In Good Company

I’m back in San Francisco, my beloved city. The trees are beginning to bud. The plum tree out my back window has begun to bloom, and tonight I’m loving the beginning of what hopefully will be several days of soft rain. The poetry has not stopped. Every day I follow a link to a new one. The web was aptly named, and what makes this spinning out of poetry so perfect is that so many actual knitters and actual spinners are part of it.

I came back to a city abuzz with the news of our mayor having an affair with the wife of one of his friends. Both my housemate and ex-husband know the friend. It is a small town. Now Gavin is saying that alcohol is a problem and there’s a cry for him to resign. Gosh. I’m having a kind of strange reaction, not unlike how I felt during the whole Clinton blow-by-blow blow job hoo haaa.

I’m missing my childhood. I’m missing a time when the president was having martinis (and popping pain pills) and fucking everything that moves, and it was not any of our damn business, really. I remember clearly Marilyn purring “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” in that dress that screamed “sex”, and the half smile on my father’s face and my mother rolling her eyes, and I remember it feeling all rather good, kind of like a delicious secret.