Category: Burningbird

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

More adventures, but Golden Girl had to sit this one out. Today I went to San Francisco General Hospital for an abdominal CT scan. The scan was interesting, but the waiting room was more so.

Once I turned in my paperwork at the X-Ray department, a nurse brought me into the CT waiting room, which was currently occupied by an inhabitant of the California Penal system, complete with orange prison jumpsuit, leg chains, and a police escort. After a brief moment of surprise, I entered the room and sat down across from the prisoner, bringing out my book to read, trying not to show that I was listening in on the conversation between the two.

It seems our man in chains had a daughter who was just about to graduate from high school and he wouldn’t be able to attend because of something to do with the prisoner’s victim. I believe the words were something to the effect of:

“Of course I’m mad at him. He’s kept me from my daughter’s graduation. If he thought I was mad before, he should see me now.”

Pause.

“I know I was a little violent, but how long am I going to have to continue paying?”

The deputy answered with a succession of “uh huhs” and “don’t knows” all the while reading a newspaper.

In preperation for my CT Scan the nurse, a really terrific guy with tatoos on all of his fingers, brought out this raspberry substance I needed to drink. The prisoner laughed and asked why I got refreshments and he didn’t. I explained that the “juice” contained iodine, which would help with the visibility of the scan results. We then chatted about this and that until he was escorted in for his CT Scan.

Nice person, really. I figured he couldn’t be too bad if his “victim” was still alive…unless his victim’s dead and the guy is crazy as well as violent…

Anyway, when my turn came around I was led into a large room with a huge machine and a table that was centered into a hole in the machine. I laid down, trying to maintain some modesty with those ridiculous hospital gowns. The nurse then brought this rather intimidating thing over that had some slightly iridescent, clear liquid. As part of my CT Scan, I also got an IV “contrast”. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Between the raspberry juice and the contrast, I now officially glow in the dark.

Fun, fun, fun.

Speaking of adventures and Golden Girl, if any of you ever visit San Francisco holler and I’ll take you on Bird’s Golden Loop. The loop consists of Golden Gate to Sir Francis Drake Blvd to Point Reyes and back via Highway 1. I don’t think there’s one single inch of this drive that isn’t jaw dropping gorgeous.

I drove the loop yesterday and along the way I saw seals, hawks in the air, quail by the side of the road, snowy egrets and other magnificent birds in mud flats and marshes, tall trees, gold and green fields, meadow flowers, fog shrouded hill tops, and awe inspiring ocean views.

I stopped at one point to get a picture of one of the beautiful snowy egrets that was standing in a small pool of water by the side of the road. However, when I got carefully out of the car, camera in hand, the bird turned, looked at me out of one of its eyes, and gave me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve ever had from a bird.

Uh, got the message in one; I got back into car, and left the birdies alone.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

When I worked at Stanford last year, I used to take the commuter train to work. It was a ride of about an hour each way and I always looked forward to it. Head phones on, favorite music playing, I would lay my head back against the seat and spend the time just staring out the window.

In the mornings, as the fog was beginning to dissipate, the train would pass a small inlet. This tiny body of water was really nothing more than a small finger of the Bay, crowded under a concrete freeway onramp and surrounded by the debris of half-built and abandoned buildings, homeless encampments, and a steel graveyard.

In this inlet was an old wooden row boat, anchored in the middle of the water and unreachable by shore. As far as I could tell, the boat never moved, was never used. It had all the appearance of something forgotten or abandoned.

It became a ritual for me to look for this boat every morning and I would stare through the windows with expectation until it came into view — weathered and old, covered in peeling and dusty paint, tethered by weed draped rope in the midst of water smooth as glass surrounded by society’s throw aways. I would crane my head around trying to keep it in view as we passed, regretting that the train couldn’t go more slowly.

Occasionally, other passengers seeing my actions would also crane their heads around to see what event could be drawing such intense attention. Seeing nothing, they would resume working on their computers or reading their newspapers.

It surprised me a little that others weren’t struck by the perfection of the boat. I expected that one day I would be craning to look at the boat and my eyes would meet with another person’s as he or she turned from viewing it; I imagined that we would smile, self-conciously, in the way two people who witness something beautiful at the same moment do. Sadly, this moment never occurred.

In more fanciful moments I would think to myself that the boat was my special secret and only I could see it. However, with another sip of coffee reality intruded and I knew that others saw the boat, they just didn’t see it the way I did. Out of all the people in the world, and all the images in the world, the perfect image formed itself for the one person most able to appreciate it.

I checked the location of the inlet and the boat and I know I can find it without being on the train. I’ve thought many times about grabbing my camera some foggy morning and trying to capture the image on film or disk. However, I know that no matter how much I try or what camera or film I use, I could never capture the boat as I see it.

And I’m rather glad I never tried because now the image will stay in my mind, wrapped in the softness of time — always perfect.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I am just not feeling hot today. And I am feeling hot today. I am in a funk and I’m funky.

Unlike Jonathon, I did not indulge in foods direct from the great salt lick; however, I want to indulge in visions of the Great Salt Lake.

I am sick, but I don’t want to stay at home cozied up in comfy blanket sipping hot cider. That was a Past Perfect moment. I want a Future Perfect Moment.

I want to get in Golden Girl and find sharp new leaf green, tangy ocean blue, and huckleberry purple. Breath deep of air six degrees removed from an exhaust pipe.

I want to find a moment when the sun hits the trees and colors the world late afternoon green-gold, before dipping into its next show of the day, early evening purple-red-blue.

I want to listen to seagulls quarrel and sparrows cheep and crows caw and jays screech, and to the sweet notes from song birds blended into shadows, unseen but gloriously heard.

I want to walk on dusty roads, and across water slick rocks, and over sandy beaches, leaving my footprints for all to see — for a moment. I want to watch weeds rustle with unseen creatures and proud elk silhouetted against wind blown cliff and shy crab scuttling away from predatory bird-like eyes.

I want to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and my face, and the chill of winds blowing across ice and snow and the sparkling clarity and black velvet closeness of a night lit by a thousand million billion stars.

I want to take pictures and bring them back and most likely bore you all, and quite possibly amuse you all, and perhaps send one or three of you away with thoughts of “Oh God, she’s out taking pictures again. Is this going to be followed by more feminist crap?”

And I want to share with you moments of magic that occur in my world if I just get away from wires and a keyboard and a flat screen and, well, all of you.

Monday is Earth Day. In celebration of our world. Our home. All of our home. I don’t care where you are, where you live, I will, eventually, inhale the air you exhale.

By the way, did you have garlic for dinner?

Today the clouds rolled in and it started raining. I spent the afternoon listening to excellent music, sipping hot cider, and emailing old friends I haven’t talked with in a long time, including “bossman”, my ex-boss from dot-com days who now lives in Australia.

Among the music I listened to is McCartney’s new double CD set, Wingspan (History and Hits), combining old and new music. It suited the day. So did Alanis Morrisette’s newest CD, her best release by far. I’m thinking of listening to Sting’s Desert Rose next, dedicated to a certain Brit I know, who just loves Sting. Or maybe I’ll listen to a little Phil Collins.

For dinner, I’m having a meat pie, an idea I got from Allan, except my pie will be homemade, with a delicate crust, very light on the meat, not too rich a sauce, and with vegies cut small — easy food for a tummy that isn’t feeling too good. I’ll eat it sitting in my favorite chair, comfy under a cozy blanket, listening to more music and watching the mist obscure the big ships in the bay as the gray of the day turns into the darker gray of the night.

To complete the picture, I’ll pretend my Mom made the pie. And tucked me into my blanket.

Small things.