San Francisco

San Francisco and its cloudy days, halt the year half sunny, half the year half cloudy. Like a white sheet covering a maze of buildings and people, like a puzzle of legs fitting along streets.

If looking across that historic red bridge doesn’t give you surreal tickles, nothing will. Nothing will spread across half a town, half alive, half blue sky, half colorful clothes like the white cotton tenderly painting half that small town.

And if you dare to stand for long enough on the middle, half you will submerge into the cold sadness of cloudy days, half you will emerge on the happy colorful life across the east. Your left or right, only if you dare to stand long enough, only if you are facing south or north.

Like an endless music there is a cent, a lost cent of marijuana that never left the 60’s. Like a leftover of overnight parties, constant overnight parties… and you wonder why to buy it? You wonder if it have been there long enough for the land to spread the colorless odor around; Only they aren’t on trees, they aren’t on clouds… it is all a surround.

On those thoughts a gentle breeze can bath your face, it is almost always a west breeze for the sea. A breeze from dolphins, whales and sharks. Sharks are lonely hateful pricks, whales always mind their own business and dolphins smiling.

Must be dolphins then the dealers, the happy easygoing daredevil suppliers. Only they don’t trade on currency of mortals but impregnate that little town. Everybody love dolphins, I know why now, I also know the truth behind smiles and tiny eyes.

As well as the blue sea, the green hills bordering dark streets, as well as tall building people dress with total disregard of fashion. “Fashion?” “A new word!” Fashion, yeah, total lack or respect of fashion.

A word so broadly regarded as a stranger. Those daring to dress out of a magazine among the colorful and diverse cloths of this town… Oh those poor creatures are destined to be single out! They are ice on the streets, I don’t know them but as such they are regarded, and I’ve seen their girlfriends running aways from such fingers like a tornado.

Sad or happy, cool or wet, they can only run downstairs.. yes, downstairs. In this city gravity is conspiring. Does not matter how small or tall you are, how heavy or light your bike, gravity being paid, you must carry it upstairs everyday on BART. Does not matter where, does not matter why, all working escalators are going down, never up, always down. Up… those are, and have been eternally closed. They say repairs, they say electricity, they say.. and they say. I have never witnessed such a great conspiracy at work. In SF you can always go down.. and down.

Oh, but there is a catch, or not exactly one. The more you want to board a train the more is going to run away. It is a fact as red as red, as certain as missing it halfway thru the stairways. You will miss this one and catch the next. Take the advise, don’t even try. Ignore it as you may ignore your wife, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll work out.

Good along all adventures, is the quality of light. Don’t know if it is because the mist on the air, the tall building or hills – or both that you forgivably might confuse – but the light gathers shape, like a soft velvet around very corner, it has forgotten sharpness. Like in an agreement with pretty faces, always agreed to show them the best. A photographer’s dream is the light all around.

That’s it… the dream… That’s it…. Wait until you wake up on a MUNI full of madness, until you realize how sipping a cup of tea filled with milk must feel. Like sardines in a can, compressed against some homeless-looking old man, you realize there is someone sitting with their back against your legs on the hallway, just because he wanted to rest. Like a mad moving house a guy jumping a shooting to his friend across a sea of heads. And in an iconic “whatcha doin…?” an 80 years old black man hitting on barely 15 I dare to say. The intimate lady talk of two young blonds shooting out depictions I better keep for myself. A frenzy of energy, a lost trip among hurricanes all in a wheeled box for a 15 minutes on a Saturday MUNI to the party part of town.

An adventure indeed… and there you thought it ended… Oh poor you.

I have hand roller cigarettes for strangers, a couple of times I have. But never seen such a celebration out of the skill. Never seen such an slow-motion celebration on a world that by contrast seemed spinning around. A party of 15 moving at 1 millimeter an hour. Not to count how marvelous it was that no one seemed like they wanted to put it on fire, such a marvelous “piece of work”. “Oh my!” I thought.

Glad for the experience, it landed me into a time compressing traveling party. But that my friend is for another world and place, not today, maybe yesterday.

More importantly, living among such a landscape, such widely varied landscape. If that does not inspire you, if watching your surrounding changing every two block doesn’t surprise you, and the prospect of living a brand new absurd adventure every time you meet a single person doesn’t excite you… Then my friend, nothing ever will.

It is a surreal city, more so on Friday and Saturday nights if you are willing to explore “YES” on this town.


One thought on “San Francisco

  1. Pingback: This is how cool San Francisco USED to be! Boy those days were GOOD!! | bluepearlgirl's world

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