Bildungsroman at Sutro Baths. (7.7.16)
It is funny when I come back to this place.
familiar eucalyptus trees that were the veins of my 7 year old limbs and ladybug rainboots
and a memory of beagle-lab panting and jumping through dunes of sand and iceplants in the San Francisco fog
a place that once ignited childhood
the same place that occupied a young arts community that refused to comprehend the enigma of a scatterbrained young female jazz based musician,
alienated as an artistic voice that doesn't sound
like cracked bongs and cyber high diplomas feel.
My eyes have glazed over
the aspiring soundcloud rap artists with no black origins
the girls with nipple piercings who put on a front for a living
the people who shunned me because mokes were more important
putting on an all too enthusiastic beg for conformation
and from what?
The only time I really wanted an acute accelerated heart beat
or tingling in my fingers and toes
was from anticipating performance.
I had done enough with self induced propriety
before I even lifted my lips to the spliff where the tobacco had rushed through my head
and sent me spiraling to the porcelain toilet
the exact moment when I knew displacement was something I couldn't pretend didn't exist anymore.
And I sit in the sand
late at night
searching for the stars for once instead of public approval because exhaust had overcome it
like I was the only friend I had ever really known
straddled somewhere between adulthood and juvenility,
longing for the simplicity of childhood
longing for a recovery
that deep down I knew
could not be recovered here.
and the cement battery walls get overwritten by graffiti
and the iceplants bear the suffering of glass bottles left to wreak havoc on the ground
they throw up on the sand that I used to stick my tiny hands in and get stuck underneath my fingernails and in the crevices of my boots
I can't read my old dog's pawprints up and down the hills anymore
The sand yields more discomfort than warmth, and the fog becomes no more than a nuisance
The stairs to the beach collapse in the storms
I don't remember the ocean like I used to
my dad surfs less and less these days
it is far easier to be in denial
than to let go.
It seems as if childhood was almost a life I did not know
for it had juxtaposed everything I felt
It would become displaced in the New York snow
where the girl started to shed self destruction
and the ladybug boots found their wings
and they left the ocean in the morning
with the trace of a night they will never fully remember.
I suppose I had realized the importance of moving on
in a seemingly isolated place
comfort must coexist