The air is hot and sultry over the Mission District of San Francisco tonight. My computer claims it is 70 degrees here, but it has been known to wrong about these kinds of things before.
I take my cues from the birds singing out back, the flowers opening themselves like entryways to heaven, coaxing the bees to insert their members deep inside, bringing about the sweet ecstasy of reproduction, just as it is meant to be.
This is a weekend of visits by youths -- my own children, and some former students. The beauty of their idealism is stunning. The vulnerability they share frightens me to my core.
I won two tickets to the ballet tonight in an office raffle yesterday; they are orchestra seats, in row two. But, as it turned out, I had no one to go with, so I gave the tix to a former student and her boyfriend, who rode through the afternoon heat on their bikes here to fetch them.
I decided that I would prefer being home, cleaning the bottles from my back-yard privy, circa 1880, and watching the Giants play baseball on TV. I'm eating the kind of snack only I seem to enjoy: kumquats and wasabi peas.
Life is good, while it lasts. We all move along a timeline from our birth to our death. Some of us live a long time; some a short time. Where you are on the spectrum of expectation is not only a matter for actuaries but for poets.
Every word has a big letter and a little letter. Bob said that. Every life has its big moment and its little moment. I said that.
-30-
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