you, wherever you are. And if not easy, then I hope they are at least good. And if they can't be good, then hopeful.

Merry Christmas, and may your hearts be light.