Sunday, March 20, 2011


support for families resource fair in a huge gym at a Mission high school. dozens of booths for children with disabilities and their parents. "are you guys interns? you are so young looking" a saucy volunteer from the silicon valley independent living center asked derek and i.. no, staff, we say but i have stickers and derek is a good ingenue. he makes a lot of good contacts for his group over the course of the afternoon.

later, work on the Proyecto Vision article, the rain bringing out all the old smells in our little apartment, olor de velvety wallpaper behind lead paint, wood which was once soaked and now molded. Meme works on a burlesque in the window--a writhing feline torso, yowling when old women address her adoringly from the street, through the bars. She will call it Meem Peeps.

anna is over for an extended, hopefully restorative, sleepover. too much Chinese birthing center dissertation and stomach plagues. it grows dark, the slurry sound of city traffic in rain. yelp tells us that Toast on Polk means gentrification. but i want to eat hot bread in a place that looks like an ikea of breakfasting. so i say we should go.

a. is wrapped in the afghan, cradling the giant plush manatee. i do preliminary research and discover that Toast turns into a smoked salmon fusion crispy flatbread kind of place after 5. "they are dead to me" a. says.

so, Grubstake, i hold on to K's arm and do a plié of sorts on a  grate, just a little. still happy that it is the first time in 2 weeks i can bear weight on my ankle. K. threatens to do his routine, run skipping down the street holding a newspaper over his head. wind fwumps through our umbrellas and spins us around. there are gullies along every curb cut, sulphur light refracts and rushes along with oily water. "do normal people do this? go out in torrential rain for an old greasy diner?" i ask.

we get to the place where Grub has been pitched into the ground, home fries and "Portuguese Corner" meals staked out against the gale. an old railway car wedged between buildings near Polk at Pine. the bar part of the diner in the train car; affixed to that--a rectangular wood paneled room with a a tiny plank porch like an old shotgun house.

here, the real toast! also, a trellis ceiling strung with illuminated plastic grapes and Portuguese flags.

the world could wash away, is washing away and into irradiated spinach across the sea. we talk about nothing together. we make little boats. a skylight above the ceiling arbor, black and sparking wetly with the storm. through which can be seen the dingy side of a building across Polk St. men's white underwear hanging from a high window.

on Twitter

, where this blog lives now. because it can be read and posted to through that app, one-handed, on my back, by a body of water, or in the cool olive green light above my mattress. This is articulation my spine had not dreamed of before.

My blog lived on Tumblr for a minute

because it is so much easier to access from my phone. fallinginrealtime.tumblr This is the feed. No, I don't like it. I can't add another virtual box. I'll make due with Twitter.

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