The House

I had a dream the other night about a house. It was an old, two-story like the ones in Riverside with sizeable back and side yards. In the yard was an endless amount of junk...bird fountains, statues, lounge chairs, flower pots, mosaic tiles (stuff that seemed like junk because there was so much of it cluttered throughout).

The first level of this house was where I lived; I was renting, I believe. And I hated it. More junk in every corner and open space, dirty linens, musty towels and rags bunched up on shelves (note: a pet peeve of mine is when people leave damp towels/rags in a heap), papasan and mamasan chairs without cushions, dusty pillows, furniture everywhere. In short, it looked like a very unorganized thrift or antique store, invading every room and making it impossible to feel at home. I remember feeling frustrated because after all, this house had incredible square footage but no where to actually "live".

The second floor did not belong to me. In fact, I didn't have access to it. But somehow, I managed to scale part of the exterior, brick wall and pull myself up to peak in the window. There were no screens or glass, only a plastic dropcloth taped to the top of the sill, letting the breeze blow it around. For a moment, the breeze blew the plastic up so that I could see inside. The moment I saw inside, I felt at peace. And I had this great desire for that space to be mine instead of the first floor. What was on this second floor? Well, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just an empty, slightly dusty large, sunny space through which the breeze could blow. I wanted to yell "Sanctuary!"

I'm not one to interpret dreams, but this one seems like a big, fat metaphor for what's been going on over the past few months. Lots of housekeeping/housecleaning with personal baggage, friendships, relationships, excess, attachment, detachment, etc. I can only assume that the 2nd floor symbolized the simplicity and openness that comes along with letting go, and I think that's why I yearned for it so much in my dream. I could go on, but I'll leave it at that.

Routines

There's this old woman who walks up and down the main strip in San Marco at night. I've seen her several times now. It is guaranteed that she will make her way to the San Marco Theatre, stand outside the main doors and peer inside at the person manning the cash register. She's always wearing the same thing: a large-floral print, button-down shirt with an ankle length navy blue skirt and loafers. Her gray hair is in a loose, low bun and her glasses sit a bit crooked on her nose. Her leathery arms are always folded. I discovered by eavesdropping at the theatre that she asks, everyday, to see a movie for free, even if it's the same movie. After all, SMT only plays one movie per night, two per day if they're feeling ambitious. So, she stands there staring at the owners until they cave in or until they outwardly deny her access.

I wonder where this woman is from, how she got here, why she always wears the same clothes, why I only see her at night, and if she has a place to stay. And she probably wonders why I'm always at the same Starbucks sketching...that is, if she even notices. She doesn't seem to see anything except for what's directly in front of her.

Over the past few months, I've become more and more curious about the bums (or those who seem like bums) around Riverside and San Marco. I see the same ones almost every day, and when I don't see them for a while, I worry that they're not alive anymore or that they've been hurt. This is especially true for the black man I see stumbling up and down Stockton, always carrying a big trash bag and wearing shoes that barely have a sole and a striped shirt that looks like it used to be gray and white horizontal stripes; now it's just brown. He's always wandering halfway in the south-bound lane, traffic having to purposefully avoid him. He worries me the most.

I have half a mind to stop and ask all those same questions I'd like to ask that woman, but things like common sense and fear stop that from happening. Still, I can't help my curiosity and my desire to know what it is they need. I'd like to photograph them and write their story, but that just seems like exploitation.

What's in your car?

After spending an evening with my dear friend, Aubree, I walked back to my car in the Town Center parking lot. As I unlocked the door, I looked in my window and realized how much stuff I have in my front and back seats; it's not necessarily valuable stuff, but stuff nonetheless and stuff that can tell a complete stranger a lot about me. Yoga mat, FTCE Professional Educator Study Guide, Starbucks cup, dog toy, sunblock, and drawing books, are just a few items.

So I have to ask, what's in your car? What does it say about you?