Just found this in my journal while looking to post some fresher writings. Well, can’t go forward without going back. So…

San Francisco. Hayes Valley. Ritual Coffee Roasters. I feel like I’m in a participatory art project, or, unbeknownst to me have wandered onto a movie set. White chairs scattered around a gravel lot like bird droppings, in no discernible pattern. Pedestrians lounging in the warming sun, some peering at a phone, others gazing into space or watching me taking in my surroundings as I write, or observing passersby themselves, but impossible to tell as most are in sunglasses. Regardless, they all look like extras in a movie waiting for the director’s call, or are extras in a movie, currently rolling, of which I am the star. A pigeon waddles by on orange, matchstick legs like a child’s toy. It should be pulled by a string and rolling on castors. A skateboarder at a grind box interrupts the general state of quiet calm, only briefly, but the clatter sounds of a rockslide. A blow to one’s reveries. A violent shaking awake from an aqueous dream of surrender. I can’t ascertain the use for the enormous blank board that leans over the lot like a spectator, pale and on the edge of his seat during the climax of a play or the last few meters of a too-close-to-call foot race. And the orange metal planters and tables, triangle shaped, the only splashes of color in the space, and so, humming with energy like tiny incubated explosions popping off repeatedly. There is the ever constant breeze which whisks through this dream of mine. I wonder if it will carry me home when I leave.