2002-10-02 || 1:14 p.m.

|| sunburned by a field trip to san francisco ||

i love the san francisco mid-day adventures, even if the trade off is a filling and numb left side of the face for an hour. i walked up and down battery. i stopped at stoplights and intersections to watch the ghosts of me and the old lunch friends deciding what to eat, sitting on marble steps, tromping around trying to act as unbecoming for the financial district as possible. i was enchanted by an older lady with the most happening sunglasses, long pinstriped suit-dressy thing, and the most commanding louise brooks haircut and katharine hepburn air of importance in her voice get separated from her suitly cohorts, to yell 'be right there' and run soldier-like across the crosswalk to catch up. i felt more allegiance to the bike messengers than to the suits. post-multiple shots in the mouf i winded my way back to market street, stopping to sit next to the shine em up shop shoe man's booth to watch people. to recline back a bit and study the tops of old buildings and imagine what they looked like when they were first born. to listen to the raggedy man next to me cackle and slap his thigh. i walked down to the underground and stopped for a second to watch the oldest man play a harmonica to a marble wall, books propped up all around him. one of the books had 'spring 2001' written in the spine, like for a literary journal or something, and i pretended he found the book on the ground and picked it up for that date. because that was a good time for him. i pretended he carries that book around and fills in the margins and empty space with everything his cloudy memory can muster, adding to it desperately whenever something flies pigeon-like across the inside of his forehead. he's rewriting history. he's not sure if that's how it really happened.

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