Spent the afternoon at Pistahan and came home with lumpia grease still on my fingers and a drumbeat stuck in my head. The city does this thing where every neighborhood throws its own party and you forget you ever felt lonely here. Still humming.
Spent the afternoon at Pistahan and came home with lumpia grease still on my fingers and a drumbeat stuck in my head. The city does this thing where every neighborhood throws its own party and you forget you ever felt lonely here. Still humming.
The Strokes don't go on for hours but the smell of brisket pulled me through the gates the second they opened. Some things are worth skipping the clinic for â a crowd this alive, a band that still plays like they mean it, and a plate of barbecue that'd make any Texan jealous. Tell me you're here too.
Morning run took me past Golden Gate Park and the whole place is waking up for Outside Lands â scaffolding going up, generators humming, that particular electricity only day one of a festival can put in the air. Jefferson Airplane played these grounds sixty years ago and the city still knows how to throw a party. Might have to sneak away from the clinic early and see what all the noise is about.
Spent the afternoon at the de Young and forgot how to look at anything without measuring it. Force of habit â I spend my days reshaping faces, so standing in front of a Diebenkorn feels like cheating, admiring asymmetry instead of correcting it. Maybe I needed the reminder that the wrong line is sometimes the whole point.
The coat and tie came off at the door, and the rest just followed â Tuesday evenings have a way of stripping you down to what's real. Want to see what's underneath all that polish?
The Nihonmachi Street Fair pulled me out of the house and I'm not sorry about it â found a sake set too beautiful to use and a crowd that reminds me this city still has surprises. Wish you were wandering with me.
Sunday afternoon and this golden light has me in no hurry to get dressed again. Came home full of beautiful things and decided to make some beauty of my own. Care to watch?
Jerry Day is calling from McLaren Park, but this bed and these old records are making a strong case for staying right here. Saturdays weren't meant to be rushed â and neither was I. Care to slow down with me?
Four in the morning and I'm standing in front of the mirror that usually belongs to my patients. Strange to turn the eye inward â mapping the years on my own chest instead of someone else's face. Forty-five looks different when you stop trying to fix it.
Tuesday evenings have a way of catching up with you â not the crash of Friday, but the steady hum of a week still unfolding. I caught myself humming some Jefferson Airplane while scrubbing my hands clean, thinking about how the OR and my kitchen aren't so different. Both require patience, the right tools, and knowing when to let something rest.