I didn't know where to find the eclipse, so I walked up the hill. Up seemed like the right choice.
I thought I saw it, but wasn't quite sure. A sliver seemed to be moving and maybe a little too bright.
I stopped by someone's gate for a while. A truck pulled up, lights blazing, and a repair guy got out and asked if I lived there. I said no and left while he was inside. It's no good watching a maybe-eclipse with too much electric company.
I was on the way down, looking out over the poster city, when something dark caught my eye up and to the right.
And there it was, the clouded outline, undoubtedly. I stopped next to a garage this time.
Just then, a man strode purposefully up the hill. He had ginger hair and wore a suit and an overcoat and white earbuds. He pulled one out and asked, midstride, "Is that the lunar eclipse?" Nod. "Thanks." He put the earbud back in and never stopped moving, like he'd been conducting a routine business transaction. Maybe he just wanted to say he'd seen it? Or seen someone who'd seen it.
Here's what I learned:
No matter where I am or what I'm doing or how little I know, people will ask me for directions.
I wish I had a better sense of direction.
February 20, 2008
February 15, 2008
Mary Anne
Mary Anne is blond and wears black, and her voice could move mountains.
Mary Anne has a job interview coming up in L.A., and the company where she's interviewing couldn't find her a limousine. All the limos were booked, and they only work with this one limo agency, so they'd like to rent her a car instead. But she'd prefer that they look up other limo agencies on the Internet, so she doesn't have to spend an extra hour (that's 30 minutes when she arrives, and 30 minutes on the way back) at the car-rental place. It's important to save that transit time, because Mark would like Mary Anne to maximize her short stay; she only has a couple of days. She'd appreciate it if the interviewing company could work that out.
Things are going great for Mary Anne. She already got one job offer she doesn't want, but that place in L.A. is flying her in for interviews. But they know she won't move to L.A., so either they're going to try to woo her or they might be thinking of opening an office in San Francisco. If they do, it could be because Mary Anne told them that a lot of big companies are opening offices here these days.
Mary Anne knows all the words to "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" and several other rock classics, and she loves her mom.
If the dozen other people in the café and I were to say something to Mary Anne, it might be: "Mary Anne, get an office." Or, barring that, perhaps a night class in vocal modulation?
But she's on an important conference call right now, so we won't disturb her. Mary Anne will get back to us later.
Mary Anne has a job interview coming up in L.A., and the company where she's interviewing couldn't find her a limousine. All the limos were booked, and they only work with this one limo agency, so they'd like to rent her a car instead. But she'd prefer that they look up other limo agencies on the Internet, so she doesn't have to spend an extra hour (that's 30 minutes when she arrives, and 30 minutes on the way back) at the car-rental place. It's important to save that transit time, because Mark would like Mary Anne to maximize her short stay; she only has a couple of days. She'd appreciate it if the interviewing company could work that out.
Things are going great for Mary Anne. She already got one job offer she doesn't want, but that place in L.A. is flying her in for interviews. But they know she won't move to L.A., so either they're going to try to woo her or they might be thinking of opening an office in San Francisco. If they do, it could be because Mary Anne told them that a lot of big companies are opening offices here these days.
Mary Anne knows all the words to "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" and several other rock classics, and she loves her mom.
If the dozen other people in the café and I were to say something to Mary Anne, it might be: "Mary Anne, get an office." Or, barring that, perhaps a night class in vocal modulation?
But she's on an important conference call right now, so we won't disturb her. Mary Anne will get back to us later.
February 05, 2008
¡Ya voté!
I don't much care for politics, or most politicians, or endless campaigns, policies that hurt more people than they help, and debates that don't delve deeper than sound bites. And I really hate campaign ads, especially when they try to be funny.
But I love voting. I do, I do.
This morning, I went to the polling station half a block away. Tiny local polling stations are the best. There were four people working—a Hispanic woman in her 30s, a black teenage guy, a white man in his 50s, and a black man in his 40s—all irrepressibly cheerful. They thanked me for arriving, they thanked me for turning in a friend's ballot, they thanked me for telling them my address, they thanked me for spelling my name, they thanked me when they handed me the ballot, and they thanked me when I left.
On the way to work, I passed two other polling stations. One was in a fire station and another in what looked like someone's garage (is that allowed?). A row of happy multiethnic people manned each table. Everyone on their way out sported a red lapel sticker and a Cheshire grin.
At the entrance to 24th Street BART, a smiling guy in a fuzzy hat holding a giant Obama sign said, "Thanks for voting!" I thanked him back.
Except for certain homesick moments during long journeys abroad, voting might be the only time I feel patriotic. This country inarguably has enormous problems, and the next president will have a steaming mess to sort out. Our leaders make mistakes. We as voters make mistakes.
But in that booth with a ballot in my hand, filling in the black arrows that point to what I'd like to see happen in my city, state, and country, I get butterflies in my belly and think, "This matters."
One vote won't tip the scales, but one + one + one + one + one will, and the fact that we're given the age-old opportunity to cast our opinions to the skies and have them heard—actually counted, piece of paper by piece of paper—that's a sign our country has at least figured out the first step.
But I love voting. I do, I do.
This morning, I went to the polling station half a block away. Tiny local polling stations are the best. There were four people working—a Hispanic woman in her 30s, a black teenage guy, a white man in his 50s, and a black man in his 40s—all irrepressibly cheerful. They thanked me for arriving, they thanked me for turning in a friend's ballot, they thanked me for telling them my address, they thanked me for spelling my name, they thanked me when they handed me the ballot, and they thanked me when I left.
On the way to work, I passed two other polling stations. One was in a fire station and another in what looked like someone's garage (is that allowed?). A row of happy multiethnic people manned each table. Everyone on their way out sported a red lapel sticker and a Cheshire grin.
At the entrance to 24th Street BART, a smiling guy in a fuzzy hat holding a giant Obama sign said, "Thanks for voting!" I thanked him back.
Except for certain homesick moments during long journeys abroad, voting might be the only time I feel patriotic. This country inarguably has enormous problems, and the next president will have a steaming mess to sort out. Our leaders make mistakes. We as voters make mistakes.
But in that booth with a ballot in my hand, filling in the black arrows that point to what I'd like to see happen in my city, state, and country, I get butterflies in my belly and think, "This matters."
One vote won't tip the scales, but one + one + one + one + one will, and the fact that we're given the age-old opportunity to cast our opinions to the skies and have them heard—actually counted, piece of paper by piece of paper—that's a sign our country has at least figured out the first step.
February 04, 2008
For Miss E.
Nothing in life is so exciting
As to be shot at
And missed
The cold now is in the single numbers
Is shattered
Frost on my window glass
As if arrows passed
Snow, or a kimono, blows
Sleeves across your arms, crossed
Where you stand
Like an emperor driven into enemy camps
Matching and watching the Eros of the Universe
(Fanny Howe)
As to be shot at
And missed
The cold now is in the single numbers
Is shattered
Frost on my window glass
As if arrows passed
Snow, or a kimono, blows
Sleeves across your arms, crossed
Where you stand
Like an emperor driven into enemy camps
Matching and watching the Eros of the Universe
(Fanny Howe)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
