A bizarre evening. Transferring at MacArthur back to SF a tall red headed woman and I looked a few beats too long at each other. Something about her caught my eye. She looked like someone I knew but had since misplaced all identifying details.
Later, I went to sit at SF Insight, something I rarely do. As I sat, the quiet put me in touch with my anger. I tend to be more depressive than angry, but here I was, along with the entire country, brimming with rage. I was irritated at the people near me clearing their throats, angry at the people who had brought their support dogs, disgusted by the terrible smell of socks – until I realized that was coming from my own guilty feet. Perfect metaphor, no? I sat in my anger, with no attempt to change it, and a commitment to feel. This is how it is. This is how it is.
At break, I looked over and there was MacArthur Bart woman ahead of me in the tea line. “I think I saw you on Bart today,” I said.
“It’s you?” she said. “You were on my train.”.
“I almost said something because I thought I knew you,” we both said.
“And here we are.”
And here we are.