Gentle On My Mind

Yesterday I took Beauty, or, rather, she took me, to the City for the first time since we've been together. Jack's city, San Francisco, that is.


It's not that we haven't been together, Beauty and I, in and out of, and all over, San Francisco. It's just that I used to be in the passenger's seat. It still seems strange, sometimes, to be driving her without Jack. To remember that we'll be ending our trip in San Jose, instead of Pacific Heights. It feels wrong, but at the same time, it feels absolutely right. Jack wanted us to be together.

We both miss him awfully.

I was a little nervous about driving her in the City, because Beauty is a 5-speed, and, well, you may have heard about the insanely steep hills for which San Francisco is famous. I can drive a stick, don't worry. Before Beauty, all my cars were Volkswagens. I don't even know how to drive an automatic. It's the people who might be behind me at a red light that I'm concerned about. The people who pull up too close, never thinking that a German car might need a little rollback room!

My strategy, therefore, was to race up Van Ness, burning the first few yellow lights on the up side, so that I could make it to the peak without having anyone behind me. It worked, and we coasted over the top and down toward Union Street without incident.

We were going to The Black Horse. Jack's pub.


The charm of The Black Horse lies in the feeling that you're not so much in a public bar, but in a friend's home. You might be asked to run to the corner store for some ice, for example, or to wash a few glasses. If you're standing at the back by the storeroom, you probably already know that you'll be required to haul some beer to the bathtub, which serves as the fridge. Drink there frequently enough and you'll end up tending bar.

The Black Horse is the smallest bar in San Francisco. A dozen patrons make it crowded. This is also part of its charm; part of the reason why Jack loved it so, and why I loved going there with him. You can't help but meet everyone.

James, the regular bartender and owner of the pub, is another reason why I love it there. He's a charming Irishman with literary sensibilities, who posts pithy quotes on the tiny blackboard behind the bar for patrons to guess at. The first time I went to The Black Horse with Jack, on the way home, walking up the hill, he said to me, "You love him, don't you? James, I mean." And I had to admit it was true.

Last night, I asked if I might write on the board, and James allowed me to. This is what I wrote:

Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while.

Mirror In The Bathroom

I promised myself that I'd spend this weekend working on my dissertation. I have to force myself; make deals with myself. Cajole myself. Bribe myself.

You'd think that cold, hard pragmatism would be sufficient. You'd be wrong. Even though there are carrots and sticks hanging over my head — the carrot: if I get my damned PhD done, I'll be hireable in Canada, and maybe, just maybe, if I'm very lucky, I can move back to Toronto (though I'd happily take Winnipeg or even Saskatoon at this point); the stick: if I don't show proof of the completion of my PhD before school starts next September, my contract at USJ will be terminated — still I procrastinate. I am the queen of procrastination. Oh, and, my visa expires in August.

So this morning I got up, made some coffee, and set right to work:

I cleaned the microwave.

Then I had a second cup, and cleaned the mirror in the bathroom. Yes, really. And yes, I always hear the English Beat in my head while I'm doing it.

I'm on my third cup now. With one eye, I'm considering what might be in critical need of vacuuming; with the other, I'm playing Scrabble on Facebook with Rochester. And, of course, blogging.

Hey, at least it's writing!