Monday, January 31, 2011


...and that's rejection number 4 received.  Meh.

But I saw this heart-shaped puddle this morning -- a brew of filth and smelly water next to a cigarette butt.  If you don't think about it that way, it's kinda nice.  I suppose I could have saved it for a Valentine's Day post, but, come one, do you see me doing one of those?

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


Now this is getting to be fun.  I see my SASE in my mailbox, open it, and espy the little slip of you-suck paper.   There are still 14 possibilities out there.  Fingers crossed!

(And if you can't tell, yes, this was a thoroughly sarcastic post.)

Sunday, January 23, 2011


Is it possible for hills to be steepened?  A really big jack placed at the base, a few cranks applied and then hill is steeper?

I'm gonna go with that as the reason that hill was so hard to climb.

Appropriately, I heard a joke this evening by comedian Demetri Martin that went something like "Hiking is really just walking, in a place that's OK to pee."

Saturday, January 22, 2011


Wouldn't mind being lost in a crowd.  Alone yet surrounded.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

2 of 17

Another rejection slip yesterday.  How bad do you have to suck as a writer to get a rejection slip from a journal published out of a state college in Idaho?

Anyway, that whining aside, the full moon from last night greeted me as I walked to carpool.  It was so perfect; it looked hung there.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


Been reading David Sedaris' latest book, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.  It's got me looking at animals in a new way, especially my animals.  Well, the ones I live with.  I don't claim to really own them.

Like with many aspects of our lives, we tend to make up what isn't explained to make ourselves feel better, make it all bearable.  "I'll meet my dearly departed loved ones on the other side when I die," for instance.  How about some a little less serious like, "My pets are always at the door when I come home.  They miss me and want to greet me."  I want to believe that.  Rather, my heart wants to believe that, but I know it's not true.  The quality of light outside probably signals my return home and the front door happens to be close to the kitchen, which is where their food is kept.  They approach me for pets because they like their heads rubbed.  They don't care about my day.

What's a bit much though is when one of them literally bites the hand that feeds them (not while it's feeding them, fortunately), and then minutes later yaks it up all over the carpet in a 12-inch by 3-inch stripe.  That just seems mean-spirited.

Monday, January 17, 2011


Wish I’d had a real camera this morning for this scene.  Such a fitting visage on a morning of heavy fog combined with feeling torn down and surrounded by mist.

Rubble, Transbay Transit Terminal, Mission and 1st Streets.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

1 down 16 to go

Got the 1st rejection slip in yesterday's mail.  (I didn't check it until today.) Bah. 

As I was telling a friend over brunch today, perhaps just the fact that I sent out the story to 17 places was enough of an accomplishment.  If do get seventeen rejections, I think it's safe to say I should archive that story and move on. 

That's OK.  I have my day job.

Saturday, January 8, 2011


I don't possess any gardening expertise, but I can work under supervision.  Pull those weeds, not those.  They look like clover to me, but have a tricky Latin name that I forget seconds after hearing it.  I was convinced I was pulling the wrong plant, all at once, root intact, silent.  Or in broken bits, leaving stubs behind. I tried to keep my balance on the slope of lot S1 and at the same time not pulverize the good plants, the ones we want to live, under the weight of my right knee.  The dark mulchy earth is pressed deep in the fibers of my work pants, which are really just old pants, with a stitched-up hole in the seat.

At the post-work coffee reward, I catch a glimpse of myself in the cafe window:  meandering hobo, the glimpse reveals.  I didn't dare remove my knit cap inside, the warm sweet air clashing with our loamy grassy air.  The coffee is strong and even cream and spoonfuls of brown sugar can't tame it. 

The weeds I pulled will probably return, and spread.  Undoing the work I did.  But that's what weeds do, I suppose.  That's their purpose.