Just a Girl

August 31 – September 6

Let’s actually begin on the Saturday afternoon from the previous week. if I’m going to move forward with this particular piece of the latest week, allow myself to step back into the preceding one. Because what happened then influences what follows in these past seven days.

You ever talk to strangers? I do. Not willingly but the chance of doing so may occur if you pick an open table next to a kind, unfamiliar face reading the SF Chronicle, and proceed to scribble down thoughts and words into a huge notebook. Twice in less than two hours my works was approached by curious older, European men. It’s the easiest place to meet non-alarming strangers to converse with, only coffee on everyone’s mind and no other expectations than that. Being a coffee addict myself, we know all too well how good of a mood we get once we taste that perfect blend, and breathe in that smoky, deep scent of the raost. I go to coffeehouses to feel at peace, and I’m certain even if not the definitive reason for the rest of the patrons, each one of them will feel that way some time in this duration. Perhaps so at ease you’re in in the mood to strike up conversation– or won’t mind it when someone tries it with you.

From my talk from both gentleman– a German named Peter and a French-born Jean-Pierre– I learned of things like ancient Grecian ruins within the waterways of underground Istanbul, and the films of Geling Yan and the colorful life of Paul Bowles. Just a lot of art as influenced by a person’s simple existence. Real experiences. And talk of these experiences earned me a most beloved gift I’ve ever gotten from a stranger– beyond just great conversations. Only less than five minutes of my first acquaintance’s departure from the cafe did he return, with no words and a single present wrapped in red paper with polka dots. He gently laid it on my table. Opening it on the spot after he was gone I discovered that it was the one book that eluded me for quite some time: Patti Smith’s Just Kids. He had asked earlier if I’d read it and I regretfully told him I waited for the day I could get it at a really good bargain price, having missed my chance two years ago when I came across it on sale for $4 at the Half-Price in Concord.

Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. Google Images.

Now it is mine for nothing. Actually, I make it a point to gain this gift not for nothing. The first payment to this generous, unspoken debt being to finish the book– and that will be easy. Patti Smith’s rich prose and attention to details that might seem vivid for having occurred 40 years ago grab me  into the story of budding artists relying on faith and love in a strange city during an era of starry promises. For knowing little about Patti Smith or her music, this is a very enticing memoir I read as a simple story with a new character and truly not knowing what will next happen to her. I forget for so rich a tory, that all of it is, as a nice surprise, real.

The second payment is to keep on going. Go where? Well, this whole encounter has also been a chance to really see that all I do now is nothing– nothing now that’s slowly building its way to somewhere better. Patti Smith agrees. There’s always going to be an audience needing your particular work. Every night I sit crookedly in my bed chiseling away chapters of this book, or walk around these hot September afternoons catching hints of fall in the smell of the air. I’m trying to live on the edge or make the most of every second I’m given in this city, but really, at this age and time in your life– you really can’t have it all. Not now, at least. Because you’re still just muddling through all sorts of emotions– especially those emotions of the self-diagnosed FOMO, Fear of Missing Out– and you just have them, without any real sense of direction. The thing that they keep telling you is that it’s OK. Keep having them, and don’t do anything if you can’t.

I read a lot this week. I read about a particular time and place where one of the most influential and kick ass women in rock and roll wasn’t that kick ass. She was a lost twenty-year old who found another twenty year old just as lost, and just as driven to find their direction in a city like New York. Timing was perfect. I hope to find mine too, I know I will. I have encouragement from the right people, even if only just a small brush in the café on Fillmore and Sacramento Street. You can’t expect much from me now, but you will soon enough. For now, as I’m reading, I’m not anything in particular. Still just a girl, but at least she’s got a pen to start her in the right direction.

“The Stories of Strangers” (From WiseLit)

Read the original article here:

Robert’s regular is a large coffee and a chocolate muffin– no bagels ever. He’s 78 years old and walks nearly a mile from his studio near Union Square up to the waterfront where I see him about every morning at this Noah’s Bagels shop. His “good morning” gesture is so lively in his scruffled voice that you’re excited to greet him back, and in doing so, he’ll gladly tell you about his awesomely rent-controlled apartment, lack of health issues besides the occasional Advil for arthritis. That Old Southern Pacific Company brick building across the street? He had worked there for nearly 40 years.

Johnny has a cup of coffee too and asks about my morning. He tells me it’s a great day because he’s finally gotten enough money to take back his repossessed boat out in Half Moon Bay– he wants to sail to Mexico and start a new life. He enlightens me about the good days as a teenager in Santa Cruz when he and his gang went through the supermarket spraying whipped cream into their mouths before readjusting their canisters back onto the shelves.

Another day, on a warm afternoon, I meet Brian, all smiles and handshakes, who seems excited about taking the afternoon BART train out into the East Bay to reunite with his wife and son after backpacking through San Francisco. Before his drug experimentations and a run-in with the law for not having a permit for a gun that was used to protect himself from a drug dealer, Brian was a computer programmer out in San Ramon. I caught his attention because I was penning an actual letter to a friend on stationery, and he admired that. I still wonder if he ever caught that train.

I tell these stories because the storytellers let me in. I got a glimpse into each of their lives, which they so willingly shared. It’s startling at first, when I see this nonchalant interaction occur often in an urban landscape, especially in a place of undeniable confinement. Here in a city like San Francisco, looking down into the screens of our phones or tablets is your best defense at a private haven. But taking a step back and with the outsider looking in, you now look stupid. The world is right in front of you– actual people and life itself passing in seconds, uncontained in various forms. Ironically, this is also the dawn of social media. We want to “get out there” through our Instagram photos and the cute things we pin on Pinterest for the acknowledgement from strangers. So what is it about actual strangers that we’re not ready to accept?

Perhaps it’s all about stigma, the fear and stereotypes behind strangers who might be beggars or ready to victimize you in some robbery or assault. We’re being guarded, not intentionally rude. Still, we accept that outsiders see our virtual lives, while it comes off as unsettling to have a physical being approach you and simply just wanting to socialize. The difference? The answer is simple: distance. Distance between strangers online is fine; you’re good to go so long as those who do take interest in you remain distant and nonthreatening.

In this case, there’s something curious about the three individuals I’ve met, and also with the others I’ve met through my time spent in a big city. The sad truth about a plain as day encounter with a random person is that, frankly, – it’s not about me, or us. Let’s  think about us for a second– us within our own circles of friends and family and people we do know and interact with everyday. People we know and support and who support us  in return. For us, our immediate social ties are concrete. And maybe that’s not the case for a random person who sits down next to you and starts spilling their life to you. That brief talk aloud to you with your nods and replies can make the rest of their day and change their attitudes after long days or cold nights on a pavement. In a landscape sprawling with life and socialization, they can get by without really talking to anyone.

The next time someone is friendly to you, and they’re not a friend… Well, make them a friend. Talking with a stranger may seem inconsequential to you, but be aware of the person’s mood and voice. We’ve only come so far with coexistence; humans are naturally social entities that relate so well in common wants and desires, and the need for support and comfort is undeniable, even if for a brief five minutes of your day. Of course I get alarmed, startled at first– but who am I to turn away from a voice that wants to be heard?

Current Thoughts:

WOMEN IN TELEVISION– There isn’t a better time than now to write for a young woman, thanks to two factors. The first, being that this world is now not without a significant variety of (good) coffee, and the other:

It’s nothing to ignore when it comes to screenwriting for television the Now, and especially when there’s an obvious shift in the roles of women on television. Women have become more complicated (and unique) on the tube because of weird and wonderful women writers who have been handed keys to the city and changed everything. As women on the big screen usually become iconic for their aesthetics, women on television have no heirs to put on necessarily– convicts, stressed political figures, machete-wielding zombie fighters, adorkable high school teachers, awkward black women, and broke post-grads. They’re not icons, they’re relatable.

In reading this month’s issue of Elle, which highlights these broad range of female characters and writers, I can’t wait to just write something. I particularly enjoyed the article that discusses the realism casting director Jennifer Euston looks for in her characters on shows like Girls and Veep. It’s the best motivation you can get as a writer– after all the key to great writing is just reading more.

WRITING LETTERS– I wrote letters two nights ago, and this morning. When was the last time you handwrote a letter? Me neither. So to get back in that groove, be patient. In being patient I mean to wait for that right work of art to come along: the perfect, quintessential stationery set for you. Keep your eyes out for one, because when you find it you’re ready to write. It also puts you in a good vibe to write a well-wishing letter for the New Year– clears your mind and all the good intentions you penned out affect you, too. The bitch of it all? Stamps. I don’t even know what the postage cost was or like, how many stamps come in a set to buy (ain’t nobody got time for that!).

TALKING TO STRANGERS is visibly the best bet for any story inspiration. Well, if a stranger is wanting to talk to you. And you shouldn’t be disinterested or obviously cold– we’re human beings, not robotic and apathetic. Even if you’re pissed, chances are strangers have been for a long time too, and they found someone who they think gives a shit about them or what they have to say. Of course it can be scary, unpredictable, unexpected– invasive. But believe me, you’ll both depart happy.

And the new Franz Ferdinand album is terrific! I had their last one on CD but I lost it. If you are attracted to someone, don’t lend them things.

So Tonight I Got Home Late, Exhausted– then I remembered “Moon River” exists in music box melody on Youtube.

I also stumbled upon this little musing of a quote:

stop for just one second.

think about all the people you’ve secretly had a crush on. all the people you’ve found attractive, but never said anything to. every stranger you’ve temporarily fallen in love with on public transportation. all the people you’ve dreamt of and thought of in the early mornings.

and now take a moment to realize that you have been this person for so many people… and you have no idea.

— Tumblr user spookyphoque

Near-midnight intrigue of this though means one thing: Valentine’s Day is approaching at work, and I’m starting to feel the sentimental affects of it.

Aren’t strangers wonderful?