Archive for April, 2004

April 30, 2004

I have the day off from my internship so am here at Buen Dia, slumped in my swivelly chair, legs stretched out in front of me, with KCRW streaming through the speakers.  Am catching up on work, suddenly feeling very organized and clear-headed.  A very different state of mind from the last few weeks.

Have a craving for some ramen goodness from Shin Sen Gumi, a little Japanese noodle haus in Orange County.  There, the noodles are flown in from Japan, the spicy miso is made from scratch and it takes three whole days to make the soup stock.  You could say it’s a superior noodle venue.  And it’s not just about the sublimity of those thin white noodles, there’s more to it than that.  Much more.  But I’ll devote a whole entry to this matter some time in the coming months.

For now, I’m content to gobble up some roasted rosemary potatoes laced with sweet, mellow garlic cloves from Bi-Rite’s deli.

Sublimity, OR
Population: 1491
Zip code: 97385

April 28, 2004

This morning I learned the meaning of the adage, “Don’t cry over spilt milk.” Because I did.

April 28, 2004

Cerulean, KY
Zip code: 42215

Can’t seem to get any shuteye.
Am reading excerpts from Teaching a Stone to Talk by Annie Dillard.
A little contemplative reading for you.

April 27, 2004

“Just as we are invited to step into the worship of the Trinity in which the Son glorifies the Father in the Spirit, so we are called to share in the mission of the Trinity in which the Father sends the Son by the power of the Spirit to redeem the world. The word “mission” is derived from the Latin verb for sending. The Church is missionary because it is sent by the God who sends his Son. The Church does not have a choice about being involved in mission any more than it has a choice about being involved in worship. Worship and mission belong to the very being of the Church. We cannot be otherwise than a worshipping community and a missionary people because we have been adopted into the life of God. God’s life is a life of worship overflowing into a life of mission.”

— Christopher Cocksworth, Holy, Holy, Holy

April 24, 2004

Today, Melissa and I took an amble down Cortland Avenue, Saturday afternoon-style, through Bernal Heights, the neighborhood that San Francisco forgot. I say this because Bernal Heights is like a little town in and of itself, wedged between the Mission and Potrero Hill, seemingly secluded and high up, with stunning views any which way you look.

Progressive Grounds is officially the cutest cafe in the city. It is thee neighborhood coffeehouse, with honey-colored wooden floors, Bernal Heightians trailing in and out, a room with a fireplace and about a hundred pillows for when the weather is inclement and a lovely patio for a day like today. Across the street is Red Hill Books, where I found something I’ve been wanting for a while (heavily marked down, no less): I Thought My Father Was God, a collection of tales submitted to NPR’s National Story Project and edited by Paul Auster.

Melissa read this story aloud as we drove home through the narrow streets of the maze that is Bernal Heights:

The Chicken

As I was walking down Stanton Street early one Sunday morning, I saw a chicken a few yards ahead of me. I was walking faster than the chicken, so I gradually caught up. By the time we approached Eighteenth Avenue, I was close behind. The chicken turned south on Eighteenth. At the fourth house along, it turned in at the walk, hopped up the front steps, and rapped sharply on the metal storm door with its beak. After a moment, the door opened and the chicken went in.

Linda Elegant
Portland, Oregon

April 22, 2004

Ducker in the field.

April 20, 2004

It drives me nuts when I misplace something.

Just inherited a faded red hardback copy of Maurice Sendak’s Pierre: A Cautionary Tale in Five Chapters and a Prologue from 1962. It’s the epitomy of musty. In other words, love it.

The moral of Pierre: CARE!

April 16, 2004

The weather took a turn for the cold. I left the house with not enough layers on. Brrr Had to grab a cup of joe at midday to keep me warm.

High points of the day: Passing by some jasmine bushes and drinking in their sweet, intoxicating fragrance, leaving an indelible impression on me. Filling up my half-hour lunch chattin’ it up with Dana, with me walking aimlessly through the Fairfax Safeway, unable to locate the chip aisle, and her sneezing her way through Trader Joe’s in Brea.

Where The Waves: the perfect song for driving over the Golden Gate Bridge, taking the 25th Avenue exit, driving down curvy and eucalyptus tree-flanked Lincoln Boulevard, peering down into the cerulean waters of Baker Beach, seizing a whiff of someone’s bonfire and thinking about stopping, but driving home to the Richmond instead to sit down to some Ciao Bella blackberry cabernet sorbet and mull over my day.

Jakers dannon. [That was for Melissa.] Something is stinking up the state of our kitchen.

April 15, 2004

J. Otto’s L.A. Visit

April 13, 2004

I would love to get one of these.

The Holga characterizes the world of toy cameras, representing an inexpensive and crazy camera which is truly fun to have. The Holga is the anti-technology, anti-perfection camera whose charm is unsurpassed. It is a study in imperfection. The images one creates with the Holga camera are often “flawed” by traditional standards and are one of a kind, due to light leaks and the deviant film wind-age. And now, you can use Polaroid film with a Holga camera. Oh yeah.