"I figured as much," said Abby. "But I could have bought it. A whirlwind romance would explain why your livejournal hasn't been updated religiously."
The more I have to tell you all about my adventures, the less I end up writing. I don't know how to, so much has happened in the past few weeks.
I want to tell you about how much I love my classes. I want to tell you about my fellow cohorts. There's only twelve of us, and we move to each class together, except for our workshop, in which we are split into two groups of six. I want to tell you about Elizabeth, who works for the only cooperative peep show in the nation. I want to tell you about Marty, who is 61 years old and everything he writes has texture, physical texture - words that I can feel.
I want to tell you how some of these people I feel I've met before. How there can only be one Joyce in our program, how Rachel and I can't be in the same workshop, or in the same clique together. How I must have gone to college with Sarah, and there's a very good possibility that Aileen and I may know some of the same people.
I want to tell you about the Brian Jonestown Massacre, and how Anton stormed off the stage because someone pissed on his birthday cake. I want to tell you about my first venue show in San Francisco, and how you can't say you live in a city until you've been to one.
I work with real characters and I've never told you what working at a popular restaurant is like. I've never told you how our chefs and our owners have full arm tattoos, how one of our hostesses knows a guy from Miami Ink. How one of our sous chefs is only 22 and feels like his young adult life is being stolen. I've never told you the GOOD stuff, the stuff that I should be telling you. But then, I don't know if you'd listen. I don't know if I could tell you in a way where you'd want to know more.
As you can tell, there's still some anxiety left in me. Some fear, some insecurities, but I think that's to be expected. I'm doing what I love.
On Saturday night I walked home from West Portal station. I had taken a K train in and the flashing sign said an M wasn't coming for another half hour. It was about 9pm when I started walking and it was a beautiful night. The sky was clear with a slight breeze and there was none of our typical fog or mist. It was dry - dry like autumn should be, and I realized that we really were in September. Someone had a fire going, perhaps in a backyard pit. It was a warm San Francisco night and fall wrapped around me like a hug from an old friend. It's been eight years since I've had a Californian autumn, but nostalgia hit me that Saturday night. I was nine years old again, going trick or treating with my brothers around our block. I was twelve,, walking the two blocks home from CCD on a monday night, knowing that football would be on TV by the time I got home. I was sixteen, sneaking out of the house at 1am to ride my bike around the greenbelt because I was a teenager and had to get out.
This fall will be the first time in eight years that I will not have participated in SNC homecoming at all. I won't be with the EC girls and BIG boys, I won't be drinking or watching others drink, or helping out with last minute airband props or choreography. I won't be meeting the new freshmen or talking with my old friends.
And yet, this is the best homecoming I could have ever asked for.