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Posts Tagged ‘Telegraph Hill’

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“Everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”
Rothfuss, Patrick. The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle Book 1) (p. 658). DAW.

More days pass. In this the time of my decrepitude. As my memory slowly shreds, I find the quiet contemplation of nothing enjoyable.

In the past, I could never get into meditation or even the idea of quiet contemplation. It would irritate me. If I had nothing to do, I would prefer taking a nap, reading, throwing stones into the water, starting an argument or shouting at someone — things like that. I could not understand going so far into myself that the maelstrom of my senses, the screaming of my id, or that somehow the constant preaching by that little voice within that is always with us would go silent and that in some way that would make me better, happier.

Perhaps your inner voice enjoys happy talk. Good for you. Mine, alas, is a complainer. Always telling me how I screwed up or how I would fail at what I planned on doing.

If there were not something out there in the world around me upsetting me or demanding my attention, I don’t think I could feel completely alive.

Now, however,  in my dotage, not so much. Now, when I sit on a bench along some path in the Enchanted Forest, the dog laying panting at my feet, I smile, confident that whatever harangue or flight of fancy the voice within me obsesses on, it soon will be forgotten. That thought always cheers me up.

I guess for me, I should consider it one of the few upsides to my decrepitude.

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David Kitchen exited the building in the Embarcadero office complex in which his firm had its offices. The slab sided towers loomed above him. It was about 7 PM and evening was shading into night. He headed toward Kokkari, a nearby Greek restaurant frequented by the San Francisco downtown buisness and political set. There he would dine with Charlie Bowman and bring him up to date on what had been going on at the office since he had managed to lose himself in the wild woods of Main.

The summertime fogs that prompted a now deceased local gossip columnist to term it as the “Cool grey City of Love,” had not been evident much this past decade, perhaps due to global warming, leaving the sky clear but still heavy with moisture. The wet air rising off the water surrounding the City on three sides made the City’s lights sparkle like the far off stars.

As he headed toward his dinner appointment he wondered what had possessed him to want to tell Vince of all people about Red Star and everything else. He had always prided himself on never taking a precipitous action that would put him at a disadvantage. His whole career depended on it; carefully maneuvering clients, partners and even wives in doing what was best for David. Now he panicked and put himself in jeopardy. He regretted his decision to inform Vince but relieved it was not to happen until tomorrow. He will tell Vince some other story a fantasy that would leave the fool even more confused. Yes, that’s what he would do. No need to tell Charlie about this.

He crossed the darkened mini park that stood between his office building and a group of rent controlled apartments that separated him from the restaurant. Looking up into the blackening trees he wondered about the parrots, the one time pets of a number of City residents who had escaped their confinement or been released by their captors weary of the drudgery of upkeep. They banded together as a flock as parrots do in the wild and took up residence on nearby Telegraph Hill. There was even a book written and a documentary made about them.

Feral Parrots in San Francisco

Feral Parrots in San Francisco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

During certain times of the year in the late afternoons the flock would leave their Telegraph Hill rookery and gather at the top of one of the trees setting up a raucous chatter for whatever reason Parrots did that. Ugly squawking, he always thought.

He recalled that before the earthquake that brought down the Embarcadero Freeway there was a pedestrian bridge connecting the little park to the mezzanine parks that encircled the development nearby. Under that bridge a homeless man lived. Every morning as he and Vince would walk by he would accost them by asking for a dollar in return for him telling them a joke. They would pay and usually, as he remembered them, the jokes were quite amusing. Vince referred to the man as, “The Troll under the Bridge.” He wondered now about what happened to the Troll.

He exited the park and stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking back at his office building. Its lights shone with the ragged edges that the far-sighted observe when not fitted without corrective lenses. “Perhaps its time for me to get my eyes examined,” he thought.

He then turned stepped off the curb to cross the street. He never reached the other side.

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