1-800-WHERE-MY-DOVES-AT?


Well, this is my inaugural post, which I suppose is fitting for the time. The etymology for the word inauguration includes reference to "good omens under a flight of birds," or "installation under good omens." I had a student once who, for his ad campaign project, presented a product called, "1-800-Where-My-Doves-At?" The product actually entailed the client's ability to rent doves for occasions in which he or she wanted to make a grand entrance. I like to think about that sometimes when I walk into a room: what would happen right now if I opened a cage of white doves and strode right over to the cheese plate, tossing my trailing scarf over my shoulder?

So, from him, and from watching the inauguration, I've learned that there are flourishes and then there are flourishes. Which is why I figured if there were a time to make an unnoticed entrance, it would be now. In my student's honor, however, I did post the doves. Hopefully, I can just cross over the threshold here, door open, without totally embarrassing myself.

In any case, this blog has been a few years in the making. From the time I moved here from Chicago, via Washington DC, via Philadelphia, I've felt cold. And, you've already probably predicted that I say that literally and metaphorically, so I'll just explain:

Literally: There's always a breeze here (San Francisco), and then the rain sets in, it never gets above 70 degrees, most apartments do not have heat and, in the winter, it still gets down into the 40s. Oh, yes, and the DOOR IS ALWAYS OPEN! Cafes, restaurants, grocery stores, school buildings, theater lobbies, apartment buildings, you name it and the door will be open, be left carelessly open, swing open, creep open, leaving most innocuously unaware of their changed circumstances. All of this, from the carelessness to the obliviousness, just makes me angry. Yes, angry.

Metaphorically: This isn't home. This place is small. It's cradled between mountains and bay and sky, which makes it in one sense pristine, and in another austere and claustrophobic. Even the architecture seems austere, as if there's a history lacking, or a sense of the history is missing. This is a city trying to outgrow its past, which makes me miss the history and comfort of my home. Home means empty, wide plains and being able to see until the sun meets the horizon; feeling the golden warmth of soy fields turning in the real, live sun. Yes, it snows and the snow buries the warmth for most of the year. But, the metaphorical warmth of my home is tied to its history of people hard at work, turning to each other for just about anything they need, whenever they need it.

So, this blog is about my search, in a new place, for the warm places, places of comfort and maybe even a little history. In between, I'm sure you'll also be peppered with stories of my job, obsessions and, certainly, moments of door slamming.

Thanks for taking a peek inside.