cycle

Shivering on the corner of Sutter and Polk, I'm starting to remember that August in San Francisco means sweaters. I dig my hands into the armpits of an inadequate white t-shirt, into the pockets of my jeans, into anything warmer. Watching the lights turning, traffic slowing. I'm wondering if I'm at the right place at all -- 'Space Gallery', says the sign in front of me, but the paint is peeling and there's an rusted iron railing over the door.

A block away, I think I spot my cousin. He's balancing two foam cups of coffee in one hand, rolling a cigarette around in the other, walking away from me. I'm a little early, anyways. From the looks of it, he's running late. Which is typical.

I kick at my suitcase, trying to remember if I've packed anything warmer inside.

Half an hour later, I'm sitting in a restaurant when he walks by again. I run out the door and yell his name. Oh hey, he says. We're still setting up. Can you come by in an hour? I have a flight in two hours, but I smile and shrug, go back inside and order a cup of tea.

the idea visits you at night:

nothing of value can be reliably constructed. fate plants a few unique seeds; from these grow everything that has meaning. everything else is a monstrous replication, a multiplying cancer.

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