My apartment in San Francisco has a living room with several large windows. They are tall, magnificent things in the common style of Queen Anne victorians. One looks east, out onto our back porch, and the others are a set of bay windows that look down to the street below. All that glass makes for a bright room in the morning, even on days rife with clouds. Connecting the front of the house to the rear is a long, dark hallway, altogether the opposite of the brilliantly illuminated living room. If you were to stand at the front door and watch me walk away, down the hall, I would appear as a shadowy silhouette surrounded by an ethereal luminescence, so dark is the hall in comparison to the room at its end.
In every broken heart is a fissure to fill with what you learned. Every matter of the heart from then after receives a fuller love.
Tonight you spent 45 minutes writing an exposition on longevity and its impact on so-termed “quality of life”. You wrote for 45 minutes in order to determine that only one sentiment mattered. Then you scrapped what you wrote and wrote this instead.
This weekend I began reading some “scholarly” essays in casual pursuit of following the curriculum of a college-level anthropology class on gender and sex. Finishing the first reading, an essay from a 1970s issue of Feminist Studies, I felt my brain struggling to keep up with a style and complexity of writing that I’m no longer familiar with. As compared to almost any other form of casual reading—non-fiction, fiction, newspapers, blogs, you name it—academic writing is difficult.
I spent the night in Oakland at a cooking class taught by Phil Gelb. Five of us cozied up in his kitchen and made food-magic happen. Pumpkin gnocchi in a walnut sage cream sauce, roasted beets, simple vegetable soup, and deep-fried tempeh cutlets cooked in marsala wine. Phil set out homemade cashew ricotta cheese—divine— and improv jazz wafted about his compact urban loft.