When King Lear went stumbling around an undefined moor, well, he knew exactly what he was doing. Because if a storm doesn’t make you stumble, it’s not much of a storm, is it? Our recent version got off to a real meteorological bang. No, not thunder, although that was widely forecast. There was just an awful lot of rain in an awfully short period of time. And no one knew exactly what to do except tremble, fear and kvetch. My brother phoning from Palm Springs, assured me that the rain would be hitting those parched environs soon. So cool being united in precipitation.
As for me, while Jane concludes church activities in Menlo Park, I am preparing to have sushi down the hill, then hurtle on to Davies Symphony Hall for Beethoven’s Seventh and Schubert’s Sixth. In view of the weather, some would consider this madness. But I don’t. This is the whole point of living in San Francisco. Concerts, plays, exhibits and a broad cultural life all within transit range. Besides, Jane is partner in this madness. There’s some intrepid British explorer within her that manifests at these times–when the meteorology gets tough, the meteorologically tough get going.
Speaking of which, my recent BART trip to the Berkeley Rep was most worth it. “Cult of Love” was a provocative hour and 45 minutes about the state of the American family. Actually, the state of any and all families. The one on stage had every permutation of Christianity. And this topic in the day-to-day life of the nation is in our face. Every election. Every issue that involves change and adaptation collides with culture warriors, predominantly Christian, whatever that means. In this play, everyone is trying to cope with and make sense of, the human condition. And some people get very confused. Others appear not to be confused, but something even worse, which is deeply troubled and lost. That kind of thing.
The election. A wise person would just forget about it for the time being. But of course I don’t. This is time to pump money into anything progressive. Including get out the vote. And for the first time, everyone seems aware of the supposedly small jobs on school boards, election commissions and so on. Send them money, I say.
In Northampton UK this morning…my morning, not theirs…a wonderful video exchange with my second cousin and her family. So amazing to see someone I have known since birth with two kids. Evie, four years old, had made a cardboard dragon. Her one-year-old brother was working over dinner. No snow outside, and all was right with the world. We see them in Dorset this May. In fact, we see everyone in Dorset this May. That’s what you get for renting accessible holiday accommodation with 22 beds. Yes, you heard that right. More on this.
Later…here in California, much of the rain has stopped. And I am dragging my heels about contacting someone in Banning, California, who could help me get up the dirt road into the mountains. Up that road are a few houses, the water supply for the town of Banning…and a general risk of fire and potential destruction of a precious resource. This is why I think the dirt road is gated.
The prospect of going up this canyon brings me into contact with life and death. As a kid, the rapid ascent into the mountains had something to do with escape and with nurture. My home life was as arid as the desert around us. I was spiritually attuned with the meager waters of the San Gorgonio River. The “meager” part was a pseudo-adult judgment, based on reading and a bit of television (which eventually reached Banning). Ours was the only river I knew. And its promise of life takes on a strange dimension in my late 70s. After all, this was not human life but wildlife and the wildness captured by the Banning Water Department. There was nothing cozy about the steep and harsh gorge. What sort of life did I think could be found there? Afterlife. It has a bit of that feeling today. Nothing nurturing lay up the riverbed. And there is something about wanting to go where I have never been, to complete something unfinished, that makes me think of life’s end. And not unhappily.
But I digress. Jane and I made it to Davies Hall. We heard a spirited Beethoven Seventh and rather boring Sixth from Schubert. Whatever. Jane flung herself out the door of the concert hall and drove up the hill, Nob Hill, to Grace Cathedral choir practice. I headed back to the BART Civic Center station. The wind was blowing so hard that I gave up trying to keep my hat on. So good to finally reach the elevator. So bad to find it broken. Pressing the intercom connected me with an irritated station agent who apparently couldn’t hear me.
I set off for the next station, Powell Street. This took me through the depressed inner urban likes of Mid-Market. Everyone in San Francisco knows about this section of Market Street. Business after business shuttered. Homeless people blowing around in the wind. Human misery and economic decline. But I generalize. More particularly, reaching where the sidewalk ends. Yes, Shel Silverstein was hugely entertaining…but there was nothing whimsical afoot. The San Francisco Department of Public Works was having a go at repaving. The brick footpath simply stopped.
Beyond was a wheelchair nightmare of undefined pavement, no curb cuts and no signs. The wind wasn’t helping. The light was failing. And it was getting cold. There was a plank. Plywood leading down to the street. I decided to brave it. Wood creaking beneath me, I teetered onto what was left of Market Street, tilting and rocking over the asphalt fissures. And here I am.