San Francisco's smile
LJ idol week 21: bridge (intersection week, whirlgig is my other half)
The Golden Gate bridge is supposed to be the heart of San Francisco, but I disagree. That sunset orange megalith is a cathedral, one that demands I throw back my head and open my arms each time I pass under one of the towers. There is a moment of silence as you pass under, a change that you can almost feel at the edge of your consciousness. A sense of entry. I close my eyes and toss wishes to the gently nodding sea. San Francisco pets the sea in her sleep, stroking it like a giant cat that purrs in susurrant tides. 101 and 280 are twin spines of traffic, slowly tracing her curves.
California is in my blood, that dusk blue cold Pacific blood that somehow tastes like honey and flows like joy. I grew up here, as a third generation Angelino with a northern California heart. The hills are a tawny golden-brown, like the flanks of a lion, and the fog seeps into your bones on creeping chilly feet. These sewer grates and slanted streets, the wild parrots on Telegraph Hill and the artist's palette of townhouses...these things sink into your skin. The fog forms ink, which slowly sketches a map of the city and imprints it on your body. You cannot forget this place.
San Francisco is a wild woman, California poppies for a crown, and she is always dancing. Her over-friendly buildings raise rusty fire-escape fingers and pretend to be New York City, but she isn't fooling anyone. Her dresses are ribbons and tie-dye. Her midnight ocean is teasing the edges of her city-lights-pink hair. Her doors are silent mouths, held stiff and stitched shut at night with ornate iron gates. She keeps plants as pets on her kitchen windowsill, sings to make them strong. San Francisco greets her city-sisters with reckless abandon.
Austin, the baby of the family, is a shy cowgirl dyke advocating for change, wishing desperately she could be San Francisco when she grows up. Albuquerque is all thirsty blue sky and cloud earrings and smells like brushfires and desert sunsets. London, the eldest sister, gets lost in museums and reads her history in graveyards, along the banks of the Thames. And Santa Cruz, just an hour south of San Francisco, guarded by silent redwoods in capes of fog, wears hand-woven grass dresses and only closes her magnetic ocean eyes when even the most damaged have fallen asleep.
With each new neighborhood in San Francisco, there is an excuse to reinvent yourself. Neon green peace signs for eyes in the Haight, mocha mouths and cinnamon skin in the Mission, glittered wings and question mark tattoos in the Castro. The Sunset district sleeps in fog and sun is a stranger there. Corners at midnight got to know the Tenderloin, and the Presidio is cranky hummingbird-girls who start screeching if you get too close. If these quirky neighborhoods and labyrinth streets and bookshops built on promises are San Francisco's heart, then the bridge is her smile.
(The idea of personifying cities as women was inspired by Francesca Lia Block's wonderful writing. Other cities that have a place in my heart have also become women for me, including: Austin, Texas; Albuquerque, New Mexico; London, England; and Santa Cruz, California.)
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥
The Golden Gate bridge is supposed to be the heart of San Francisco, but I disagree. That sunset orange megalith is a cathedral, one that demands I throw back my head and open my arms each time I pass under one of the towers. There is a moment of silence as you pass under, a change that you can almost feel at the edge of your consciousness. A sense of entry. I close my eyes and toss wishes to the gently nodding sea. San Francisco pets the sea in her sleep, stroking it like a giant cat that purrs in susurrant tides. 101 and 280 are twin spines of traffic, slowly tracing her curves.
California is in my blood, that dusk blue cold Pacific blood that somehow tastes like honey and flows like joy. I grew up here, as a third generation Angelino with a northern California heart. The hills are a tawny golden-brown, like the flanks of a lion, and the fog seeps into your bones on creeping chilly feet. These sewer grates and slanted streets, the wild parrots on Telegraph Hill and the artist's palette of townhouses...these things sink into your skin. The fog forms ink, which slowly sketches a map of the city and imprints it on your body. You cannot forget this place.
San Francisco is a wild woman, California poppies for a crown, and she is always dancing. Her over-friendly buildings raise rusty fire-escape fingers and pretend to be New York City, but she isn't fooling anyone. Her dresses are ribbons and tie-dye. Her midnight ocean is teasing the edges of her city-lights-pink hair. Her doors are silent mouths, held stiff and stitched shut at night with ornate iron gates. She keeps plants as pets on her kitchen windowsill, sings to make them strong. San Francisco greets her city-sisters with reckless abandon.
Austin, the baby of the family, is a shy cowgirl dyke advocating for change, wishing desperately she could be San Francisco when she grows up. Albuquerque is all thirsty blue sky and cloud earrings and smells like brushfires and desert sunsets. London, the eldest sister, gets lost in museums and reads her history in graveyards, along the banks of the Thames. And Santa Cruz, just an hour south of San Francisco, guarded by silent redwoods in capes of fog, wears hand-woven grass dresses and only closes her magnetic ocean eyes when even the most damaged have fallen asleep.
With each new neighborhood in San Francisco, there is an excuse to reinvent yourself. Neon green peace signs for eyes in the Haight, mocha mouths and cinnamon skin in the Mission, glittered wings and question mark tattoos in the Castro. The Sunset district sleeps in fog and sun is a stranger there. Corners at midnight got to know the Tenderloin, and the Presidio is cranky hummingbird-girls who start screeching if you get too close. If these quirky neighborhoods and labyrinth streets and bookshops built on promises are San Francisco's heart, then the bridge is her smile.
(The idea of personifying cities as women was inspired by Francesca Lia Block's wonderful writing. Other cities that have a place in my heart have also become women for me, including: Austin, Texas; Albuquerque, New Mexico; London, England; and Santa Cruz, California.)
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥