Sunday, March 15, 2009



Sure I could have danced to candy disco with pretty young men under disco lights that gleamed off walls hung with glossy 70's porn, but the real party, a party of one, was out on the street. I passed her the ragged stump of joint and we danced to the music bleeding from the club. Someone called her from the dark doorway across the street and she strutted off, stopping cars to shake her ass on their bumpers while the drivers cheered. I am amazed the the tenderloin remains unchanged, ringed in as it is by downtown and a gentrifying Polk St All that is drugged up, fucked up, down on its luck, racist, multicultural, multisexual, vibrant, and pulsing about SF is caught here. Let the lurid light shine in these darkening days.


In the mission there was music as well, Gannet's gymnastic piano playing, his calloused fingers abusing the keys, forcing notes to backflip, tumble, launch and swing round. He was happy and talkative (with his new communication device) and led me round the house showing me new things and waiting by old items (like the blue desk in what was once my room) for me to use the old phrases and play old games. His laughter was full and wet. We walked to the store and I watched him with Alex, who has worked with him since before I left. They have such a calm relationship and Alex has made Gannet so independent. When I left them they were shopping, gannet lifting items and carrying them along to the next aisle. For the first time since I stopped living and working with him, I felt It was a good thing that I left, that he was in better hands than I had for Gannet to grow. I walked away missing the drooling little bastard, but not worried about him. That gave me a pain, a short selfish one, letting go of the worry that is so much apart of loving him. But it passed quickly as I hit mission St. and for once after seeing him walked our old hood smiling rather than holding back tears.