MARCH
Dawn, the rising sun
On the Vernal Equinox
Vallejo Stonehenge
Moon follows sun’s path
Full face smiles on Spring’s first eve
Crane points to Aries
APRIL
Rising moon looms full
Shades of pink and grey tint sky
Where has the month gone?
Yesterday my father and I stepped out of our flat on Russian Hill in North Beach to walk down the hill to have lunch at a nearby Afghani Restaurant. It has been a dream of his for a while to go have their lunch buffet, and although he attempted it last week on his own, he found it closed. He made the mistake of assuming it was closed because of the massive crane that was up on the hill directly behind the building. So we decided to try again and walked down the three flights of stairs and down the street toward the restaurant.
Normally, for me, this is a 5 minute walk, but no matter how slowly I walked, I could not keep pace with my father. I had to stop every few feet and wait for him. My father has spent his entire life walking around this city, and it is a little disconcerting that it should be so difficult now. I remember when he first began slowing down; it was several years ago, and seemed to contain itself to the hills. However, as he has aged, so has he slowed. It is almost like a battery running down. Rue the day that he can no longer walk.
The restaurant was closed permanently, it seems they have moved locations, we won’t be going to the new one. Instead we went to a Chinese restaurant next door, which although it was a Hunan place, it was not so hot. My father took the bus home. I walked back home, stopped first at a couple of stores, and was still home at least 15 minutes before he was.
He’s a slow ol’ geezer, but I love him.
In the morning, freshly revived from the feeling of sadness induced by having her first submission rejected the night before, she received a phone call from a friend and colleague who needed advice on a Pro Tools technical question. Although she had never met this woman in person, she had spent hours with her on the phone over the years, both training her, and just chatting in general. They had become close. She went outside to the perch at the top of the stairs and talked on the phone while staring out over the bay. The view was impeccably clear. She could even see the windmill on Angel Island, the tines of which would often disappear in a hint of haze. The friend suggested she contact a woman living and working in Asia and who might possibly become an important mentor in the pursuit of her career. When she heard this revelation, she felt a strange feeling; it was hard to explain, kind of like a warm feeling that said ‘yes’. What it meant, however, was that she might need to spend a significant portion of her life living and working in Kathmandu.
Immediately the fear began to set in. She went out for a walk around the city to clear her mind. Meandering through the city, she found herself down at Fisherman’s Wharf. Tourists dressed in San Francisco t-shirts and khaki shorts, weighing more than is healthy ambled by, licking ice cream cones and eating cotton candy. Deep in her own thoughts, she hurried by a number of local street artists: a man beating on various pots and pans in excellent rhythms, several mimes who painted themselves silver and did hip hop dance routines on milk carts. A lone saxophone player blasted his horn into her ear as she passed and she quickly reached up to protect her already damaged hearing.
Her ears were still ringing from her sojourn to Kathmandu earlier in the year. This happened because she failed to take precautions to protect herself from the un-muted honks of the motorbikes which crowd the narrow streets; the sound magnified by the surrounding buildings would cause her to double over in pain. That combined with a genetic disposition for tinnitus caused an irreversible hearing loss.
And now she might go to Kathmandu for a while. A long while. It is possible she may have the opportunity to study journalism with a Fulbright Scholar who is busy setting up radio and print operations over there, and that she, in turn could help this woman because of her wealth of technical expertise. The drawback? She would have to leave her family and friends behind, of whom she is quite attached, and be really incredibly brave.
On the other hand, she has never felt more of a sense of freedom in her life than she did when she was in Kathmandu. And at this moment, there really are no reasons why she shouldn’t do it. She wondered if she would step up to the plate of what has been calling her for years. If it wasn’t going to happen now, it might not ever happen and she might have to settle into some kind of menial desk job that didn’t suit her personality at all.
Of course, she realized that all of these thoughts were presumptuous. After all, she hadn’t spoken to or even shared an e-mail exchange with this person. And yet, it was as if some kind of earthquake was just starting to rumble within her, and it was going to be a very large temblor.
She would need to sit with this for a while, until the next chapter revealed itself. It did occur to her that perhaps the attenuated earplugs she bought for her next trip to Asia were quite a fortuitous purchase.
Today, as it has done every Tuesday for my entire life, the sirens sounded at noon, echoing through San Francisco. No longer needed, the former air raid siren is now just the relic of a warning system. As a child of the 60s the sound used to cause nightmares of nuclear holicaust. Right up there with the school imposed practice of dropping under the desk in case of the A-bomb. I’m glad we lived to realize how futile that little effort would have been.
In North Beach, the sound of Big Ben has been placed into a loudspeaker at St. Peter and Paul, and is broadcast every 15 minutes from 9 to 6 every day. Because of this, I thought I knew the sound of a bell. Then, in 1977, I went to Europe; I heard a toll that simply can’t be duplicated. We don’t have that sound here. There are other bells here, and they are lovely, but they do not hit you in the solar plexus and force you to come to church.
A constant whining tone can be heard from my flat. I don’t know what it is. It is some kind of industrial sound that seems to come from the direction of the sewer plant near Fisherman’s Wharf. My father has lived in this flat for 40 years, and he has heard it as long. He has asked many if they hear it, but no one does, except me. Not only do I hear it, but I hear the accompanying minor second that joins it from time to time, ringing dissonance throughout the town. Dissonance that no one else seems to hear but we two.
Sea lions bark at each other from their perches at Pier 39. They are the best part of Pier 39, a conglomeration of Disney style shops on a pier that was built to replace another pier that burned down in the 70′s in a spectacular fire. Boats honk from the wharf. When a cruise ship backs up out 0f its pier, it gives 3 long and low blows. That’s what tells me to come and watch as it starts its journey out the Golden Gate and into the open sea.
The rolling of the Powell and Mason cable car line running under the street to pull the cars sounds from 6:00 am to midnight. It is always a quiet day around here when the line is shut down for repairs. The operator rings the cable car bell in rhythmic beats, the tourists scream in an E-Ride thrill as the car flies down Mason Street. Formerly, it was a mode of transportation for San Francisco residents. Now, at five dollars a ride, it is simply a charming tourist attraction.
A relatively new sound to the auditory landscape of this city is the chattering of parrots. A number of years ago, some were let loose somehow and they now dominate the city. They dine on pine nuts and other delicacies they find on local trees, and seem to have found a great niche here. They fly in flocks to and from various favorite enclaves and are quite vocal. Noisy yes, but endearing.
Sounds that annoy: The pile drivers, the car alarms, the youngsters in the flat next door at 2:00 am, the concerts in Washington Square which should be banned for disturbing the peace, The Blue Angels. Wait, The Blue Angels? Yes. Love to watch, love to hear, but the cost of flying those planes, and the waste…those thoughts are always present and almost as loud as the jets themselves in the spectacle of their Fleet Week visit.
Finally, the consummate San Francisco auditory delight; the fog horn. A quiet symphony of tones when the fog is thick, to lull me into sleep. The sound that haunts my dreams, from wherever I am on Earth.
Murmurs
Keeping Secrets
The Walking Man
Within Shades of Grey Exists a Place
Bonnie's Original Art Studio
The Buffalo Pen
Lyrics and Maladies
The Waxing Moon
Old Mossy Moon
Chick with a Quill
My Poems and Emotions
Empty Garden
Another Sober Alcoholic
Dreams, Deliriums, and Other Mind Talk
My Poetic Path
The Clarity of Night
Hello Ello
Writer and the White Cat
My son Christopher's Amazing Art
1 Door Away From Heaven
Melody of Dissonance
Deepaz World of Arts
Silver's Reflections
Craft Green Poet
PoetiKat
She Who Shall Not Be Named
April's poetry