19 – Stop Shaking Sense

January 19, 1993 – North Beach

An earthquake shook for 5 seconds at Liz’s house during White Men Can’t Jump last Friday night. 5.1. California numbers. And the Niners lost the championship football game to the Cowboys. And we bombed Hussein’s ass some more this weekend.

I’ve made plans to vacate Union Street. North Beach has been a writer’s fantasy, but the reality is a tad sobering.

I dreamt of romping in the paths of the Beatniks. So pulling in $400 a week from the firm with a mountain of debt, I found the most affordable space in the neighborhood – literally a kitchen pantry for $260/mo. Three walls were windows, looking out at the Golden Gate and over rooftops. My folded futon topped a palette-raised platform, while my clothes fit underneath.

You had to traipse through my room to drag down the garbage, and the din of the constant dinner parties cut into my sleeping life. But it goes with the dream.

As my visiting preppie sister put it, “You live in a real dump.” Between the piles of newspapers in the living room, pot-smoke drenched furniture, motorcycle helmets, splayed golf clubs, and the overflowing unkempt kitchen, well, yes, you put it that way. I see the light.

Now I seek order, space and…emptiness. Heading to the nob (Nob Hill) for new perspective.