memory is a fickle siren song

oh, sweet, merciful christ.

I'm in such a pickle, but I can't think of the last time I wasn't fervently trying to make relish. when was the last time I wasn't managing a disaster? when weren't kosher sandwich slices of zesty misadventures assailing me with clammy, green passion, a passion that steadily builds and grows like an epic concerto conducted by an unrelenting deli maestro? I suppose I've always had a knack for manifesting unusual situations and wacky, once-in-a-lifetime, cinematic undertakings that give me material for my writing. it's uncannily reliable.

sunday night with my best friend at a gay bar suddenly becomes moonlighting as an art student from LES new york, leisurely relaxing in a penthouse suite on the top floor of the westin st. francis, surrounded by original picassos and two homosexual vintage san francisco socialites with an affinity for nose candy, persian cats, and kate moss's plastic surgeon. a birthday party at the clift turns into a hyphy phenomenon and when we're kicked out at three am, tripping over a veritable sea of empty bottles of korbel, we're singing as we're being manhandled by security into a misty tenderloin morning holding hands and twirling through the gutters in our evening gowns. everyone else's blockbuster nights are my precious gems of spontaneous and fantastic magic that I collect for my jewelry box of shocking tales. every corner in this city has a story, every day that I choose not to waste has the potential for extraordinary excavation. I claim these things with as little ego as possible, because I believe that these spectacles (wonderful and heartbreaking, respectfully) find me just as often as I seek them out.

what is the point of being satisfied with anything unremarkable? I don't go on dinner dates, I fall in love with my roommate. I don't eat peanut butter and jelly, I order a super al pastor burrito with extra cheese and black beans on a tomato tortilla. I want to live the shit out of my life, because I know all too well and have been taught all too painfully, you never know how long you've got. you could get cancer. (hell, I did.) you could go to a party with friends, have a fantastic time, and then never wake up. (jorge did.) you could jaywalk on mission street and get hit by a semi-truck. (I actually have never known anyone who pulled that one off.)

jon's father passed away last week and I've never felt so desperate to take care of someone in my life. I wanted to jump on a plane, flee to his side, wrap him up and hold him, keep him safe and take the pain and fix everything. unfortunately, none of the aforementioned rescue techniques could be executed, for several reasons not only limited to proximity and the nature of the source of emotional ruin. I couldn't bring his dad back. I love him, but I can't put us back together. but, oh god, how I wanted to. when he came home to pack for an extended stay down south with his bereaved family, watching him leave again felt like chewing blown glass christmas ornaments. my heart broke seventeen times. (give or take.) afterwards I laid in bed for hours, completely immobilized by sadness, listening to the sounds of our empty treehouse. there are so many things to mourn, and I can take those feelings and really iron them out, let them coarse through my veins and leave permanent traces like a tattoo. I thought to myself of a response to jon's querying my transparently sad eyes, months ago, and it's simply that some feelings never go away. I can't un-feel falling in love, just as I can't un-feel the loss of it. I can't un-feel constance. this relationship has swung to both ends of the spectrum just as everything else in my life has, there are highs and lows and I carry them with me with pride. I don't regret anything about the ballad of jonstina. we are real and flawed and human and beautiful, and also doomed. we've moved beyond beating the dead horse and now we're just hanging out at the glue factory.

the time for me to take my leave from treehouse is looming, but I'll look at it head on. a new chapter is on the horizon, maybe even an entirely new book that promises hundreds of crisp, blank pages, eagerly awaiting to be filled with san francisco fairytales and a tragedy or two.