Midday Muse

I took a walk through part of SOMA today. The image above shows my route. With the sun out, my spirits were higher than they have been lately, even as I sweated under my wool turtleneck sweater. I enjoyed seeing new views of the city, and finding narrow alleys lined with humble, squat, brick buildings hidden in the shadows of the modern, glass-encrusted high-rises. Looking up into the second floor windows of these tiny, antiquated commercial blocks, I saw architecture studios, art studios, and secret galleries. I was transported to the alleys of SoHo and the far West Village, to Old San Juan, and Industrial Los Angeles.

I would love to have an art studio in a squat, ivy-lined, brick building someday. A private work space outside of my house, in a city – a quaint little cubby in which to create my art. But for now, I end my lunch break where I started: in the marketing department of an advertising agency.

A Walk Home

After work today, I walked straight to the train station half a block away, but then realized I’d left my wallet in my gym bag at home. After digging through my bag, I was only able to scrounge up two quarters. A MUNI ticket is $1.50. I thought I’d call the husband and swing by his office to borrow the buck fifty from him, but then I discovered I’d also left my cell phone in my gym bag. I didn’t want to show up at his office unannounced because he’s on the 10th floor, behind a locked door. It would just cause too much confusion for me to go up there and ring the bell. If they weren’t expecting anybody, they might not even answer. So I decided to walk home.



A jaunt of any length through San Francisco inevitably offers a study on homelessness, but a walk of the length I took yesterday offers a study of greater depth. On every block along Market Street, I passed people who have made the streets their home. They were napping, pushing shopping carts, harassing shoppers, staggering, screaming or playing cards. Every open public space such as a park, a fountain, or a plaza was completely overtaken by the homeless. I was beginning to feel tired as I walked past the main library. I’d just spent one of my quarters on a nectarine at the UN Plaza farmer’s market; I thought it would be nice to sit on one of the concrete benches that line the library and enjoy my fruit. Once there, though, I noticed that the only available spots would have me flanked on both sides by vagrants, and what seemed to be the rowdy type. I kept walking.

In all, I walked 2.72 miles, a typical New York stroll. With these hills, though, it feels longer.

Despite the multitude of homeless, I quite enjoyed the walk. I haven’t worked my legs like that in a long time. There is something so exhilarating about long walks like that. It somehow feels constructive, like you’re really accomplishing something as you move forward, watching your surroundings change along the way.

August in Fog City

. . . looks like this:

Hot Yoga is Bad for the Planet

A friend bestowed upon me a 30 day free pass to Bikram Yoga. I didn't know whether to say "thank you" or "damn you", because I knew I'd use the pass, as I like working out and I'm too poor to pay for classes, but I also knew I'd hate it.

Bikram Yoga is torture, yet it's good for you. I always feel great afterwards, but for the ninety minute duration of the class I feel lightheaded, nauseous, and dizzy. The instructors say it's because I don't drink enough water throughout the day, and though that may be true, I have to wonder, "Don't you think it might be the 120 degree heat?"

Aside from the nausea, my strongest observation about Bikram Yoga is the unsustainable material impact. Simply put, it's bad for the environment. A single class requires the following materials:

• shorts
  
• tank top
  
• two towels (one for laying on the floor under my mat, because the floor is so sopping and stinky that I want as little of my mat to touch it as possible, and one for on top, to absorb the sweat.)

After each class, my outfit is soaked (as in dripping), as is the top towel. The bottom towel reeks of old carpet bacteria and the sweat-of-many-strangers. Therefore, all of these items go straight into the washing machine after each and every class. What is that - fifteen gallons of water per 'small load' cycle?

Also, the locker rooms are stocked with small plastic sacks - like the kind you get in the produce department - to put your sopping clothes in so that the interior of your gym bag doesn't get wet.

The impact:

• 15 gallons of water
  
• 1/4 cup laundry detergent
  
• 1 yard of plastic

Finally, the studio I'm doing this in has horrendous fluorescent lighting. I have to wonder about the energy being used to light the studio, as well as to keep the heaters running.

All this in the name of detoxing our bodies.

Religion in Childhood

The second free movie we saw with our free passes was Eve and the Fire Horse, about a young chinese girl growing up in America who faces cultural confusion between Buddhism and Catholicism.

I was reminded of my own childhood forays in religion, going to church with Catholic and Mormon neighbors. In Catholic mass, I loved the sitting and standing, the quaint and humble prayer hands, the singing and hugging. It satisfied my affinity for ritual and performance. In Mormon church, I loved the little snacks - torn pieces of white bread in adorable little cups, like the kind you get at the dentist, and cookies in primary classes. These satisfied my affinity for both sugar and miniatures.

The religion aspect of church never much spoke to me, though.

For the Love of Art or Money

I recently won two tickets to two movies, which is timely since we're broke over here. Working our jobs, trying to save for the future, tackling debt (small, but still) from the recent past. We're on a tight budget which means we probably won't be seeing any major summer blockbusters.



The first free movie we saw was Gypsy Caravan. For many of the musicians profiled in the film who come from small, third-world villages around the globe, making music was the only way to make a living. And here we are, in our big city in this first-rate nation, trying our damndest to figure out how to make a living by making music.

Well, the husband is, anyway. I, on the otherhand, am trying my damndest to make a living by performance art. Ha! What a notion!

Public Pronouncement

I've kept journals since I was eight years old. I've got enough journals to fill at least a few wide shelves, and that wouldn't even be all of them, because by 'kept' I don't mean that I've physically kept all that I 'kept' - some have gone missing and some I tossed away, out of embarrassment, the writing was that bad. I've got all of my childhood journals, though. The writing in those is pretty good, for a third grader. The topics I chose to write about were interesting, for a third grader. I had systems of belief then. Compelling ones. For a third grader. It was when I got to college that I tossed my systems of belief out the window to the hungry souls below. And then I tossed the window out the window. And my writing became pure drivel.

Shortly thereafter I learned that a person has to have windows. In fact, we just got new ones. Nice, easy-to-open-and-close double paned windows. The husband thought they would help make the place warmer. But they don't. It's still cold in here.

I used to be much more diligent about journaling than I am now. When I was a kid, I wrote everyday, before bed. I don't remember the last time I wrote a true, time-devoted entry in my paper journal. Which is too bad, because I've got a nice one right now. It's got a brown leather cover with a little snap closure and an embossed leaf in the corner. The pages are stained with age. I got it at The Strand years and years ago. Anyway, I know I wrote some notes while we were in Puerto Rico. "White sand. Sipping water out of a giant coconut. Wild horses in the streets." But that was the extent of my most recent attempt at journaling.

Now I've just got too many things to do. Besides working and rehearsals, there are the ever important tasks:

Learn to sew.
- Make throw pillows.
- Hem husband's pants.
- Make window curtains.

Here is an example of my first attempt at learning this new trade, accomplished three days ago:



Today, I borrowed this from the library:


Knit a tea cosy. We got an adorable tea pot as a wedding gift, and I am now obsessed with loose-leaf teas. But in this chilly apartment, the tea gets cold fast. Well, I learned that tea will stay warmer longer if you put a cosy on your pot. This is how far along I am:



Practice Guitar. Here's what song in the "Learn to Play Guitar" book I'm on:


Well, tonight I decided to ignore all those tasks and write a journal entry instead. On my public blog. Why public this time around? Because, the truth is, anytime a person keeps a journal or a diary, one is doing so with knowledge of the potentiality of it being read. At it's core, journaling is a narcissistic activity. Never has that been more apparent than with the mighty blogosphere, of which I am now a citizen. It's nice to be part of a community, and to have another activity to add to my ever growing list of hobbies and tasks.

Note to my friends and family: the above pronouncement is NOT an invitation to read my journals, should you ever stumble across them.

A Hurried Update

• Marriage is wonderful. People ask, "Is it different?" and my answer is, "Yes. It is." It is liberating. It is comforting. It is fun.

• My family and friends are amazing people, and I wish I could be around all of them all the time. In fact, ever since the wedding, I have been thinking favorably upon the Mormon notion of the afterlife, in which a person rejoins their loved ones in heaven for all eternity. That is, of course, if they're all devout Mormons. This presents a slight snag for me.
  

• The photos provide proof of what fun it was. Perhaps I'll post them for your enjoyment later.

• For the purposes of this blog, I will henceforth refer to "le fiancé" as "the husband."
  

• Puerto Rico is idyllic. But the Caribbean sun is powered by the devil!

• Despite their punishing me with a painful sunburn, I came to quite like those devilish rays and have had a difficult time adjusting to the rolling fog of San Francisco. I shake my fist at this sky and demand sun! But it doesn't help, and I find myself in the kitchen, heating a kettle of tea and wrapping a blanket around my tanned shoulders.

Opening Night

I'm performing with peck peck dance ensemble tonight. After last night's dress rehearsal, I am kicking myself for not continuing to study dance all those years ago. Darn my fourteen-year-old brain for thinking flat feet were an insurmountable disability. I coulda been a contender!

Eleven Minutes of Legacy

I performed an excerpt of my solo play "Legacy" at The Marsh last night. This is the one about my relation to Brigham Young. I only had eleven minutes of stage time, and it was quite difficult choosing which segment to perform. I've got about 35 minutes of written material, and I intend the full-length work to be about an hour and ten minutes.

Overall, the performance went well. The audience seemed to really enjoy it, and luckily no one, not even le fiancé, noticed how badly I'd screwed up my lines!

I'll Tell You What the Facts Are

Le Fiancé's new band played a show at The Knockout last night. It was only their second show, and they've amassed quite a following. The bar was packed, and everyone was really into the music. It's hard not to be - they're really, really good. And I'm not just saying that.

With this new band, I get to revisit the role of groupie. I wasn't in The Smnmblnts for the first six months that we were dating, and I used to go to the shows nervous, giddy, and filled with anticipation. At The Facts' first show a few months ago, all of those feelings rushed back, but the nervousness subsided as soon as they started playing. Then, when le fiancé picked up the tamborine for the song 'Treat Me Right,' the giddiness took over. His tamborine dance makes me very happy.

Wrapped

Filming ended yesterday on the little indie that I've been shooting for the past three weeks.

Week One
The location was the California Cavern in San Andreas. The director had given me an address to look up on mapquest. The directions seemed straight-forward enough, and I took off on the evening of Saturday, April 21 without concern. Shooting would commence immediately upon my arrival, estimated at around 8:00pm. Well, I hadn't planned for the route to be entirely comprised of back roads: one-laners nearly the whole way. Since it was dark out, and raining, and I was driving through unfamiliar territory, I went very slowly. I didn't make it to the town of San Andreas til nearly 10:00.

Although the California Cavern claims to be in San Andreas, it isn't really. Not in the town. It's way, way outside of the town at the very end of a long and winding road. A long and winding wet road (it was still raining), without street lamps. As my Volvo crawled forward, I kept seeing little white sparks leaping from the road. I thought they must be splashes of raindrops in the puddles, glinting in my headlights.

Finally, I spotted a large lit sign that said, "California Cavern at Cave City." At this juncture, I knew I was in the right vicinity for the shoot, but I hadn't been told where the actual location was. It was dark and raining, and I was surrounded by wilderness in all directions. I decided to stay put under the big sign. That's when I noticed that the leaping sparks were tiny white frogs! They were all over the road, and I realized I must have flattened more than a few along the way.

After some time, 15 minutes perhaps, I saw headlights emerging from the darkness, and a van pulled up beside me. It was the director. He lead me down a dirt path and to the foot of a stairway. With flashlights in hand and the hoods of our jackets pulled over our heads, we climbed the stairs to the mouth of a cavern. I'm talking about a real cavern, complete with stalactites, stalagmites, crystal formations, chambers and alleys. It was eerily reminiscent of Indiana Jones.

We finished filming that night at 2:30a.m. and drove directly to the Black Bart Inn to get some rest. (The website says the hotel "offers a restaurant, pool, banquet facilities, first-rate hospitality, and competitive room rates." They also offer bed bugs and a cracked-out cleaning lady.)

The next morning (day, really - I didn't wake up till noon), I wandered around the main road to find a cafe or anywhere that I could get a cup of coffee (as far as I could surmise, the Black Bart Inn does not have a restaurant - one that's functioning, anyway). Along my stroll, I passed a mural with a portrait of Mark Twain and a frog. That's when it dawned on me - I must be in Calaveras County and the frogs I saw are the Celebrated Jumping Frogs of Calaveras County! I loved that story when I was a kid!

Just a few blocks away from the mural, I came across a historical museum on Main Street. After moseying through the rooms of antiques and trinkets (it wasn't much of a museum), I continued my search for coffee. I found a small diner called The Country Station with a menu item I couldn't resist: poached eggs over homemade biscuits and gravy. Just then I saw the rest of the cast walking toward me. We all settled down in a Country Station booth and chowed down, compliments of the director.

Shooting recommenced in the cavern at 6:00 p.m., and wrapped at 2:30 a.m. Again, I drove directly back to the Black Bart Inn to catch some shut-eye before heading back to San Francisco.

Week Two
The location was a ranch outside of Fairfax. It was 85 degrees out. My costume consisted of thick, heavy jeans, tall cowboy boots, a long-sleeved canvas work-shirt, a gun holster, and a cowboy hat. I was miserable. To make it worse, a massive allergy attack kicked in as soon as I got to set, and I didn't have any meds.

I brought meds on the second day, but they didn't help.

By the third day, I was a wreck. Luckily, that was the day that my character gets shot and nearly killed. My worthless state was rather appropriate.

Week Three
We shot in a green screen studio here in the city for the first two days. So easy in comparison to the previous weeks. After shooting, I could go run my errands and live life like normal. Sunday, however, we were back in Fairfax for the scenes with the horse. Yup, I got to ride a horse. Its name was Elche. Okay, I didn't actually get to ride it - they had a stunt person for that. But I did get to get up on it, and shoot a scene where I make like I'm about to start riding. Maybe next time I'll get cast in a film that has the funding train me, so that I can do my own stunts!

Unfortunately, I didn't get any pics of me on the horse. You'll just have to wait till I get a copy of the film!

Old-Timey Kind of Night

We ventured out to a remote region of San Francisco last night called "The Outer Richmond". Our goal was to see Hot Fuzz, the new movie by the creators of Shaun of the Dead. In deciding on a theatre to go to, we chose the one with the earliest show time, which happened to be The Balboa. The reviews on Yelp paint a picture of a small, independent theatre harkening back to days of lore, before the phenomenon of corporate-owned megaplexes.

The Balboa certainly is charming. It stands as the centerpiece of a single block-long strip of restaurants and cafes hovering in the middle of an otherwise sleepy suburb. The scent of popcorn reaches the entire length of the block. The popcorn bar is like the ice cream bar at Ponderosa - 12 different kinds of salts and seasonings beckon big eyes and overkill.

Directly across the street is a laughably nondescript dive bar called Hockey Haven.


My kind of place.

Hot Fuzz was a riot. I won't give any more details. If you've seen Shawn of the Dead, you'll know what to expect.