I was sitting at the window waiting for the dizziness and confusion to die down. It is so difficult to put all the woes which seem to keep me in this state of debilitation. Often I find myself thinking — for the first time in my life I finally have all the things I ever wished and dreamed of having — real love, a home and a future filled with hope and warmth. And, I have all these blessed things under the perfect sun and clear air that can only be had in San Francisco.

But, yet, here I sit rather crippled by the ghosts of the past. I limp through the struggles of therapy. As I do so I feel like I am dragging those who mean the most to me down into the mire of this misery. It is an odd and horrible space to sit.

“…bring them all the pain you’ve carried down the line
beggar standing on the corner dry your eyes
the tears you’re tasting now are only salty time.
The out of tune ravings of the crippled crow
Moving down the ladder slow
Where your friends on knee will help you…”
Donna Weiss, 1972
…Little Bagel peeking up at the dinner table…

The time: 3am

I can’t sleep. I’ve brewed a pot of chamomile tea with honey. I’m sitting by the window, sipping the hot tea and looking out on our parking lot where just about anything can (and usually does happen), but this is a Monday morning. It is normally quiet until the trains start to run and the huge delivery trucks begin to arrive at the weighing station.

I notice two boys (well, I would guess that they were both somewhere in the confusion that is the mid-twenties) — but, the older I get the younger other people seem. But, that is a whole different topic.

Anyway, these two boys are bicycling up to just under our window. They jump off their mountain bikes and carefully lock them to one of the city street sign beneath me. They look around to be sure no one is watching them. They do not notice me as I’m above them and sitting in the dark.
They cross the driveway to the fence that separates our parking spaces from the feeder road. I begin to suspect that they are about to have some sort of dirty tryst in front of our building (well, this happens here) — but, instead they sit in a parking spot, light up a couple of joints and share drinks from a Jack Daniels bottle.

I sip my tea.

They partake of weed and liquor. They begin to laugh. Then they kiss. It was at this point they noticed me. One of them gives me the peace sign. I return it. The other offers up his joint to me and motions for me to join them. I shake my head and smile.

They finish up their pot.

I pour another cup of tea.

They sort of wobble back to the street sign, unlock their bikes and begin what appears to be a laborious peddle back on to the street. They leave their bottle. They are gone.

I begin to think I might be able to fall asleep. It is 4am.

I rinse out the tea kettle and wash the honey from my cup.

As I close the window to block the cold northern California breeze and notice that someone has already taken the bottle. It is a homeless man. He curses and throws the bottle into the street.

A gentle moment shattered on the pavement.

And, sleep comes to the weary.