Don’t Wake From This September

September 5 – September 11

It was well quoted in high school, and occasionally reemerges as a meme for this month as October 3rd does for October 3rd in light of further 2000s nostalgia. I’m talking about the line, wake me up when September ends. A simple, vague declaration universal to the feeling of trying to forget, moving on. It’s a lyric of a song from the band to whom I most certainly do owe most of my creative individuality towards, Green Day.

However, I am reveling in this September. For starters, new faces in my life as my favorite season approaches, the season that symbolizes new changes on the horizon, and seemingly all good, and not just for myself. Those around me are finding themselves driving their dream cars, emerging victorious from the perils of the BAR exam, and within three months time, travels to New York will begin again. But for the moment, the new change I enjoy is that of great company and chasing the dream that is finally seeing Green Day in concert. And a concert wouldn’t be coming without the release of their latest album, Revolution Radio. Oh god. A new one. They’re still here. The lifelong dream lives on– in the wake of a season where change is interchangeable with fading.

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YES YES YES. Out October 7th.

I was fourteen when I started listening to the music I swear by now, and Green Day was the band that did it. “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” was a soft yet emotionally-rigged tune that I was told by my sister would be a song I’d enjoy, and lovable songs in the mid-2ooos for me were definitely hard to come across. I was totally immersed in my (undying) love for strictly classical and old jazz, and anything outside those realms were just trash. And coming from my sister who was infatuated with all Ashanti/ Ja Rule and Nelly hits on the radio, suggesting an alternative rock ballad was quite out of left field for the both of us. I was hesitant– and one day, there it played on the radio. It wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t overkill for me. It was a slow but endearing song with a soft piano in the works and a haunting chorus. What my parents considered a downward spiral for me musically was just the beginning of becoming a new Paris, unique and self-fulfilling.

My preppy-turned-awkward punk/hippie years in high school are not the most aesthetically-pleasing to look at in old photos. As terrible as I looked you can equally see how happy I was, blissfully ignorant of my teenage phase yet doe-eyed and hopeful. I traded low-heeled Mary Janes for black Chuck Taylors and started my high school’s first environmentally- focused club. In skinny jeans I trusted alongside my studded belt to walk into my counselor’s office to discuss applying for college…it was only the beginning of sophomore year. By 2009 I was set for USF and a new chapter in my city, and I’d built up an adequate playlist on which to live this life to. And then that summer, before heading off, my favorite band gave me “Viva La Gloria!” Another fierce anthem that really resonated with me and my passions for the future. Trying to revolutionize and change the world with what I thought I knew at the time and through purely terrible writings. This was an aspiring writer who thought it was all figured out, ready to burn the world with her work and a kickass song singing praises to a punk heroine created by her first artistic and relatively hometown heroes.

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As Fall approaches the City.

And this would all fade– life would laugh at these ideals of mine as I actually got out beyond the suburbs. But later on, as I sat at my desk in an office high rise overlooking downtown San Francisco, contentedly listening to all Green Day again, I crossed paths with Gloria. That raging, loving, passionate-to-burn-all fury that motivated me for my future was coming back in just a few minutes of a song. And I couldn’t have listened to “Viva La Gloria!” at a more inspiring week. I’ve only gone on about my music and punk heroes of high school past because I tend to get caught up nostalgia– and it only added to a memorable start to the fall. Looking back at last year, there was so much uncertainly and almost fear about the coming season. Fall marks change, but in contrast to before, today, now, and in my future I only wish I could put change on hold– to make these memories last. Gone are the first excitements of your parents finally meeting the person you sincerely adore, the person who keeps surprising you in new and wonderful ways that make you seem not alone any more, as alone as I had been in these past few months. Gone is when you and that person roamed Polk Street for what seemed like forever for a bathroom until sprinting into Grubstake Diner and leaving with the best grilled shrimp you ever tasted. Gone is that moment you woke up next to their face whose look you’ll never forget– someone so happy you’re by their side. So happy that they try to make these dreams of yours come true, determined and headstrong to find a pair of tickets to see Green Day with you– even if tickets are already sold out for all upcoming shows.

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And also gone now, borne ceaselessly back into the past as Fitzgerald would have liked it, was a dream of a Sunday, a well lived fantasy that only came true for a single afternoon. Here we were, you and I , you in your gray driving hat and I in my wine-stained white dress and sunhat draped in pearls and lounging on a blanket beneath the sun and vintage cars as someone out by the distant dance floor sang “The Very Thought of You” almost sounding like Lady Day. Nothing quite felt like The Gatsby Summer Afternoon before in my life, and never did I think I would have that feeling in the first place. It was a fanciful and expensive little event I always had eyes for but couldn’t afford or couldn’t convince anyone to go to. This was another Cinderella moment in which magic brought me back in time, to 1922 when I could we enjoy all things from a simpler time and in each other’s company– because without you, in your gray hat and red tie, this magical moment would not have been made possible. Never stop surprising me, never stop being wonderful, and for now, never stop being this perfect in the moment.

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Owe my beauty look of the day to Bésame Cosmetics.

That is my September thus far. And I’m not ready to wake up. Gloria is back and ready to tackle the bright future before her, the chance to chase another lifelong dream again, but she deserves some rest before the big battle.

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Fairy Tales

 April 24 – May 3

Once upon a time two little girls watched a truly remarkable film. The younger sister was eight years old and was still caught up in silly, childish things like fairy tales. Something about the mischief of creatures who could have existed in the world and the magic they bestowed upon plain old humans as a means to guidance on their everyday plights struck a deep cord within her little, innocent soul. She could not wait to see this film, and after watching it she was forever drawn to the beautiful costumes, breathtaking scenes of misty hills and lush woods where French castles were strewn about, filmed in hazy but heavenly-like cinematography where each scene has a golden or blue-rinsed glow. This film, Ever After, was indeed a fairy tale of a beloved classic, but just as it seemed magical, the story itself was far from any magic.

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The realist twist on Ever After would become a deep-seeded passion of the little girl’s own storytelling in the years to come. She would grow into a young woman who would move away to a not so far away land, and in not finding her prince, but redefining the limits and possibilities of becoming her own princess, would endure obstacles all as equally harrowing were they conjured by the most evil and terrifying magic. She would lose all her money, become confined the wretched house in the country she had once loved, but somehow escape 2 years in a life of servitude towards the art of papery. Friends she had once known and even new faces would turn on her online. But for awhile, she’d found solstice in a man she’d been in love with, a potential prince and True Love and all those things she’d believed in for so long. But when these things eroded, so was her peace of mind– slowly caving into the stark realization that fairy tales were perhaps just that, for a reason. Nonexistent, fanciful; nothing near now. But she would also remember that in the midst of tragedy, that never meant in a story that it was the end.

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As for this girl, her sister was just as firm of a believer of fairy tales as she. Just as firm as the weight of a weary world wrecked havoc in her own life, too. Forced to miss the parties in college and spring break voyages for a paycheck, the determined and loving sister did what she must for helping the family, keeping love and sanity at once, and sometimes at the sacrifice of her own. And just when she thought she would be rewarded for such valor, none was in sight. With every love came a heavy heartbreak that seemed to worsen with time, with waning patience. Her love was too much. She was taught that love was her most valuable gift to the world, but only few men could realize it. Sadly, they were the ones she had met.

Two sisters, one wishing and hoping– and the other just not sure anymore. The eldest still waits and tries in vain to change each toad that comes along to be the Prince we all deserved, and neither of them deserving of her love. But for the life the latter sister leads now, it’s her own fairy tale still in the making, and were it ended there then all would be happily ever after– RIGHT NOW. So it’s not over yet, but she hopes the end is near. It’s just a handful of more adventures to be had until then, like the mid-morning feasts across the city of San Francisco and sunlit parties by a poolside of a beautiful retrofied hotel where a dear friend might snap her photos as she dipped her little feet into the cool blue water. Topless green-haired men and women are making out, the magic of mermaids; the closest thing to them she’s encountered. She has found that at times, being in San Francisco is as magical as things might get. Her sister does not think so; it’s a wasteland filled with greedy people and loveless, handsome men. She’s gone away from this place to find love– but whether the love really exists no matter where they are, that is a quest both sisters unite in discovering together.

Until those moments can align, it was in this week that both forget their own troubles and twisted plots to rejoice in a movie that made them believe so long ago.

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Petrichor

February 29 – March 6

Shitstorms happen. And we need them to happen.

For these past two weeks it’s been surprisingly gorgeous. Blue skies, a smudge of humidity in the low 60s, the rising scent of tattered wet newspaper and spilled trash bins. Uncommon for March, but lovely. Lovely for a night to be had for wine nights and a rooftop dinner in the Mission with your closest friends. And why not follow it up with an art gallery opening?

But as you know when great plans are anticipated, they somehow backtrack. Starting with the rain. It didn’t swell in the earlier part of the day when I was in North Beach, only in my Uber ride on the way to El Techo did it worsen. Upon shaking off my bright yellow umbrella of dew and hugging my friend in the line to the elevator I didn’t know how much worse everything would get. The warm faces quickly regressed into worried looks. My good friend’s phone and wallet were stolen. To have your personal items take off with the Lyft that had just sped off is a panicking situation. And reaching the Lyft via my other friend’s phone was a joke. How we wished all of this was a joke right now.

What unraveled from the rooftop to a living room with two police officers at nearly 2 AM was just a part of a night no one asked for. We didn’t ask for a phone to be stolen away, for a windy tumultuous night stranded at the Balboa Park BART station amidst the heavy rain while someone out there was satiated by the 15 bucks spent at Mission Burrito in no solemn thanks to my friend’s credit card. I sat in the Uber we managed to call on my way to my friend’s apartment in soggy shoes and tights clinging to my legs, sad and defeated in how the night had brought us to here. But giving way to Murphy’s Law, in spite of our hopes for a lovely reunion anything did happen. Anything but the night we had in store.

Then the most amazing thing happened. We were warm in a bed of white sheets and a sun glaring from behind a bookshelf where rays peaked through the spaces where the books weren’t tall. I was tired but at peace. There were still sips of Earl Grey tea left in our mugs and my friend had traced her phone, cracked, abandoned at SFO airport. Recovery of that, and our composure over so much disbelief at the storm and fatigue and lack of help from authorities over the long night, was finally having its effects.

Perhaps the morning is all you ever need. We’ve come into the clear and the storm has subsided, and the air sure smells great with the disaster of the night lingering for true reconciliation. I guess, from all this, things you don’t expect, and don’t want to happen, find their way into your weekend to realize that was just what you needed to remember those that dance in the rain with you.

 

 

Unseen

May 30 – June 5

One night you plan on going to sleep when 11 PM hits and then you’re hit with something else. Your uncle, only 7 years your senior, is in a cab and on his way to your apartment with the intention of sake bombs and karaoke somewhere secret and still open in these late hours of Japantown. I get my jeans back on and grab my keys to head out the door and into the uncertain night where we end up singing Journey with Australians, enjoy half a dozen takoyaki, and mistake Bump of Chicken as a menu item at Mogura rather than the name of a prominent Japanese band. It wasn’t a Wednesday night I was expecting, but for a small chance to immerse myself in the closest way I can to a late night in Japan, I was up for some more fun.

So when I went out to San Jose last weekend I was expecting many things. A weekend away from the city, seeing old friends from college, experiencing a city all over again that had once held so many sentiments for me. San Jose is where my two friends are at law school, where my childhood spent in the back of my dad’s sports memorabilia store in East Ridge Mall was played out, where there are fields where I used to sit on their sidelines and watch my ex boyfriend coach children after school hours. It’s not the place where I thought I would be in a car crash.

The accident happened in the midst of a Friday night, 2 AM or sometime after it. In N Out, Denny’s; we were all scoping out our options for soaking up the gin and tonics and fireball shots we’d taken together down in Santana Row. Squashed in the middle, you might be a bit annoyed at the limited space but hey, you’re the smallest of the group. At least there’s a seat belt. You’re all about safety, and it’s a bonus if the middle seat has a shoulder strap rather than just across the waist. Your friend isn’t as paranoid as you, and you make him strap on his just as he hesitates to reject your warnings out of playful spite. A few laughs, a steady speed past an intersection, still not sure about what to eat– and then it all hits.

There are people in my life now and things that have happened where years back I wouldn’t think much to where we all are now/ what’s going on currently. In that moment in my life I was speechless, sandwiched, and thankfully unharmed after what seemed like a sudden stop in everything, time especially. It stopped, and just long enough to really think about, well, damn. This just happened, and you never really think that this, accidents, happen. And not with the people you particularly find yourself stranded on the side of the road in a wrecked car. Old friends, college friends; the girl you sat next to in your your 5PM nonfiction class the first semester back from being out of school for half a year to alleviate financial burdens, the guy you first saw when he was the only guy actually to last the whole freshman spring in the Jane Austen class of 20 girls, and later borrowed quarters from in the laundry room sometime in that same year. I’m still stuck by these people, and never did I think upon our first encounters this is where we’d be nearly 7 years later, dazed and freaking out that not only were we all just hit from the side– but that the man who did was just taking off right then and there, and speeding off into the night with his horrific pleas of forgiveness for not having a license falling deaf on our ears.

Things happen, things change. The future is the only real direction we have about this vast void of life. Try as we might to “live” right, there’s no real understanding of our existence, of plain old why live. And in that we try to make life meaningful by our own definitions, create a future that varies for each person. Except one thing that remains inevitable: future, for everyone, is uncertainty. It’s a scary thing, and yet it’s just as strange and beautiful. You find yourself staying out late nights with family or friends. Sometimes they’re people you didn’t think would stay long in your life or the last people you could see yourself be with. You don’t look to a particular person and think about how you actually might have save their life too.

We don’t think about these little encounters or people we come across, but now, now I will. Who knows what future I shall continue sharing with the people in my life right now, and who knows what amazing things might still happen and even better, what people I still haven’t met yet. Or even in the littlest things, like a prayer card for Saint Gabriel, those who are always besides you unseen, but caring– saving you as our driver was saved when his head hit right where the card was plastered, to his steering wheel.

It’s all shocking really, but you find yourself smiling. Even if you’re tired, even if you’re still in shock and cold and stranded on a road. And still hungry for In N Out.

Have you ever thought about the future of certain things in your life as they come into it?

 

 

ANNOUNCING REX: WORDS WITH A MECHANICAL FRIEND, ON SALE NOW!

When you have words to say, they’re not meant to be kept in a drawer.

A lot of my recent work from this past year has experienced this doom. They’re not the finest words I’ve produced, but they’re raw, simple, and capture various moments throughout that strange transition seen in 2015 when I first moved to San Francisco and went through a breakup. I like writing nonfiction, and even more so when I accomplish it in less than a page. Say what you need to say and don’t dance around. And it’s no dancing you won’t see with this new book of mine, Rex: Words with a Mechanical Friend, that hit shelves last month!

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There are 45 pieces published in this collection, photographed in various places around my apartment where all of them were written. As for Rex, my typewriter, he’s a difficult collaborator when I need him anywhere else and he’s pretty loud– loud where I slow down my typing to a bolero-like patter that takes almost an hour to compose less than half a sheet of words. But he’s made this possible, and there’s just something more endearing about words you’ve written in analog fashion. Typing versus my regular writing is a force of really hitting the notes hard and in one try with everything you say. You can’t go back and rephrase it or fix anything. It’s all there, unforgiving and beautiful– preserved on one page that feels surreal to hold in your hands.

Here’s a few works that you can find in Rex. I’m so proud to be giving them a rightful home here:

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Read these and more in Rex, now! Available here for purchase.

Rex Floral

Resignation: A city dweller looks back on exploring weekends among San Francisco’s gritty downtown

February 22- February 28, March 4 – March 10

I couldn’t think of a better feeling than waking up on a late Saturday morning and realizing you’re living right in the center of a big city. Just about anything is at your feet, like a quiet cappuccino at Jane on Fillmore Street or a bus over to a deep, cold stroll along the Marina and maybe some shopping or dog watching at Patricia’s Green in Hayes Valley. But I wouldn’t be caught dead heading downtown to Union Square.

Urbanites have their quirks for sure– you pick up a variety of oddities subconsciously from countless souls you come across in a melting pot as any landscape as this well as our quirks. For strangers to each other, all we can be sure of is a mass, mutual love for San Francisco/New York/Chicago/Seattle/etc. and that we are gracious to share. Our own little secret. And that’s how any big city’s downtown becomes the least favorite of all of us here.

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In all the sprawl of the uncharted concrete jungle, why would you stay downtown? It’s a tourist destination, a generalized spot watered down to prey on any unsuspecting passerby. Downtowns, we forget to remember, are no secret. The flagship stores and family-friendly food franchises that line the Market Streets and Sunset Boulevards and Broadways all over the globe leave nothing to the traveller’s imagination. And isn’t that why we travel, for something completely new and intriguing to all we’ve ever known? Leave it to the locals to show you a good time, not a legion of other lost visitors. They wouldn’t be able to tell you where the closest Philz is.

On that note, I wake up some Saturdays and head straight to the dead zone of urban sprawl. And why would I ever do that to myself? Prior work obligations, that’s why. For three years now I’ve been a local tour editor for Stray Boots— absolutely one of the best ways to get the most out of exploring a new city and on your own terms. Stray Boots is a New York-based app with hundreds of tours ready at your fingertips, most of these actual scavenger hunts that, either alone or with multiple players, you can get really interactive with the destination as the tours take you down alleys and into famous hat shops for the answers and even great photo ops. And here in San Francisco, you would have found me sometimes aimlessly wandering this little town to make sure all the Bay Area tours are up to date. It’s a given that Stray Boots would create tours around the most popular places on the map. And it’s my job– a job most certainly to be proud about. A job I’ll most certainly be sad to leave.

With the incredible progression in my career as a social media marketer for Wish and the little time I do have left to focus on my weekly musings here on AWBTB, I feel that the time for me with Stray Boots has strayed itself. I find myself wandering along a promising new path that will help me reach my destination, uncertain yet more clear than when I first got my hands dirty in downtown treks nearly three years ago. A chance to walk around a city you love and seem to know in and out was the only excitement a post-grad like myself could encounter– but for the places I go now, I wish they could excite me. Albeit some pretty Victorian-preserved storefronts I see nothing but outdoor strip block malls that make me realize how much more there is to explore not just here, but beyond the boundaries of this city.

I find myself talking down San Francisco a lot nowadays, too. I’ve been here for seven years, properly lived within its city limits for two– and for being a native in the greater Bay Area I do feel at times that I’m outgrowing it. In being a part of Stray Boots I was embarking on my own personal journey to see a new side of my home city, but now all has been seen and the wanderlust is only getting out of hand. I’ve worn these stray boots down and now I shall trade them in for something new– shiny new shoes are always hard to turn down.

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I came to the decision to part ways with Stray Boots, but not without an everlasting and most welcomed bittersweet taste. I’ll be glad to know what fun facts are to be found scattered across North Beach and Union Square, forever knowing those routes without batting lashes and able to spew out questions to fellow friends like “who is the Nike goddess modeled at on Union Square?” or “what city were the beat poets trying to get away from [Hint: look up to the entrance at their old hangout, Vesuvio].” For mingling among the crowds of tourists out in full force in North Face and scarves they just bought there made the start of the task before me seem like such a nuisance, but at the end of the day, at the end of this road I’ll be glad to carry this seemingly mundane knowledge about this city wherever I’ll go next. And in remembering them, I’ll always have that little bit of San Francisco, no matter how sick of it I may get at times, that will keep me in awe of its uniqueness.

One of of my most beloved quotes about the world comes from appropriately enough my favorite book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn:

“Look at everything as if you were looking at them for the first time, and the last time.”

The field work completed for this small but ambitious app will wore this city out for me, just as it got to remind me that someone, somewhere, is always new to this place and will be indebted to the wonders I captured for them– even if I’ve forgotten how wonderful they are to myself.

 

People in my Life Right Now

February 15 – February 21

There’s my sister of course. Milan. Yes, we really are Milan and Paris. There’s no other London, Berlin, Sao Paulo, or third sibling that everyone usually follows up asking about when they learn our names. Our parents just loved how they sounded, complimented, each other. She is also my roommate and I revel in the rare moment when she does stay at our apartment so we can have dinner or drinks together either at Harry’s Bar or Thai Stick. We used to go to Route 101 on Van Ness but we forget to have cash on us nowadays. When Milan asked what kind of wine they had, the bartender Trey (then dubbed “Diego” once learning our own names), simply said Red and White.

My old coworker and fellow indie writer and graphic novelist Aaron’s been messaging to hang out lately, and I’ve been so busy to remember that I’ve got a message from him. But huzzah! We’ve got a lunch date set up. Depends now on when– where.

I see Allie everyday. Same with Lauren, Celina, and Milli, Brandon, and Debra. Allie and Debra run the office, Debra more so when Allie’s tending to the personal itineraries of our company founders. They keep our kitchen well stocked with everything from avocados to Flaming Hot Funion Rings and Girl Scout Cookies and fresh juices. They also keep our Happy Hours alive and well oiled with never-ending Fireball shots and human-size bowling. Not only do we work together but when work isn’t in session we’re out grabbing drinks at Uno Dos or noshing on Mac N’ Cheese at Archive. We’ve also attended movies and spin classes together. I’ve found myself so lucky to be working and experiencing this city with the sweetest and most brilliant people I know.

Gaby is my go-to city girl. She has never failed to find out the free museum days or big sales and cool art exhibits going on across San Francisco. Like me, there was a time she couldn’t come back to this city and we were so far apart from each other, from our mutual friends, from an epicenter with so much going on yet both of us chained to hometowns that really were sucking us dry of everything but our ambitions to return.

Yvonne runs the creperie in the atrium of my office building. She knows when I need a coffee or Norwegian Crepe, without the greens. It’s consensus at work that Moolicious Crepes offers better coffee than the $2000 machine sitting in our kitchen. I like to ask how the location at the Metreon is doing or when she next plays tennis. She just came back from a match in Vegas.

The young cashier at Target forgets who I am and always elaborates on how he’s got to work early shifts on Saturday and still balance his homework fro City College.

The shadow of a large man who followed me down the street from the bus outside my office and proceeded to viciously touch himself.

There’s Kyle, whom I texted in a panic about the perv. He’d calm me down. He says he would so love to kick the man’s ass– not exactly comfort but strangely I do feel better. I message him a lot nowadays. Instagram writers turned Snapchat buddies turned late night conversationalists on subjects like the Loch Ness Monster, writing in coffeehouses (whether Rook lives up to the standards of Philz Coffee), and how he hates snacks, especially cookies. Late night despite it being almost 3 AM where he’s at– the East Coast.

I try not to overthink what our talking really is, but I can’t help dream about what it could turn into. It might seem far fetched or unrealistic or downright silly to be so interested in someone so far off. But when you feel connected, that’s enough to forget the gruesome mileage. Because it’s so easy to talk about stupid blunders at work or venting about the insecurity fits that overcome you and cause you to leave parties early and especially the people on the street who make you feel so disgusted since they have chosen you as their objects of their sexual harassment. Despite all the people in my life right now sometimes you can feel like there is no one there at all. Yet talking to my friend in Jersey just never feels that way. It’s a simple pleasure, the little things we discuss that get me through the week. It all keeps me positive, ready to see who else might just pop into my life for the weeks to come.

And maybe one week it just might be him. In the flesh.

Recoveries

February 8 – February 14

BAD JOKES OVERHEARD THIS WEEK:

(looking up to the new light installments on the Bay Bridge after dinner at Epic Steakhouse)

The bridge is lit!

(sitting next to two skeevy-looking gentleman at the bar while I wait to meet my sister at The Corner Store

Hey man, what is the difference between an old bus stop, and a lobster with breasts?

– One is a crusty bus station. The other is a busty crustacean!

I also listened to two songs this week with their titles focused on “Recovery,” the first being a single by the Scottish tech group Chvrches (or “Ceviches” as my uncle claims is easier to remember), and a playful tune by Frank Turner. Both sing of getting back on track, getting back to the way things were with someone beside their side or as their reward for recovering. The Oxford Dictionary tells us that “recovery” is ‘The return to a normal state of mind, health, or strength.’

So if it means to go back to normal, does it always mean better?

Because maybe it’s a recovery I don’t want. Maybe this whole time in San Francisco is just a phase and just like that, it could all be gone and I’ll be back in suburbia and that’s one terrible finish if that’s where I’m meant to be. Yes, that’s what I dread. I live month to month subleasing such a lovely little place from my aunt, a place I usually have to myself and barely gets stocked with food because I’m always eating at work. A job I enjoy. People who I hang out with when 9-5 is done. Doing things together like sing-alongs at the Castro or $40 16 oz steaks on the waterfront in the rain. Doesn’t it all sound like a dream? All of this dreaminess will shatter sometime. Like dreams, I might actually wake up from this. We all might. There’s been talk about how the tech industry is ready to burst within a few years and with that so shall all we’ve been accustomed to.

The line in Frank Turner’s song is probably what’s getting me to overthink all of this:

’cause broken people
Can get better if they really want to
Or at least that’s what I have to tell myself if I’m hoping to survive

The faded hope in there is actually delightful. If they really want to. So if recovering is for the better, then this dream is something else. We’re not going to be the same. We’re going to be different, we’re going to keep growing.

And we’re going to forget those terrible jokes in the process.