I love my sister, I wonder what she's up to.

This weekend red coast, red dog, vanagon across highway 1, and Peter.

I got to borrow the Vanagon. This vehicle is a fully loaded camper van, equipt with fridge, stove, popper-top, and a radio which plays when you turn the car off. It wasn't easy getting Six out of the house, even as it crumbled around her ears and I promised her a safe escape. (we'll pick through the rubble later.) In the parking lot, called The Great Highway dismay, because only fifteen minutes out and Sammy-Jack is whining, and shaking uncontrollably. Smelling the beach at a stand still was about all he could take. I'm biting my lip and Six is holding 'it' all in. Half Moon Bay creeps by. We pull over near San Gregorio Beach. I think this is the part where I am supposed to count my breaths, feel my breathing, shit like that. We're looking in tide pools, next to the the parking lot, Six hands me a blue starfish, which appeared sleeping on it's own side, folded in half. The Dogs investigated the the larger pools and inlets of tide, Sammy-j will swim through anything, while Simon climbs like a goat. Time softens. The red sandstone coast holds the habits of tides. Long striations, fingertips, pulled across the stone. On a small pebbled beach we play fetch. Seven Harbor Seals investigate, maintaining a curious distance from the dogs. The Dogs are oblivious, thoughts only for the stick, splash into the water running towards them.The seals duck, we hold our breath hoping they aren't really sharks. The water is deep the dogs begin to swim, much to the seals delight, I can just imagine them laughing at their legged-paddle. Close cousins, bob up and down in the reunion of to and from.

On the drive back we see Pescadero and witness, through rearview mirrors, a squirrel's fatal decision and car full of handsome Latins, in wife beaters, swerve into the other lane. Poor darlings. They smashed that little native good, sending him cart wheeling into the ditch. The whole scenario reminded me of a scene from "Y Tu Mama 2".

Red tide means don't eat the shellfish, but is it okay to swim? The Labor day crowd seemed not to flinch. The brown water ignored by dads and kids. Little boney kids crack me up. Little chicken wings and shoulder blades, slip on skim boards, unbreakable in this environment. The wetsuit felt like a three-piece suit at a softball game, a bit overdressed for the warm red water. I floated between holiday waves wondering what tusted water looks like in a microscope. what am I swimming in, as I wipe the water from my hair, it feels slimy, so that was gross. Curiosity got me out of the water that day.

Peter was in town.
Peter is a man I work with at the Guggenheim. He's the fellow who gets everyone together, has unstoppable Italian gumption, and so sweet you want to hug him all the time. It should be noted that in a rather drunken hour, last year, on the corner of 86th and Lexington, Peter kissed me pretty good. Nothing has happened since, we're friends. hmm maybe that's a better story to tell you. haha. no. Anyway. We took a 6 pack of Bud up to Bernal. I took comfort talking and listening him, knowing we were both facing something very similar . That we could relate and that the yeah's and nods, felt ephinal yet totally minute. The faith of connection between, rather than anything above, or within. Both of us felt wonderful yet empty, having nothing before us, I, no home, he, no four year long relationship, we both thought about road trips.

So for the last hour I've been writing this in the cafeteria of The Art Institute of San Francisco. No, I haven't enrolled. I like it here, maybe I should find loads of places to write. There are few distractions here and since I've begun to notice, everyone in the world is my age lately so I can blend in everywhere. This cafe reminds me of OlyWa, Evergreen, except for the million dollar view, focused on Alcatraz and the unusual clear skies. The student community kitchen, work study or for whatever reason, the pots are hung in their place and privilege is everywhere.