In A Million Miles In a Thousand Years, Donald Miller talks about creating memorable scenes. Those moments you're likely to remember forever. Yesterday I was sitting at home and it was a very plain Sunday. Except that I had a delicious pork butt ready to be braised, nothing would be memorable. Someday, I'll probably braise a better pork butt, and that will be forgotten also. So, what to do...
I live about a mile and a half from the Golden Gate Bridge, and if I leave a window open in my bedroom I can fall asleep to the rhythmic cooing of a buoy and crashing waves. I love that. I found myself relishing in these blessings and I had an idea. I would book it over to the bridge and watch the sunset from somewhere in the middle. Brilliant... sort of. This is also where I would encounter a flaw in this "memorable scene." You see, pedestrians are only allowed on the east side of the bridge. I realized this on my way to the Bridge, but decided go anyway. The GGB is big, the ocean is big, the sun is big... I'd probably be able to see it. Except there is also a big railing; right over the sun. You can see it (because it is big), but it isn't fun because the railing gets in the way. So I decided to enjoy the walk, the freezing wind, and a great view of San Francisco. That's when I realized something that changed everything... sort of.
I like to think about perspective a lot; a lot referring both to frequency and my level of enjoyment. Sometimes I'll look at a random object and imagine it from an impossible angle, if I were inches or millimeters tall, if i were a spider on the wall, or what the world would look like if I were the thing itself. Now that I think about thinking about this, that might be something fun to write about sometime. Anyway, perspective. I looked to the east, because then there wasn't an orange vermillion railing in the way. Facing east, I saw a beautiful sunset. I realize this doesn't make a lot of sense, but it does. I promise.
When considering the sun simply, it is a GIGANTIC BALL OF LIGHT, which means the light it projects must be reflected. We see this everyday it's light outside and the last time I checked, this was everyday. So I forget about it. Until one Sunday evening when I was walking across the Golden Gate Bridge and I happened to look east and the hillsides were sparkling. Windows of buildings I couldn't see reflected such a pure golden color. The sunset to the east was not a gigantic glowing orb but tiny, fragments of light moving slowly, gently upward and becoming a thousand lightning bugs graciously making a heavenward ascent.
---
Truthfully, I've never seen a lightning bug, but I imagine that its incredible. Someday I want to sit somewhere on a hot summer night and wonder at them like I would if I was six years old; like nothing in the world mattered or existed except those glowing bugs and the jar I was going to collect them in.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
P. Jones
After parking my car and walking toward work, I often see a friend of mine. He usually has something to eat or is trying to find something to eat. Unlike a lot of the personalities on the street, you know he's there and you know he wants something, but he's never intrusive or pushy or rude about it. If you have something to give, he'll gladly accept and appreciate it.
Who are we kidding? P. Jones is the kind of guy who is actually pretty shy. He doesn't like eye contact and hates getting in others' way. Like I said earlier, you know he wants something, but he's always trying to be inconspicuous about it; almost in an obvious sort of way, but he doesn't know that. P. Jones is special. Watching him can bring much joy, but you have to be in the right mindset to really appreciate him. Maybe one has to be hungry before P. Jones can become more than a curbside annoyance. Children almost always love him, but in a malicious sort of way.
The other day I did a terrible thing. Blood is on my hands and I feel no remorse. Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Maybe better than ever before in some kind of sick way. Anyway, here is the story and why P. Jones has anything to do with it.
It was late in the day on a Sunday, one of my days off. And as usual, I was hungry and wanted to go out for something to eat, but what? Feeling social, I thought I would go sit at a restaurant bar and order food in the midst of strangers. I parked my car a few blocks from a place I had been once before. Beginning the short walk toward soon-to-be biochemical peace, I found myself lulled by the echoing saxophone of a street musician. In fact, I didn't even notice the music until I realized I was humming along because it fit the evening so well. When I saw how busy the bar was, I immediately felt less social and thought it better to choose an option that would take less social confidence and certainly less of a wait. But, finding it better to eat now rather than later (which usually makes sense, I think) I walked inside. Turns out, I would have no wait- there was one seat left at the bar. This is where the story begins to take a turn...
Sometimes, we are given choices, but some choices are like selecting a card from the deck of a musician with a deft hand. You see "choices" but have only one real option. I knew as soon as I saw friend/relative/colleague/whatever of P. Jones what I had to do. It almost seemed instinctual, so primitive, so wrong, yet so right. Taking the card forced upon me, I slid that sharpened steel into his leg, muscle tissue tearing as my blade glanced off bone.
Without fear of sounding like a crazy person, sometimes I like to think of the pigeons on the street as my friends. I like watching them, their seemingly erratic movements in some kind of calculated harmony like a concerto of some composer I would sound smart if I could mention by name. But I can't. Anyway, now when I see P. Jones, I have a secret that I can never tell him, but it is a delicious, delicious secret and I wouldn't have it any other way.
560 Divisadero (at Hayes), San Francisco, CA 94117
415-864-8643
Who are we kidding? P. Jones is the kind of guy who is actually pretty shy. He doesn't like eye contact and hates getting in others' way. Like I said earlier, you know he wants something, but he's always trying to be inconspicuous about it; almost in an obvious sort of way, but he doesn't know that. P. Jones is special. Watching him can bring much joy, but you have to be in the right mindset to really appreciate him. Maybe one has to be hungry before P. Jones can become more than a curbside annoyance. Children almost always love him, but in a malicious sort of way.
The other day I did a terrible thing. Blood is on my hands and I feel no remorse. Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Maybe better than ever before in some kind of sick way. Anyway, here is the story and why P. Jones has anything to do with it.
It was late in the day on a Sunday, one of my days off. And as usual, I was hungry and wanted to go out for something to eat, but what? Feeling social, I thought I would go sit at a restaurant bar and order food in the midst of strangers. I parked my car a few blocks from a place I had been once before. Beginning the short walk toward soon-to-be biochemical peace, I found myself lulled by the echoing saxophone of a street musician. In fact, I didn't even notice the music until I realized I was humming along because it fit the evening so well. When I saw how busy the bar was, I immediately felt less social and thought it better to choose an option that would take less social confidence and certainly less of a wait. But, finding it better to eat now rather than later (which usually makes sense, I think) I walked inside. Turns out, I would have no wait- there was one seat left at the bar. This is where the story begins to take a turn...
Sometimes, we are given choices, but some choices are like selecting a card from the deck of a musician with a deft hand. You see "choices" but have only one real option. I knew as soon as I saw friend/relative/colleague/whatever of P. Jones what I had to do. It almost seemed instinctual, so primitive, so wrong, yet so right. Taking the card forced upon me, I slid that sharpened steel into his leg, muscle tissue tearing as my blade glanced off bone.
---
Without fear of sounding like a crazy person, sometimes I like to think of the pigeons on the street as my friends. I like watching them, their seemingly erratic movements in some kind of calculated harmony like a concerto of some composer I would sound smart if I could mention by name. But I can't. Anyway, now when I see P. Jones, I have a secret that I can never tell him, but it is a delicious, delicious secret and I wouldn't have it any other way.
---
Squab with creamy farro, brussel sprouts, arugula, and pomegranate at Nopa.560 Divisadero (at Hayes), San Francisco, CA 94117
415-864-8643
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
