3:31pm. I'm here. I'm sitting at Cafe Puccini in North Beach sipping a cappucino on Columbus Avenue. Beside me is a man on his cell phone blasting the Republicans and the Taliban, going on about how America is about reinvention and the lawyers of Washington are ruining the country.
Sitting here, listening to him go on, I am oddly embarrased and aware of how superficial my thoughts have been over the past few years (as most of my non-working hours were comprised of catching up on the lastest episodes of Gossip Girl or the Bachelorette, happy hours and working on my tan) and I wonder if I have the chops, the cultural awareness, the conconsciousness or even the WANT to hang in a place with so much passion!
It is humbling, realizing the talent and creativity lurking around every antique/unique corner. I think about my life and how difficult it feels for me to even dedicate an hour to my writing. AN HOUR! I feel like a fraud. Strangely enough, I am loving this discomfort! I feel the need to be better here. I'm inspired here. Art is a way of life, not just something to enjoy at your leisure. In San Francisco, it's impossible to skip the details, the city and life are found in the details.
(The man on his cell phone decides to strike up a conversation with me. He tells me NOT to move to San Francisco because the economy is terrible in California and it's only getting worse. He encourages me to by the book "What Color is Your Parachute?" and start reading the Economist. He also tells me to get out of the U.S. and move to Canada or Australia. I am oddly not deterred in the slightest by his warning.)
City Lights Book Store. I read Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "Challenges to Young Poets". Favorite lines:
"Think long thoughts in short sentences."
"Wake up and pee, the world's on fire."
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