Just Add Water

Last night I hiked out to the Marina Greens for the second time in three days. I knew it was pouring when I left work but I didn't care enough to bring an umbrella; I just wanted to cleanse. When I reached the palm trees and could barely make out the GG Bridge I stopped to take in the scenery. Even though it was dark the lights over the water were enough to make the vision complete. I thought maybe by the time I stopped I'd have come to some great revelation - some little detail for the screenplay I'm writing or perhaps some kind of insight into why I'm so frustrated with a few personal relationships - but epiphanies like that never come when you're looking for them. It was at this point that I realized how drenched I was. My pants - the tightest, gayest pair I own - were stuck to my legs. It was like walking in chaps, if I knew what that was like. Of course I've been conditioned by a thousand Hollywood narratives to reach my arms out in the Shawshank pose during downpours like this, and after doing so for forty-five seconds - enough to feel the tingle of the water on my face and realize that the payoff was incomplete - I decided to head back, stopping only to get two apple cinnamon twists from the Chinese bakery on Van Ness, the ones they always seem to be out of when I intermittently drop in.

There was something I wanted to tell you writing this today, but as I was hammering out the words I forgot what it was. Perhaps I've written this same piece too many times to have it mean anything anymore. Perhaps it meant something when the idea originated but now it's lost it's luster. Life's like that, and to pretend it isn't is a tad disingenuous. Things happen. People look out for themselves. They care only when it's convenient to care.

The cycle continues.