I can hear the sounds from my window as I write this, the same window where a few weeks ago a hawk squatted ravenously not two feet from my head. It's a strange feeling, to see this happening there. The edge of gentrification keeps moving forward. John Climaco, He Who Has Climbed Mountains in China, and I saw the world's largest rubber band ball today, entirely accidentally, while strolling through San Francisco. When I think that my life isn't strange enough, or interesting enough, or full of enough circumstance and connection to the major ebbs and flows of the world, I remember that we saw this ball On Accident, and remember that I'm wrong.
Life is beautiful.
Monday, March 19. Well not waves exactly, but there's a strange phenomenomenon where you seem to see the same thing everywhere you look, where, say, ladybugs are all over the place, or the number 8. But lately, it seems that everyplace I look, I come across this really specific blend of hyper-artificialized Japanese sexuality. Sunday, March 18. Spent the afternoon reading Tim Powers' The Drawing of the Dark in front of the metalworkers' Union Hall on Fillmore St., in the sunshine.