April 8, 2015
This is a chilling afternoon along the Marina walkway to which I’ve never been. Clouds rest over the Golden Gate way out there past these electric, emerald waters that trick the eyes into a blue hue. The bench is all mine and courtesy of the Wilcox family who donated it so that their lost beloved would live on seated besides you. But maybe I really am just alone here, and it’s just what I want.
I want to read this old copy of something by Marquez but his ghost would have me look up, flipping through these pages in the tips of the wind that leaves no one at peace. And when I do look up it’s a wonder that I should want to read at all.
Here on a weekend I’ll look up on strange views except for one, the island of cages and forever surrounded by the ferries that he and I would have taken to get there. We were supposed to go together, then again it’s best we remain on this side of those waters free and roaming, than holding hands behind bars in thinking that we were sentenced to each other for life.
I’ve entered the theater the same as I would step out of it 2 hours later– all is everything I imagined it would be. And that is sentimental. But it’s not in the way I think about me and him all of a sudden, but for once I can revel now in another’s happy ending.
Tonight is a double feature down at the Castro Theatre: Breakfast at Tiffany’s at 5, followed by Sabrina around 7:10. M very first show at The Castro. $11 gets you past original, intricately-panned doors and gold gilded walls overseen by soft Grecian murals. No cash for popcorn or a soda, but I play it off like I’m something extraordinary; the only girl in the vast room not noshing on snacks– something mystical and commanding of the audience’s attention like Audrey Hepburn herself. I sink into the perfect seat towards the center of the screen in a middle row. And as the organ player draws “Moon River” to a close he’s lowered down and the lights dim and the magic begins.
I walk into the street as Holly Golightly does before the sun hits 5th Avenue on the grand doors of Tiffany & Co. Mean Reds. A shit show of fear and confusion and searching for some assurance that we belong somewhere– with someone. In the end Holly didn’t need Tiffany’s anymore. She found herself in the arms of a man who never was, beneath the torrents of Hollywood rain beside a dirty cat. Me, I am walking, still searching. I’m not wearing lipstick– in the state I’d been in before the film had started, it was a mood no girl should be in without her lipstick on.
Still I walk the dark streets of that proud, loving district in San Francisco alone and never think again of these pale lips. Maybe I don’t need him anymore. I don’t feel like I do right now, but it is only a short-lived lie– suffering a case of my own Reds. Tiffany’s is still somewhere to be found and waiting for me.
But the peace of mind now tells me I just left it.
Written March 16, 2015
As the song rings through these dark waters, we’re together and together we get used to the tedious work that glorifies this hour. The sun will disappear and the chills of the wind start around us, but it won’t undermine our laughter and fears at pedal boating for the first time.
We haven’t seen each other in months and what day could possibly rival this reunion? Here are two faces by my side and singing along to the cold melodies of the Rumors album in passing waves and the falling leaves that sink below where turtles tread lightly, as not to wake the ghost there. At one point we talked of her, silencing ourselves as we come to the bridge and lose our bearings, attempting to pivot the red bulk from underneath. I don’t know if either of them believe in the spirit, but it gives such a somber thrill that I am careful to never mention her name aloud, if she could really take us away and into the wind.
It’s a wonderful Sunday to be aboard a dusty little schooner as ours, and wouldn’t you love to join us? We’re not much of a crew but we’re moving along and that should be enough conviction. Onward we move as we further strengthen the blessings of four years behind us. There sure is something here that brings us back; I’m convinced it’s more than these waters.
I knew these faces before and only to see that that ink is thicker than water. The soul could feel love but it takes others to help spell that damned thing out.