Nuts in May

Ah spring sun!
ready to run!

winter is over
rain has gone

windows open
doors unlock

ominous grey
to azure blue

spirits lift
like morning dew

a sea of dark
turns an ocean of color

flowers blooming
bunnies grooming

California poppies
fill the scene

blue waters fill the bay
white horses sparkle away

nothing like May to put
the wind in your sail

long shadows
grace the trails

maybe it's nuts
to run while it's hot

then again, may be not

maybe it's time
to go nuts in May

time to run?
"you must be nuts," they say!

Behind those Lights

crossing the Bay Bridge at night
always such a spectacular delight
rising glittering against black velvet
one wonders
what goes on behind those lights?

The enchanted city
alive with life!
dancing
prancing
chattering heads
oblivious to the display
across the bay tonight

the Embarcadero twinkles
reds greens yellow and white
shimmering, changing, moving
while
one wonders
what goes on behind those lights?

Anxious drivers at the end of day
honking horns
get outta my way!
oblivious to the display
across the bay tonight

neon lights all aglow
flickering, glaring, sometimes staring
illuminating the bars below
one wonders
what goes on behind those lights

a fedora tips
an audience quietens
as a poet recites
behind those lights
oblivious to the display
across the bay tonight

Cafe Hats

The open window allowed the warm balmy tropical breeze to diffuse around the cafe giving an uncharacteristic feel to this San Francisco fall day.

Summer floral dresses, conversation and coffee. Beer flows like the thought processes of the heads dutifully bowing over laptops, books and writing-pads.

And the hats! Hats on backwards, forwards, tilted, wilted sheltering eyes from the sun. Fedoras, straw and felted blend with the occasional one-off style.

A striking hat bending over a pad and pastels spread out before the hat. Immersed in her creation, she looks up and smiles, "drawings of thirty years of memories" she announces as she adds another to mine.

La Lettre (1908). Jean Béraud

Hidden views

From the high trails of an Island across the bay, a cityscape gleamed and sparkled in the haze of an early morning sun. Silver slithers shimmered from east to west from across the bay. White horses decorated with diamonds speckled the bay and sparkled as they bobbed up and down in their azure blue arena. Occasionally, a flair of color would help the white horses along their way. Thin wisps of early morning fairy-tail mist enveloped a small island castle like fingers hiding a secret. White wispy fingers reached out across the bay and crept under the red span of a bridge whose towers watched over the enchanted city. The city shone and glistened like a jewel in a crown as sunbeams bounced around glass towers piercing the blue. Alas, this enchanting surreal scene exists only in the eyes of a few.

Hidden behind those sparkles are boxes of burnt-out candles entrapped in a cage of age, loneliness and poverty. Their flames long extinguished, the candles remain boxed up and invisible, but other candles burn through the night. Twinkling champagne juxtaposes extinguished flames.

The silver slivers are snakes of black with holes in their back squished by heat and heavy machinery slugging lost candles from hilltops to dark boxes below.

Those beautiful white horses had the wind in their sails whilst lifeless candles hid behind screens unseen by horses, champagne and flames. The unlit candles remain in their dark box waiting, and waiting for a match to strike that will signify their dawn... Locked in their box, not seeing the sunrise or the sunset, they never know when it is day or night.

And so it was; way up high on that lonesome trail where everything seemed so still. The scene was just a screen forming a backdrop for what is rarely seen.

Past Reflections

There she was. I caught her gaze through the window of a darkened store on Polk Street. Her platinum blond hair and half-closed eyes gazed in a haze back at me. I stood mesmerized outside my favorite antique store which had closed for the day. I never noticed her before. Fascinated, I stared back at her through the window in wonderment and admiration for this young woman's beauty and charm. Her tousled hair had the look of someone riding in a vintage convertible along a 1950s California highway. Perhaps she had embarked on such a journey?

There was nothing sharp or angular about her features. Her features were small, soft and rounded like that of an innocent child.  I wanted to stay and ask her all kinds of questions, but I had to leave. I wanted to tell her how much she reminded me of a friend who had similar looks and style and whose life also ended in tragedy at a similar age. The timeless, but vintage beauty of this woman looked on at me through the window. She seemed aware yet vulnerable. She could walk the modern streets of Paris, London, New York or indeed San Francisco, and still not look out of place.  I left, but with a promise to myself that I would be back. I returned a few days later, but alas, she was gone -- and the frame containing her image was gone. Wherever Marilyn Monroe is hanging, I hope she is gazing through that window of time reflecting on the past with no regrets.

Oh No, You Don't!

[This is an original piece that I wrote for Allvoices.com illustrating the different decision making processes and the battles of the Id, ego and superego.Original Article - November 5, 2010 

The infamous boots

Oh yes you do! And so the fight between the Id and the Superego continues. Your battle of so-called inner voices in very urgent irrational decision making processes are what Sigmund Fraud, I mean Freud (Freudian slip intended) called our stages of sexual development. The “Id” is our impulse of want and needs instant gratification. The Id, according to Freud, is our basic instinct. However, the battles of our want and needs clearly extended beyond sexuality as I experienced last week when a local shoe store beckoned me with their tantalizing recession-proof “Sale” signs screaming claims of “up to 70% off” emblazoned across the store-front window. Seemingly, it was an offer that I didn’t want to refuse. Well at least that is what my Id told me, but according to Freud, my superego had other ideas which I really did not want to hear. The superego is our “inner parent.” The superego tells us “No!” when all we really want to hear is “Yes.” My superego tells me, “There is no point in looking because you can’t buy anyway...” Our superego is where we internalize our moral judgment based on how we are socialized and is responsible for the nagging guilt we sometimes feel. My Id disagrees and appeals to my latest boot fetish, “There are some good deals that have your name on them! They are yours and they’re on sale!” I enter with caution like a lamb to the slaughter amid rows of shoes and boots that indeed were up to 70% off. My ego so far keeps me in check. The ego is what Freud called the balancing force between the Id. Our ego keeps our Id and Superego in check -- on a good day of judgment. It is where we make decisions that we are aware of. It is the umpire between the fighting forces of Id and Superego that we experience in the throes of a shopping spree. The Id appeals to our basic instincts whereas the superego is our inner Nancy Reagan  that wants to “just say no.”


Meanwhile, I am lost among a sea of shag me shoes and fuck-me boots all in my size and color. In a fog of calculations of 40% off, 30% off signs, I spot a pair of four-inch heel thigh high fuck-me boots. I try them on and pull them over my thigh over the tight jeans I have on. Oh yeah! At this point, my Superego starts to scream, “You’ll never wear them! You’re wasting your money! You cannot justify this expense! You already have 2 pairs of black boots!” “But,” my Id ego weighs in, “these are different! These boots have your name on them. You need these boots! They make you feel like a whore! There is something empowering about that!” Goodness knows why, but actually there is something empowering about that. I am not trying to intellectualize here, but attempting to demonstrate the irrationality of the subconscious mind versus the rational mind. While the battle continues, my ego needs approval; vindication of the “wrong” that I am about to commit. I take out my iPhone and take a photo of me in them in a hooker-like stance in front of a mirror and post it to my Facebook profile with the caption, “I soooo want these boots! Should I get them?” Needless to say, my friends positively reinforced me with comments, like “Cor yeah!” and “Wear them when you next see me! lol” exclaimed some male friends. Girlfriends backed my “dilemma” with, “Go get ‘em girl! You deserve them!” I immediately had confirmation from very reliable sources that I should go ahead with said purchase. Needless to say I followed their sound recommendations. Ignoring my superego with the nagging chiding of, “How are you going to explain this to significant other at home?” I proceeded to the check out regardless of the unanswered question reverberating in my mind.

I ventured homeward bound up Powell Street amid tourist shoppers, feeling proud of my “deal” yet guilty at the same time. After all, I really couldn’t justify $70 when I already had two pair of black boots. My superego was starting to kick in too little too late. Later on that evening when I met a friend for cocktails, she admired my purchase, and I smiled. There are times when validation is worth every penny, no matter what the id, ego or superego says.

Creative Writing Project: Dancing

Dancing. What happened to it? Classical dancing like ball-room, tap, jazz, swing remain intact, but modern dancing has fallen off the floor. Does footwork now mean the kicking that someone receives after crossing someone at a rap concert?

For real footwork, take a step back in time to the seventies and eighties for a glimpse of the footwork performed by, The Stylistics, Temptations, O'Jays, or The Whispers and savor the choreographed agility and synchronized moves of these artists. The 70s and 80s dances were formed by tricky twists and turns and were well choreographed to the beat. Those old school moves and grooves raised your spirit, soothed your soul, quenched your thirst for rhythm and cured your blues. Even the hybrid of "Ska" formed by a blend of a reggae and Caribbean upbeat had its unique steps resembling a cross between a hop and skip known as, "Skanking."

Recently, I found myself transformed back to the early 80s at an English Beat concert. The English Beat are a 2-tone/Ska band who during the early 80s popularized the wearing of pork-pie, Fedora hats and checkered black and white as worn by the 2-tone bands like Selector and The Specials. There were two types of people on the dance floor; those who could skank and those who watched those who could skank. The older people on the floor were those skanking. The younger people in the audience looked on.

On the one hand, remembering how to skank made me feel young again, but reminiscing to my younger friend who was twenty years my junior about how I danced to the Police's, "Walking on the Moon" made me feel old. I looked towards The Beat on stage where the members of that band were now in their fifties. Things looked and felt the same as they always did. The band members were in excellent shape and had as much energy bounding around the stage as they always did.  What's more, I too was in good shape and still had enough energy to skank the night away. My friend left a little earlier in order to get the last train home. I stayed and made my way to the front of the stage, just like I used to back in the day. And like I did back in the day, I cheered for an encore... They came back like they always do and then they left, but not before one of my "old" heroes caught my eye and shock my hand. I melted and felt young again once more. Back in the day blended with today. Today was back in the day.




Dancing Shoes

New Friends and Old Friends

So here I was venturing through Chinatown to North Beach  to see a friend playing in a band at the Old Saloon Bar on Grant Street. My brisk walk through the Stockton Tunnel enabled me to savor the air of an early Saturday evening at dusk. The hustle and bustle of Chinatown was quietly going to sleep as Columbus Street in North Beach was just awakening from its daytime slumber. The street markets slowly dismantled and merchandized wheeled off in crates for the night as darkness fell over Chinatown. I could avoid the the usually slow pace of dawdling tourists and local last minute shoppers by joining the not much faster traffic in the road to continue my walk unheeded to The Saloon.

A couple of blocks from my destination on Grant Street, I stumbled upon an old music store. Curiously, I had passed this store many times before, but it only caught my eye this evening. Vinyl records in boxes were on display outside and in the light-filled windows gleamed instruments of old: saxophones, bongos, drums, speakers, turntables, keyboards, amplifiers and bass guitars filled the store and windows in a display what can only be described as an Aladdin's cave for musician buffs. I paused for a moment and browsed through the old boxes of albums of yesteryear. Memories of old times flooded back of a time when I possessed some of those old vinyls. Album shopping used to be a regular weekend treat; not from old shops like this, but bright busy mega-stores like HMV and Virgin Records. One could never miss these old mega stores with music blaring inside and outside of the store. I moved over to a box of old posters that formed  testimony to San Francisco's musical past of the 60s, and 70s. A voice over my shoulder exclaimed, "Oh I remember those too...!" A somewhat shabby, but not unclean man peered down over my shoulder as I flipped through the posters. As we chatted about music and the store, it emerged we were the same age... But to me, he sounded like a throw back to the late fifties, or very early sixties..., "You should take a look inside, man. You'll trip out!" I replied, "I sure will..." In a brief moment, we were completely equal on a narrow level based solely on a love for music. But economics, and happenstance saw to it that we were far from that. I felt mildly guilty that I had a bed to sleep in and had to explain that I had no change... And for once, I really didn't have any change. Awkwardly, we parted company...

I continued browsing through the posters of old artists and concert announcements of Santana Live at the Fillmore and many other artists. Another voice arose, "Where 're you from then...? Sorry, but I heard you chatting while I was inside and just had to find out where you were from." Oh, I replied, "London, Walthamstow." He was clearly an Essex-boy. I knew that because he sounded exactly like my dear friend Nick from Essex who lost his life a couple of years ago. I was friends with Nick for close to twenty years. Nick played the saxophone years earlier and would have loved this store. The man I started chatting with outside the store even had the cheeky wry grin that Nick possessed. I immediately felt a rapport and familiarity that raised a smile in me. It was that depth and warmth that I felt whenever I saw Nick and shared many a pint with in a London bar -- a depth and warmth that I'd missed. I found myself hurriedly asking him if he lived in San Francisco now, "No, Luv, just visiting and passing through and buying up this store!" My heart momentarily sank as he got in his car and drove off... "Nick" was gone again once more...

I ambled on to the Saloon to meet my relatively new friends, but for some reason, I just could not bring myself to the present. I stared down at the dancing feet, but was still back in a London bar with Nick and other old friends from the past. And I wondered; is the past always present? Memories of the past are always present... And with that thought, my brief moment of melancholia vanished. I joined the dancing feet and embraced my moment of memories and again became present in the moment.

Invisible

Darkness is falling without delay

As she wakes in her silent room

Led lights signal yet another day

More hours of persistent gloom

There's no reflection in her mirror

She only sees her invisible face

She misses all those who saw her

Perceiving her youth as full of grace

Alone she wonders around the shops

Everybody is busily running around

The faceless crowds cease to stop

Nobody hearing her silent sound

Nobody stopping just moving around

Heads with no eyes blank and blind

Oblivious to others' sights and sounds

They fail to see her tumultuous mind

Nobody stopping, just running around

Mouthless heads utter useless words

Always mute to each other's sounds

She's so weary of this restless herd

She wonders why they never call

How did she become so invisible

Just always talking to a brick wall

They never listen to one syllable

Making her way towards the midspan

She silently scales the four foot fence

What a beautiful day for such a plan

Will the faceless crowd express lament

There she ponders for a little while

A passerby stops and yells hey

The shimmering sheet greets her smile

She's already in the deep blue bay

The unknown neighbors below her floor

Had never heard her dog before

The frantic bark could not be ignored

The next morning they called the law

Coast-guards found her along the shore

The heart ripped from her aorta

But really she'd gone years before

Nobody said a word not one iota

The paper makes an inch long story

Neighbors silently shake their heads

Mutter platitudes reading her obituary

She was always so quiet they said

Shadows

I hear a distant calling 

Echoing sadly from the sea 

Forboding darkness is falling 

And starts to worry me 

I see a smart dressed stranger 

Waiting under a lonely light 

An ex-lover long estranged 

Is oblivious to my sight 

I wonder if he'll see me 

Do I want him to 

Feelings stir inside me 

As I wonder what to do 

I approach his lonely shadow 

The soft glow fades to dark 

I'm feeling I should go now 

As I doubt my change of heart 

Quietly hoping that we'll meet 

At the place we were before 

But all I see are empty seats 

I'll seek his love no more 

I wake up to an open sky 

Wilted roses 'round my head 

Did my ex-lover drop by 

While I laid asleep in bed 

Crissy Fields Fog

Code Blue

How many stories have crossed your span
One thousand 500 with a hidden plan
Drawn by your views so majestic
The deep blue Bay holds their secrets

They never saw your warning signs
But they'd already crossed that line
Their lives so easily were dispensed
Death separated by a four foot fence

Foggy days will hide your power
Yet people may spend a solitary hour
Feeling your magnificent presence
Cherishing their private moment spent

Your towers watch over our city
Abuse of your span is such a pity
Code blue for most is a pleasing view
And desperation for only a few