What doesn't kill us makes us who we are
A little over a week ago I took my first journey of the year to the home of passable public San Franciscan debauchery (on the weekends, at least), Dolores Park. Or, as I affectionately call it, "Dolo." It's a place were truly anything could happen and probably already has. The charming drive over is one mindblowingly gorgeous victorian home after the next. Picture it: sweeping bay windows, facades proudly painted in pastel and jewel tones, and ornately crafted gold accents more commonplace than you would assume."Cookie-cutter" is a foreign word in these parts and charm is a prerequisite. Did I mention that the street median is lined with palms? Couple that with a perfectly clear, blue day and you've set yourself up with success before you've even stepped foot in the park. Its sloping grassy hills set the perfect frame for scenic views of the city and the Spanish-style Mission High School standing nearby.
Monday through Thursday, the visitors milling and sunbathing about generally match the drive's aesthetic. On the weekend however, the park explodes into something entirely different. I liken the vibes to that of a music festival without DJ's. Blankets are laid in groups reminiscent of the way high school cafeteria tables are divided. You'll see shirtless jocks tossing the ol' pigskin over here, the gays tanning themselves over there. Lay your blanket down anywhere you're lucky enough to find space. Your conversations will undoubtedly be punctuated occasionally with people peddling their wares - edibles? ice cream? beer? LSD? Frozen alcoholic popsicles, anyone? Music comes from everywhere you can imagine to the point where if you're not playing your own close by, the din becomes surprisingly similar to that of a motorcycle gang constantly circling the park. Perhaps this doesn't sound entirely enticing to you, but there's a reason why people descend on this little park in the thousands. Where else can you watch a group of stoners ripping three-foot bongs in one periphery and a crowded children's playground in the other?
It was the allure of this hubbub that led me to Dolo the other weekend. I'm reluctant to admit what nefarious indulgence I was enjoying that day, so let's just say from the time I entered the park I was becoming increasingly and at first, pleasantly, intoxicated. My mind was swept away to meta thoughts, as it normally is in endeavors such as these and my aloneness came at me like a sucker-punch. Have you ever thought about how immense the universe is and its minuscule place in the scheme of the omniverse? I know a lot of people say that conceptualizing themselves within this makes them feel insignificant. I never completely sympathized, because the fact that I exist at all in this mess of creation is enough for me to feel special. It wasn't until I was sitting in a park crowded with thousands of creation's unlikely victors - all of which within my vision were accompanied by friends - that this feeling of insignificance became incredibly clear. This, combined with the cacophony of "motorcycle" noise, haze now rapidly occupying my mind, and increasingly heightened senses, was quite enough for me to rather quickly decide to fold my blanket and GTFO of my favorite spot in the city.
As I'm hightailing it, trying to make sense of my phone enough to call an Uber, I sense an awkward uncomfortable energy beside me. If there is some supreme, omnipotent, all-knowing something up there, they have the most outrageous sense of humor. When my eyes came face-to-face with my old flame, I went slack jawed and momentarily frozen. What would have been an already anxiety-inducing encounter was tenfold considering I could hardly function and had already been feeling the dire need to escape for awhile now. All ideas I had planned in my head for how this would go went out the window. I was so shocked I forgot to tell him where to shove it! To describe the attempts made at pleasantries as anything other than an epically cringey trainwreck would be a severe underestimation. We were both clearly sick at the sight of each other and I couldn't help but think that he looked older somehow. Crows feet or discomfort-induced lack of collagen? Maybe he's smoking more? In that moment I longed to see the child-like smile I remember giving him for his birthday. He probably packed it away in a box with everything else. I can't remember if goodbyes were exchanged, but the last I saw of the park that day through the car window was the sight of his crossed arms from afar, so very much unlike him.
Will I go back to the park? Bet your bottom dollar. I've written it off as this world's weird way of reminding me that I'm not as insignificant as I sometimes worry I am. I've rationalized that the horrible run-in at my favorite place was orchestrated by the powers-at-be as a guarantee that this person stays in my past. Or maybe the universe was trying to ensure next time I come with vino and friends? I'll take it.
PS. Don't call the park "Dolo"... it's taken off like Gretchen Weiners and "fetch".
Thanks for reading my first blog post/pseudo-diary entry! Tonight I'm writing from Vegas
Monday through Thursday, the visitors milling and sunbathing about generally match the drive's aesthetic. On the weekend however, the park explodes into something entirely different. I liken the vibes to that of a music festival without DJ's. Blankets are laid in groups reminiscent of the way high school cafeteria tables are divided. You'll see shirtless jocks tossing the ol' pigskin over here, the gays tanning themselves over there. Lay your blanket down anywhere you're lucky enough to find space. Your conversations will undoubtedly be punctuated occasionally with people peddling their wares - edibles? ice cream? beer? LSD? Frozen alcoholic popsicles, anyone? Music comes from everywhere you can imagine to the point where if you're not playing your own close by, the din becomes surprisingly similar to that of a motorcycle gang constantly circling the park. Perhaps this doesn't sound entirely enticing to you, but there's a reason why people descend on this little park in the thousands. Where else can you watch a group of stoners ripping three-foot bongs in one periphery and a crowded children's playground in the other?
It was the allure of this hubbub that led me to Dolo the other weekend. I'm reluctant to admit what nefarious indulgence I was enjoying that day, so let's just say from the time I entered the park I was becoming increasingly and at first, pleasantly, intoxicated. My mind was swept away to meta thoughts, as it normally is in endeavors such as these and my aloneness came at me like a sucker-punch. Have you ever thought about how immense the universe is and its minuscule place in the scheme of the omniverse? I know a lot of people say that conceptualizing themselves within this makes them feel insignificant. I never completely sympathized, because the fact that I exist at all in this mess of creation is enough for me to feel special. It wasn't until I was sitting in a park crowded with thousands of creation's unlikely victors - all of which within my vision were accompanied by friends - that this feeling of insignificance became incredibly clear. This, combined with the cacophony of "motorcycle" noise, haze now rapidly occupying my mind, and increasingly heightened senses, was quite enough for me to rather quickly decide to fold my blanket and GTFO of my favorite spot in the city.
As I'm hightailing it, trying to make sense of my phone enough to call an Uber, I sense an awkward uncomfortable energy beside me. If there is some supreme, omnipotent, all-knowing something up there, they have the most outrageous sense of humor. When my eyes came face-to-face with my old flame, I went slack jawed and momentarily frozen. What would have been an already anxiety-inducing encounter was tenfold considering I could hardly function and had already been feeling the dire need to escape for awhile now. All ideas I had planned in my head for how this would go went out the window. I was so shocked I forgot to tell him where to shove it! To describe the attempts made at pleasantries as anything other than an epically cringey trainwreck would be a severe underestimation. We were both clearly sick at the sight of each other and I couldn't help but think that he looked older somehow. Crows feet or discomfort-induced lack of collagen? Maybe he's smoking more? In that moment I longed to see the child-like smile I remember giving him for his birthday. He probably packed it away in a box with everything else. I can't remember if goodbyes were exchanged, but the last I saw of the park that day through the car window was the sight of his crossed arms from afar, so very much unlike him.
Will I go back to the park? Bet your bottom dollar. I've written it off as this world's weird way of reminding me that I'm not as insignificant as I sometimes worry I am. I've rationalized that the horrible run-in at my favorite place was orchestrated by the powers-at-be as a guarantee that this person stays in my past. Or maybe the universe was trying to ensure next time I come with vino and friends? I'll take it.
PS. Don't call the park "Dolo"... it's taken off like Gretchen Weiners and "fetch".
Thanks for reading my first blog post/pseudo-diary entry! Tonight I'm writing from Vegas
Comments
Post a Comment