Philosophy and Psychology

When everything means nothing and nothing means a lot

We find ourselves discussing, contemplating, analyzing "ought"

When seasons don't change and each days starts off bright

Happiness is expected, but we keep wishing for night

The water goes in and the salt is flushed out

Craving becomes habit and indulgence becomes route

Everything affects you, it's all bad, it's all wrong

Your brain is always changing, your lifetime is not long

Spike

His name is "Spike" the hardware-man said as he rang me up on his till
He had speared his friend, a fellow succulent only that morning as well

Spike was a cactus I saw on the street while I contemplated buying shoes
I knew he was mine when my eyes laid on him, I knew together we'd never lose

And so I carried him on the bus, from Haight to downtown SF
From there I took him into a coffee shop, and hid him under the desk

From the shop to the bathroom, and then to the Court, and even into a bar
He patiently waited while I played pool (I won by a fluke, it was gnar)

Finally it was time to take him home, to flourish next to his soon-to-be-friend plants
But as we descended into the gloom, Montgomery station proved stuffed as a fat man's pants

We nervously chuckled and waited for BART to alleviate the obscured tunnel
And as the next train rolled to a stop, we smooshed through doorways that acted as funnels

As the car packed fuller, full to the brim, the more and more panicked I got
I held Spike closer, and whispered to him, "this was a bad idea that we wrought"

As patrons of transit squished towards us, I cringed as bodies grew near
I said more than once, "I'm holding a cactus!" and people's faces turned in fear

Stop after stop (and even the tube) I sweated, vowing to impale myself first should need be
Finally MacArthur loomed towards us, and in a breath of fresh air we were free.

All the Foreign Colors

I was meeting a friend in the city for dinner, and as per usual, I was early.  After spending time Instragramming a beautiful (and original) sunset, I made my way to the burrito shop.  After peering through the windows and determining that the members of my party had yet to arrive, I posted up across the way, learning against a graffitied wall to read my book.
When I read, I get lost in the material, and it wasn't until I sensed something, well, amiss did I look up from my activity. A man, long hair pulled back in a low pony under a small, brimless hat, holding a six pack of beer (and this may be my fanciful imagination, but I could swear he was also wearing a trench-coat) was standing next to me, and just unashamedly gazing at me.  Upon making eye contact he simply stated, "You look foreign."
I giggled, "Um, I'm not."
He continued, "It must be the haircut, you have the foreign haircut.  It also may be the colors you are wearing."
I laughed outright and gestured towards my outfit (blue skirt, grey nylons with knee high grey socks, goldenrod sweater all pulled together with a creamy white belt and boots) "I am wearing all the foreign colors?"
He briefly smiled, "Where do you live?"
I answered, "I live in Oakland"
"What brings you to San Francisco?" he asked.
"I am meeting some friends for dinner" I replied awkwardly.
"And what are you reading?"
"Oh, just the Bell Jar", I offered him the cover.
He smiled even more widely, "I thought you looked gentle, so I decided to say hello."
Again I laughed, "Well thanking you for saying hello!"
He started to move on, "Many blessings to you this night."
"And you as well!"I shook my head and continued with my reading.
I have a feeling that the Bay will suit me just fine.

I am constantly waiting

I'm constantly waiting.
For a package in the mail, for a midterm/a final, for it to be time to eat again.
I wait for the holidays, for a birthday, for summer, for school to start once more.
I wait for Friday, for Monday, until the end of the month, for it to be cold/warm.
I wait for a text, for a phone call, for my cat to come inside.
I wait for the water to boil, for a book to be done, for my brother to be home.
I wait for the morning, I wait for the night, I wait for the time to be just right.
I'm constantly waiting.

In Closing

I came to this city when I was still young—just ten + eight

That first year was rough, determining my fate

But as the days swiftly passed, Portland softened the edges

I danced in her streets, was schooled amid green hedges

I commuted to obligations through puddle and rain

When I looked up at her gray skies, my happiness unfeigned

I worked for years in an office of pure magic

They plied me with treats and laughs, leaving was tragic

Through cars and motos and bikes I shuffled

I gained a constant companion, who liked his fur ruffled

It was sex, heartbreak, bliss, contentment I learned here

The taste of good food in my mouth, a hearty liking for beer

I know this city, she is my home

Everywhere else, I only roam

Her trees and leaves, and flowers blooming

The years ahead of me without her are looming

As I pass over the bridges my throat catches, my heart drops

I loved her, I love her, I promise to never stop

Play Me

Tonight, after leaving the club/bar a teensy bit tipsy, I made my way home past the churches and museums in the park blocks, hoping that the public piano located on Madison (and the space surrounding it) would be free, allowing me to satisfying the night's sky with my chords.
I justified my desire to create noise in a slightly residential area late at night: it was romantic.  Even if people woke up to my notes, it would be as a pleasant lullaby to their ears: lulling them back to sleep.
I turned the corner, and my eyes found the piano with the stick-on lettering plastered to its side: Please Play Me.  But alas, there was already a pedestrian seated at the bench.
I made my way over to the instrument, and calmly smiled, "Are you the guardian of the piano? Making sure that no one plays it late at night?"
Ryan was deeply tan.  He had dirt underneath his nails, oversized clothes garbing his body, and he wasn't wearing any shoes.  He quickly jumped off the piano, "oh no! do you play? play for me.  I am just trying to figure out what a "suspended chord" is".
I answered, "I do play, but I am terrible with theory.  I have no idea what a suspended chord is."
He asked if I had a pen, and I supplied him with one. For the next twenty minutes we poured over his tiny notebook, comparing a six string guitar with the octave of the piano, discussing half and whole notes, and talking about Chopin and the om symbol.  I asked him where he got the music he was trying to figure out (he had handed it to me upside down) and he answered that he had "stolen it from the bench".  I asked him where his shoes were, he said he didn't have any, he had lost them earlier, everything that he owned, I was looking at.

After we argued whether or not the piano should be moved to better light (he won), I clumsily attempted to play.  I admitted that I was slightly inebriated, and embarrassed I stood up to go, slinging my backpack on.  He barely looked up from his notes (a scribbled "Brook" was written above the penned guitar frets in his notebook) as I told him I was headed home and that it had been nice to meet him.  After I had already started to walk away, he called after me, "your pen!"
I told him to keep it.

Attack of the Appendix, and Other Hospital Tales

Let me lay the scene out for you:
I had been in the hospital for over three hours with an excruciating pain in my side.  The pain was so severe that I had already vomited several times, both in the waiting room, and in the smaller room they place you to wait some more.  Granted, it was a pretty busy day at the ER, we saw sick children, a pregnant mother who came in sobbing and did not stop--her cries could be heard fading away as they led her into the back--a bloody homeless man, a whole family (in which the mother indicated she had "severe pain" of her skin on one side, yet I literally saw her skipping through the waiting area at one point) her daughter would screech from one end of the waiting room to the other, a man with a guitar and no apparent ailment passing out business cards to the unfortunate, an older woman complaining of dehydration, and finally a couple who both appeared to be receiving treatment, the woman handcuffed and accompanied by a police officer.
A paramedic intern was finally called into the room (where I was kneeling on the bed, doubled over, my boyfriend hovering around me, rubbing my back, angry at how long everything was taking) to place an IV line and inject me with morphine.  She "blew through" the first vein she chose, meaning she passed the needle through the vein entirely, causing the blood from the vein to leak into the skin around it, which, on the outside, looks like a huge, nasty bruise.  I was in so much pain I barely even noticed.  The nurse helped set the next line, and soon morphine had taken over my system--the relief was sweet.
The doctor/surgeon ordered a CAT-scan (A side note about the scan--they pump iodine through your veins in order to see any infection more clearly, the iodine creates a warming sensation throughout your body, but especially in the pelvic area.  I legitimately thought I wet myself while being scanned). A nice, older lady came by to pick me up.  She was very thoughtful and attentive, and when she was wheeling me out of the room, she placed my wallet on the bed with me, "just in case!" she sang.
"You can leave the clothes" I said
"No one will steal those" she smiled.
"Hey! Those are some nice clothes!" I laughed
"I just doubt anyone around here is your same size, and shares your same style" she said, kindly.
"Oh, well, I guess that could be true" I let it be.
"Except for maybe, a beginning transgender".
EXCEPT FOR, MAYBE, A BEGINNING TRANSGENDER.  I am not sure what this means, and my only reply was a laugh, "ha".  This same lady, after I thanked her profusely for being so nice to me, went on to say, "who knows, you might be my next daughter-in-law!"
Yes, maybe.
The doctors were unsure as to what was causing my pain, but were closing in on "appendicitis".  I was not running a fever, and my white blood cell count had come back normal.  My body was not treating whatever was happening to me as an infection, which made the doctors wary of operating on me.  Furthermore, my CAT-scan had come back inconclusive.  There seemed to be some fluid surrounding my appendix, but as far as an infection was concerned, the scan did not show it.  All my other symptoms were consistent, however, and the surgeon eventually approached me with three options: operate, wait, or see if a round of antibiotics helped.  I chose to operate.
Luckily for me, I was experiencing an appendicitis, and the one side of my abnormally long and skinny appendix was indeed infected.  It was snip-snip! and then zip-zip! and I woke up in recovery.  I spent the night in the hospital, and the staff ensured that there was a pull-out couch in the room, and my bf spent the night as well.
I was discharged the next day, and then the next week was a haze of pain killers and a sore, unable-to-move body.
I am feeling much better now!