Mail is welcome.
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Finally, finally, at work today Dana, my boss, sat me down and started describing some of the stuff she needs done around the office. Database stuff, that she's totally willing to let me learn. Alot of analysis of data that we're privy to, and a possible job writing it up and getting paid for articles from this expert perspective. Possibly very cool.
I had a nice surprise this weekend, as I found out Rob, an old friend from college, is moving out here in 2 months to go to grad school!! Another Frankliner! Becky, Ricky, Todd, Rob and I had a great time hanging out on Haight Street on Memorial Day. It's weird, to have that many college chums (and my school had 900 students) in one place. And very nice. I need to hang out with Becky and Ricky more often, and Rob's visit reminded me of that. I *need* a separate group of friends out here; it's nice that these are people I've known for years and years. Comfy.
It's up above, but my new email address is gryffyn@there.net So write me there, ok?
What else? Things are nice and cozy with David right now, which is good. I'm learning how much work relationships take to succeed, and it's nice to have some downtime when things are clicking for a bit.Ok, here's a poem I wrote last week.
Dark fell like a black sieve
hill lights shining thru
on their curve
The train rolls in like
thunder
like a promise of something
somewhere new
In the last car, alone, I
think about kissing you
here
You'd do it, too
I could get off at this
stop
and go home
But I rush on
If you were here
I could
kneel between
these sour seats
kiss your thighs and hear
you gasp
But rap music
and my neighborhood
streams in
Doors close and the rap
harmonizes w/ the BART
hum.
But at least my dark hills
come back
streetlights twinkling in
hill-ordered rows
I travel on to you
to him
to your Russian Alex who
turns out to be the
British one
I'm a white girl w/a journal
in the homeboy's car,
and I don't dare
stare
long enough to take my notes. The
black man
w/ the blond hair
chants in a counter-
cadence to the boom
box
then the tracks
rattle loud
Rush, rush, I rush on
to you
to him
I'm slightly afraid
-3 beers to the wind,
thinking of your mellow
evening . . . I'll arrive
in time to say goodnite
and take our boyfriend
home w/ me.
How you drink your tea
while I ignore the lone
black man
who sits on my end
of the car.
Kailey reads to you in her
8-year-old voice.
and David is social
and Ian is sick
and I rush on towards
you, using up pages
in my journal . . . words
taking shape like ghetto rhymes
as I scrawl in the
correct cadence.
The lone man ignores
me as he moves closer
to the music.
And I scribble, only a
stop away
hoping David will
be waiting for me
Another 2 people enter the
car, hispanic and white and
the space becomes public
and I'd be relieved
if I weren't the only
girl.
Rape fantasies
are bogus. "Every man
you don't know personally
is a potential rapist"
or at least a potential pervert.
The music seems friendlier
than the stares
and I'm reassured and want
to move to their end of the car.
Fruitvale finally.
See you soon.
May 19, 1998
Heather Shaw
Ok, here's another one. These are all really rough, you know:
He said the sky is an
incredible color
To me, it was
Bombay Sapphire Gin
though I was a vegetarian
drinking Beefeater's.
Muted indigo is boring
compared to his own:
"Maxfield Parish Blue"
Major points, dude, and we
told him as much, as we
folded ourselves into his
Midnight Green VW bug
I was slouched down
avoiding the sign that
crammed her behind him.
We shouted over the din
of the car until we hit
the bridge, craning
around to see the view
of the City we were leaving
The Bay bridge should be
rebuilt like the San Mataeo
so you don't miss
Bay colors like
underwater hues of
blue
The City
glimmering
like paper lanterns
above the surface.
May 17, 1998
Heather Shaw
Ok, enough of my lame of attempts at poetry. G'night.