Wah wah wasa

You know that feeling when you don't know what to do with yourself? When you feel so aimless that the only thing you can manage to do is close your bedroom door and stare into space? When you want to cry but you know it's only hormones, this cave you're in. When you know you exist in the world like everyone else, but you feel more like this guy:

{Images via}

You want to be like him, but the idea of it is so sad. A part of the world but not really, you would spend 10 hours painting yourself too if it only meant you would be hidden from view.

You feel like you could walk the ten blocks from the bus stop to your office with your eyes closed and it would be the same because you don't see anything anyway. And after work you're at a loss so you trudge to Lucky because the cold air will be good and you're out of 59-cent plain yogurts.

The woman who rings you up has a name tag that says Arlyn and jowls like a bull dog. Her eyes droop at the corners and she calls you Hon and Darlin' and Sweetheart and you feel better because you know she means it. Because you know you can be coddled at the grocery store like the sad little lamb you are when all you really came for are Wasa crackers. Arlyn must treat everyone this way, but at least the world has that.

You know that feeling? When the only thing to do is go home, get in bed, and read Angela's Ashes, because no one has it worse than the McCourt family. Och. Least of all you.

What the Craft?: Craft Bar w/ Etsy Labs at MOCFA

Folks, let's be clear about one thing. I love-in-italics the world of craft and DIY. This is a relatively recent obsession of mine, having blossomed within the last year, and though my skill and follow-through are minimal, my appetite is great. I can (and do) spend hours on DIY design blogs, coloring in an image of my handcrafted home in the sky that will one day have solid floors and walls, a clean white bed with a headboard I will make out of books. I've dabbled in crochet, embroidery, and handmade greeting cards, and I have a budding relationship with the sewing machine.

Lucky for me, San Francisco--a haven for recycled living and individualism--offers plenty to inspire the amateur do-it-yourselfer. I thought I'd share my glimpse into this world with you here, in a weekly series I'll call "What the Craft?" that will probably appear, let's be honest, once or twice a month.

First up: Craft Bar with Etsy Labs! This is an event the first Thursday of every month at the Museum of Craft and Folk Art. They bring in a different local artist and/or crafter each time to lead a project. You pay $5, they provide the design, materials, and instruction. Oh, and they have $1 beers. Sometimes there's one project, sometimes you can choose from several, but from what I've seen, they're always delightful.

Last week, I made the clip-on bow tie you see above. Hand-sewn with love by moi. Impressed? Feel free to leave a comment telling me so. The pattern came from WhipperSnapped and the fabric was donated by Britex Fabrics, a San Francisco landmark with four stories of floor-to-ceiling designer goods sure to make any crafter weak in the knees. The best part is the actual artists and other knowledgeable folk are on hand to show you exactly what to do and walk you through each step of the process.

I made it to another Craft Bar a couple months back where I made this felt bib necklace, still missing the necklace part, so really just a cool piece of felt. But I mean, awesome right? 

Craft Bar is cool because you get to be there with a bunch of other like-minded people, giddy with the thought of using their hands to make something lovely. They crowd the door and fight their way in for seats and scissors. The first time I went alone and got to know an older lady next to me. Last week I went with friends and we hardly spoke because we were concentrating so hard on stitching our bow ties just so.

You get in this trance while crafting, you know? Your brain ticks off, your hands work, and your eyes focus. While you may not be able to socialize and do an overstitch at the same time, you feel good in this collective creativity, this warm lighted room full of people who just want to leave their jobs and spend a couple hours making something simple and pure.

The sun, it remembered us.

This city is an entirely different place when it's not raining. When it's -- dare I say it? -- warm. The past two days have felt like a vacation. People are celebrating. It's like that scene in Pleasantville when everything turns to color.

And by that I mean, surprising.

Instead of boots and tights and multiple twisted socks, instead of the perpetual damp, instead of the rain and the wind -- god, the wind -- it's sandals and it's walking slowly because for once you don't want to get to where you're going. You just want to be where you are.

When the sun comes to San Francisco the city smells like hot brick and flowers and outdoor dining. People drive with their windows down and their music up and every street feels like a party. You get to stroll down to Golden Gate Park with no jacket and big earrings and get food from a truck at Off the Grid. You get to sit in the grass with your friend and his dog eating Korean BBQ tacos and steamed pork buns from Chairman Bao and watch the sun set behind the trees.

Like this.

And? If you're lucky? The warm weather will coincide with an actual party on the street, like the Lower Haight Art Walk, and you'll get to spend your Friday evening enjoying art, drinks, and live music.

Happy Friday, my pets. Word has it the rain will be back tomorrow, but until then I'll be wearing a flower in my hair like this girl.

Love+Haight: Red Vic Movie House

As I continue to get settled in my neighborhood, I thought I'd begin sharing some of the treasures and quirks of this colorful slice of San Francisco that is the Upper Haight. I live a block away from Haight and Ashbury, in the heart of a place known as the center of the '60s hippie movement. Counterculture is still alive and well here, coexisting peacefully with mainstream affluence.

The bums and drifters walk pit bulls on ropes, carry cats on their backs, and generally mind their own business. They hang around outside the American Apparel and expensive restaurants (see: the Alembic), and in passing have never done more than tell me I'm pretty or try to sell me grass. While the counterculture is manifested in little more than the clouds of weed lingering in the air or the used clothing stores on every block, the neighborhood still has that feeling that anything goes, that you can come here and be yourself, whatever that may be. My particular location provides a nice glimpse into the character of the area. Our flat is in a dingy Victorian with a record shop on the ground floor, an anarchist book collective next door, and a head shop across the street.

Last night I went with a friend to our local independent movie theater, owned by its employees and a proud part of the neighborhood for 30 years. The Red Vic is cozy, relaxed, and cash only. You can sit on cushioned benches that are halfway between your couch and a church pew. They play recent blockbusters in addition to old favorites (coming up, for example, are "Black Swan" and "The Big Lebowski"), and on Tuesdays offer matinee prices all day. I recently saw all the Oscar-nominated animated shorts there, and last night caught Sofia Coppoloa's "Somewhere". The movie was lovely, doing a lot with very little dialogue, prolonged shots, and a natural, understated performances. LA is viewed through a pretty pastel glow and I must say it had me feeling quite nostalgic for Southern California in all its palm trees, concrete and sun.

A trip down there may be in order soon, but for now I'll keep enjoying my home in the Haight.

Run for it

Image found here.

Yesterday I bought a pair of running shoes. Like, real running shoes. They cost one hundred dollars.

Only, I'm not a runner. In fact throughout my life as an athlete I can think of few things that made me more miserable. Few things that made me feel so weak and incapable. I swam competitively from age 7 to 17, with a couple years of water polo thrown in, and rowed crew for 3 years in college. This meant getting up at 5am every day (6am on Saturdays) and getting my ass kicked for 2 or 3 hours. I have been an athlete. I can do things that are hard. I can thrive on the pain and push through my physical limits.

But running is something I've never been good at, something I've always written off as not for me. I've resolved, however, to change that. The thing is that I live right next to the Panhandle and Golden Gate Park, a beautiful green wonderland laced with winding paths, teeming with lean, healthy bodies. I considered a gym membership, but the thought of spending $60/month when I could get in equally good shape using just my body and the park, well, the miser in me just couldn't justify that.

I've already given this one try and ended up hurting my knees to the point that it took 3 weeks before I could walk down the stairs without cringing on every step, stiff like a robot. I was told that good shoes make a huge difference, so here goes round two. I did it right and went to a small, specialty running store just for women, tried on at least 7 pairs, and with the help of an expert, chose the one that felt right. That's the thing, isn't it? The shoes, the place, the air you breathe, your body. It all has to feel right.

Image found here.

Speaking of feeling right, let's talk about yoga. This I like. This is where I feel strong, purposeful and at peace. I have only recently managed to get my heels to the ground in down dog and it is one of my greatest triumphs. There is a lovely studio six blocks from my flat, and the 90 minute classes have my arms and legs and back twisting and folding into places that needed to be found. I hold myself up with muscles that had been missing and forgotten. I sweat. I am only my body and more than my body. I am one in a room of 40 people, melting into a steady, round OM.

There is something about that moment at the end of the class when the teacher takes all the light from the room and you lie flat on your back. It feels like that first time you spent the night away from home without your parents as a kid, when the darkness falls on you and at first you aren't sure what you're doing there, but then you are calm. You feel safe and you try to figure out what that is in the air around you, floating in the dark. It's something you don't carry with you as you move through the city. This thing in a closed room full of strangers that can only be trust.

Hear me out

Good morning daffodil in the hallway outside my bedroom door.

Hello, old friends.

It's been a while, no? If any of you are as bad at keeping in touch with people as I am, then you'll understand that the longer you go without reaching out, the harder it becomes. So here I am, four (four!) months later, crawling back to you with my tail between my legs. If I have to beg you to take me in, so help me I will do it. The surprising and wonderful thing is, however, that some of you have asked me to return to this place. To begin filling, once again, this void I've left. And that, as hard as I tried, was impossible to ignore.

I've wondered whether blogs, like dairy, have an expiration date. Do they curdle and go bad if left untouched for too long? Or is a blog more like an old piece of clothing? Something that you used to adore and wear every day, but then suddenly couldn't stand the sight of, discarding it on the floor of your closet in a sad, crumpled heap.

This has been my view of le petite blog over the last few months. A sad crumpled heap that I never wanted anyone to see again. I started shopping around to replace it, trying on generic titles and begging web designer friends for a free makeover. I hated "toes over the edge" -- so sappy, I thought. So easy to forget.

But then my sister talked me off the edge, so to speak. Own it, she said. Nurture it and be kind and it will grow into something all its own. So I've picked it up and dusted it off just in time for spring. Maybe it was hibernating for winter? Like a bear? I wonder how many metaphors I can throw at you in the form of excuses. If a blog is like a bear, a living breathing beast with a will of its own, then do I get a pass for being lazy and uninspired?

Tell me, beloved readers, that you're still there. Tell me that you'll stick with me as I figure things out and, inevitably, make changes. (Because I am nothing if not fickle.) I promise I'll be here if you will.

Welcome, 2011.

Image found here.

Happy New Year, my loves. I hope you're all safe, and though tired or hungover, I hope you're all happy. Happy and new. It's fun to see both ourselves and the new year as just that, isn't it? Brand new and clean, freshly plucked from the time continuum like a flower bud, untouched by the toils and meltdowns of 2010 and all the years that came before it. Ready to bloom and surprise us all with what color we will find.

Of course this isn't really the case. A new year on the calendar is not a blank slate and on Monday we'll all be exactly who we are, who we have been. We'll go and do exactly what we've been doing, perhaps with the errant resolution thrown in here or there. (The best I've heard so far is a total avoidance of waiting in lines at any cost, though this was his resolution for last year and it did not work. Sometimes, all you can do is wait.)

And what are we doing, anyway? Does anyone really know? Maybe this is just a question for the young and wandering like myself, but do you have to be young to wander? To wonder? Last night at a sparkly house up on a hill in Bernal Heights, I sat around a kitchen table strewn with empty champagne bottles and dwindling homemade snacks with a small group of big-hearted people, all but one of whom I had just met.

The light and life of the city below us sat patiently in the wide windows and we talked about being proud of who we are even though we don't really know what that means, being something. We agreed on the importance of progress even if we don't know where it leads. We will not be sedentary and unchanging. We will find what is new in ourselves and the world as long as we are breathing. Yes, everyone nodded gravely, yes, this is how best to live.

Just before midnight, our small band of six set off and walked 10 or so blocks to a dance party in the Mission. The crowd was swollen and giddy and agitated and we burrowed our way through to the deepest corner of the club where we danced in a pocket of air and space.

Twelve o'clock came with a shower of champagne and a screaming wish for unity and peace from the woman on the microphone, a squat lesbian with a happy raspy voice and bushy armpits. The life of the party turned out to be this lesbian's aging mother, a woman with a loose gray braid and a gold velvet turtleneck tank blanketing her sagging breasts. She looked at least 70 and she danced with more energy than any of us, her arms reaching and bending toward the low dark ceiling, her eyes smiling and alive.

None of my group really knew each other or what to make of this crowded, grungy party in the basement of a fire hazard, but we just danced and I knew it was a metaphor, moving in the dark like this. Blind, unsure of what we were doing or why, and alone but not really alone.