Yesterday I had the pleasure of entertaining Ramon, childhood summercamp friend and bicycling compatriot.
I ate probably one the best meals I've had in a long while at Cheeseboard. And I mean "best" as an equally weighted average of deliciousness and caloric content. As of late I've been running on half rations, as I try to make it to spring break without having to go food shopping.
At dusk, we went up to the Big C on the hill that overlooks the Bay, talking as not-yet-fully-formed men sometimes talk to one another, when the space is quiet and the beer ample.
"So she's an artist... and you never suspected that there might be anything emotionally unbalanced about her?" he asked.
"I'm still very new to this game," the other said.
Showing posts with label night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label night. Show all posts
20 March 2010
10 March 2010
Day 69
David is sitting in his room and listening to KALX. He is done checking his e-mail, and is trying to ride the sense of accomplishment that comes from an empty inbox as much as he possibly can. He is sitting in front of his tiny computer, outlining the reasons why he is a worthy candidate to travel to French Polynesia to look at plants in the cloud forest. Maybe if he really deludes himself, he'll let himself go to bed. It's only midnight. The radio plays music that sounds like the background music to a horror movie, except played with didgeridoos. He looks at the empty bowl on his desk and feels the cereal in his stomach. He promises to make himself a real dinner tomorrow. He runs a hand through his hair so that it stands up in a more comical way. He decides that tonight he should take a shower. He decides that he will do work tonight. He turns off his computer.
05 March 2010
Day 64
I just got back from a play. It was an independent production put on by my school's theatre department. I still feel a bit disoriented. It was all over the place, touching on topics like labor rights, gender, sexuality, and the demon that is memory; a veritable boiling pot of psychoses dreamt up by college students. I think my favorite character, as listed on the playbill, was "The Sausage Man," a strange anachronistic apparition that haunts the dreams of troubled minds with his hand-held sausage grinder. I think I liked it best when his big bug eyes popped out from beneath the brim of his bowler hat, the clanking gears of his sausage grinder doing the talking for his fiendish smile.
If I let my imagination run too free, sometimes I forget where I am. Leaving the playhouse, walking back to my apartment, I traveled through an amazingly surreal world as the reality slowly began to seep back in. It more like percolated, really. It had to gurgle out of my mind and come back in splotches.
Friday nights in Berkeley, especially around the Telegraph Avenue area, are always filled with life. There are bubbly packs of girls in skirts. There are surly stags, waiting on street corners, cell phones in hand as they wait for the call. There are sirens blazing down the street to somewhere else, and it doesn't worry anybody because the sirens are headed somewhere else. There are the hot dogs sizzling in the hot dog shop (Top Dog is a Berkeley institution), and there are people dressed for a soirée clacking by.
I guess I better go to sleep now; I have work tomorrow.
If I let my imagination run too free, sometimes I forget where I am. Leaving the playhouse, walking back to my apartment, I traveled through an amazingly surreal world as the reality slowly began to seep back in. It more like percolated, really. It had to gurgle out of my mind and come back in splotches.
Friday nights in Berkeley, especially around the Telegraph Avenue area, are always filled with life. There are bubbly packs of girls in skirts. There are surly stags, waiting on street corners, cell phones in hand as they wait for the call. There are sirens blazing down the street to somewhere else, and it doesn't worry anybody because the sirens are headed somewhere else. There are the hot dogs sizzling in the hot dog shop (Top Dog is a Berkeley institution), and there are people dressed for a soirée clacking by.
I guess I better go to sleep now; I have work tomorrow.
25 February 2010
Day 55
Photos from the past couple weeks in no particular order.
The cement belly of the beast that is UC Berkeley.
Sather Gate at night, walking home from the library.
Goats! Near my parents' home in SF, the City sometimes uses goats to clear out the bramble bushes.
Campus landmark: Bronze statue of "The Friendly Football Players."
A critter cohabitating with some modern art.
One of the perks of working at the Tilden Little Farm: eggs.
Spring is here. It's been wet, but the blossoms are coming out and it's gorgeous.
Oh, the joy of collecting GPS data.
The cement belly of the beast that is UC Berkeley.
Sather Gate at night, walking home from the library.
Goats! Near my parents' home in SF, the City sometimes uses goats to clear out the bramble bushes.
Campus landmark: Bronze statue of "The Friendly Football Players."
A critter cohabitating with some modern art.
One of the perks of working at the Tilden Little Farm: eggs.
Spring is here. It's been wet, but the blossoms are coming out and it's gorgeous.
Oh, the joy of collecting GPS data.
23 October 2009
Sleep
He could not sleep. He was trying to lie still in his bed. But his foot was at the wrong angle, so he adjusted it. The foot adjustment had wrinkled the sheets and now he felt like the sheets were twisted about his knee so he squirmed with his whole torso to even things out. There. That was better. Now all he had to do was be still enough and then it would be light outside again and he would feel better and everything would be better again. It's as simple as that. All I have to do is close my eyes and stay still. Before I know it, it'll be tomorrow. He had heard somewhere, probably some big scientific study, that thinking about falling asleep while trying to fall asleep is a surefire way to not fall asleep. Damn.
Self-conscious of his mistake, he tried to visualize the desert. He saw the endless plain of cracked, dried ground extend to a hazy smear of a horizon in the distance. The pure pale blue of the sky above, pierced by the blinding eye of God.
He sweated in the flannel sheets. He felt the humid cloth against his back. He twisted again and the sheets sucked in a breath of cool, fresh air. He was on his side now. He wished he had something to hold onto. No, he wished he had someone to hold onto. It wasn't something he wanted to admit. But the comfort of it was undeniable. The ebb and flow of someone else's breathing as comforting and hypnotic as watching the tide come in.
When he was a child, when he was safely tucked into his bed, there was always the lingering sense of anxiety in the darkness until sleep would finally come. Some nights sleep came quickly. Other nights, he would listen for passing cars, and then watch the distant beams of light struggle through the blinds, into his room, and across the ceiling. He wondered what people would say about him if his funeral were tomorrow. He would think about the ridiculousness of monsters living under his bed, only to shudder in fear. Eventually, he would wrap himself into a tight cocoon, wedging himself against the wall. He would be safe there.
But now he was big and he didn't have to wrap himself in a cocoon of sheets and wedge himself against the wall anymore. He didn't have to listen to passing cars, and he didn't think about what they'd say of him if his funeral were tomorrow. But even though he was comfortable and safe, alone in his bed, he still felt the lingering sense of anxiety until sleep finally came.
Self-conscious of his mistake, he tried to visualize the desert. He saw the endless plain of cracked, dried ground extend to a hazy smear of a horizon in the distance. The pure pale blue of the sky above, pierced by the blinding eye of God.
He sweated in the flannel sheets. He felt the humid cloth against his back. He twisted again and the sheets sucked in a breath of cool, fresh air. He was on his side now. He wished he had something to hold onto. No, he wished he had someone to hold onto. It wasn't something he wanted to admit. But the comfort of it was undeniable. The ebb and flow of someone else's breathing as comforting and hypnotic as watching the tide come in.
When he was a child, when he was safely tucked into his bed, there was always the lingering sense of anxiety in the darkness until sleep would finally come. Some nights sleep came quickly. Other nights, he would listen for passing cars, and then watch the distant beams of light struggle through the blinds, into his room, and across the ceiling. He wondered what people would say about him if his funeral were tomorrow. He would think about the ridiculousness of monsters living under his bed, only to shudder in fear. Eventually, he would wrap himself into a tight cocoon, wedging himself against the wall. He would be safe there.
But now he was big and he didn't have to wrap himself in a cocoon of sheets and wedge himself against the wall anymore. He didn't have to listen to passing cars, and he didn't think about what they'd say of him if his funeral were tomorrow. But even though he was comfortable and safe, alone in his bed, he still felt the lingering sense of anxiety until sleep finally came.
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