I’m leaving San Francisco in little over 36 hours, for yet another indeterminate chunk of time, and I don’t quite know what to make of it. I guess that means, as it always does, that it’s time to write into the fog and whittle my way toward whatever silhouettes are lurking. I’m starting to realize that my obsession with figuring out my feelings is little more than a gambit for control where there is usually none to be had. I constantly make decisions that require relinquishing the usual harnesses that keep people believing they’ve got it handled, that they’ve got that abyss yoked. On some level I’m denying myself that comfort, on another level, I’m freeing myself from it, but I guess why I do that is an entirely different conversation. The point is that when I’m anchors-up like this my brain’s knee-jerk reaction is to grab for something solid. Writing is what I do, it also happens to be a permanent foray into making meaning out of nothing, or something, or everything. It’s the way I try to understand the world, so I guess it’s not all that psychologically complex that when I’m emotionally jacked-up my monkey mind starts banging on the bars and throwing poo. The good news is that I’m getting better and better at not letting that process run amok. Because what at first begins as said gambit for control, can sometimes end by spiraling into some fatalistic extrapolation about my life and where I’m going and what I’m fated for etc. etc. ad infinitum. It can get very bad, very quickly. So what I’m attempting now is to allow myself to feel what I’m feeling without assigning some meaning to it that exists outside the moment, that is some dictate on the future or relic of the past, or whatever. It’s not as easy as it sounds. People like to look back and forward, not so much at the here and now. Yes, yes, it’s all very OPRAH, or Eckhart Toile or whatever, but c’est vrai - ask your local zen master.
So as for the feelings here and now, they are wild little beasts jumping back and forth between the twin beds of SAD and SURE and sometimes crashing mid-air. I was making a salad today with my special Maldon’s salt that I keep hidden away from my roommates because I’m greedy (and it’s expensive) and I went to put it back on my shelf, before I realized it wasn’t my shelf anymore. CUE THE VIOLINS. Because the new chick has already moved into my room, and I am staying in the limbo otherwise known as my absentee roommate’s bedroom. So, naturally, I had to cede my shelf to the new chick despite the fact I’m still here. ENTER the moment where I realize in two days I will no longer live here anymore, and in fact I have one foot out the door. And because it’s never just about one thing, the waves of sadness come from numerous places, about a variety of things and people and they kept sneaking up on me all night: when the 75 year old man with the wizard’s cape got on the train; walking through the deserted financial district after the movie; and strangely, watching the sushi chef meticulously clean his knife. Until tonight, out by myself, taking a breather from the sprinting pace of being out with friends and going to see this one last thing, or eat at this one last restaurant – I hadn’t really felt sad about leaving. But now, alone with my city, I’m full of love for it, and full of heartache because you can love a place or a person from their head to their toes, but sometimes love isn’t enough. That’s what it feels like right now with San Francisco – love just isn’t enough. And that’s where the SURE comes in. Not sure that it won’t ever be enough, not sure at all that I won’t just end up back here next winter, but for now, my life isn’t happening here. I’m sure I need to be somewhere else for a little while, or a long while, and that hurts because, San Francisco, I wanted it to be you. Maybe forever. This place is so special and it is such a part of me that I’ll never truly leave. We will be good exes and see each other often and always, but I’m not sure San Francisco is the next biggest, best, important part of my life. I think that belongs to somewhere else. It’s just a feeling I get. And I think because I feel so sad about it, it must be true. Or maybe I’m just dramatic. We’re always towing that line around these parts, aren’t we?
But, what I don’t want to do (just to further belabor the analogy) is be the girl who goes on dates and talks about her ex. Wherever I am I want to be there, and not compare it to where I was, or where I could be. That is a particular talent of mine, and it does nothing but blind me to opportunity and make me miserable (and annoying) in the meantime. So for the next 36 hours I will be sad, and joyful simultaneously in my city by the bay and I will try very hard not to figure out what exactly it all means.
