Born and raised in central California, I moved to the midwest in '99. I lived in Green Bay for four years, and then in Minneapolis for four more. I moved back to California to attend New College Of California. For one brilliant, wonderful, exhausting semester I was in a writer's paradise. Sadly, NCOC lost their accreditation and I chose not to continue when my program moved to a different school.
So I stayed in San Francisco. I made friends, I made boyfriends, I met and married my husband. I worked in a broom closet, I worked for a start up, I'm working for a quilt shop.
I am a writer, I can't spell to save my life and I'm always in need of a good editor. I believe in choice, I believe in action, I believe in faith and not dogma, and Richard Brautigan knows who I am.
I'm 31 and happy to get older.
This morning there was a knock at the door. I could tell who it
was by the way they knocked, and I heard them coming across the bridge.
They stepped on the only board that makes any noise. They
always step on it. I have never been able to figure this out.
I have thought a great deal about why they always step on that
same board, how they cannot miss it, and now they stood outside
my door, knocking.
I did not acknowledge their knocking because I just wasn't
interested. I did not want to see them. I knew what they would
be about and did not care for it.
Finally they stopped knocking and went back across the bridge
and they, of course, stepped on the same board: a long board
with the nails not lined up right, built years ago and no way to
fix it, and then they were gone, and the board was silent.
I can walk across the bridge hundreds of times without step-
ping on that board, but Margaret always steps on it.