HOLDING THAT THOUGHT

A couple of days ago... and a generation ago. It was twilight that took me back to when I was still a teenager in Valkenswaard. Golden, slow, mid-autumn. Not as frigid as it had been recently, and still very light outside, though the apartment itself, inside, was dark. But there was gold in the sky, and only a few clouds.

Part of it may have been the tobacco. For some reason, Sam Gawith's St. James Flake has been reminding me a lot of my dad recently, and how he would sometimes smoke a pipe while reading. I can still see his face, thoughtful and contemplative, in the shared light of early evening, rays coming in from the west while the desk lamp illumines the corner of the hayloft where his desk stood.
Oddly, it smells like it too.
But that is probably more a present day mental glitch, false-memory rather than actual echo, as I cannot remember a perfume of Perique.

Coffee. Stainless steel and nickel-alloy drafting equipment. Pencils.
A green glass ashtray. Pipe cleaners. Polished wood.


Around the neighborhood, little children are going home with their moms.
A small girl hollers out 'bye' to a friend who heads up Larkin Street, the child happily responds, both of their mothers turn and wave. The adults were speaking Cantonese when they passed, their daughters English.
A generation gap in the making, perhaps, but I doubt it. My parents spoke English at home, though my brother and I spoke Dutch more often.
Yet, as you can tell from this blog, I am as much a native speaker of this language as any other.

Again, it's that light. A luminescent moodiness that you don't often see in San Francisco. We're too far south, and despite the water embracing the city there isn't enough moisture in the air. At the beginning of the week fog would have shrouded the hills and a cold wind would have driven the neighborhood indoors much faster.

The air feels much lighter now.


THE FREEZING EVENINGS

On Wednesday I had taken the bus downtown around nine o'clock in the evening. Opposite me was a young woman with soft-looking skin and, to my mind, perfect features. A forehead that was well-shaped (mmmmm, good bone structure), bright intelligent eyes, and an elfin delicacy to her face. As well as a glimmer of stubborness, and fleeting expressions of strong character; firmness to a well-sculpted chin. About her physical build I have no idea, as it was bitterly cold, and she was bagged deep within a shapeless black jersey, with room to spare. It was probably girlish.
In all honesty, that wasn't what I was looking at.
She was plugged in, and scrolling through her text-messages. At times the shadow of a smile played across her lips, bringing a radiance with it of which she probably was unaware.
Yes, I was keenly observing. But like all middle-aged coots, I am far more adept now than I ever was at doing so surreptitiously. There was something impossibly golden about her, and had I still been in my twenties I might have made a fool of myself, destroying any future chance of friendship forever. But instead, I said nothing, did not invade her electronic shield of privacy, and studiously avoided in any way catching her eye.
From Polk to Grant I merely sat there enjoying the moment.
Not having slammed the door on the present, the future is open.
I may see her on the bus again.
It is much to be hoped.

Miss, would you perhaps join me for some hot coffee or chocolate somewhere?

I'm also likely to see the sweet woman from Hoi Ping again. No, do not think that this could develop into something. She's nice to chat with, and, for a reason I cannot fathom, she feels like she can confide in me. Life is hard, she worries about how she will send her thirteen year-old daughter to college in the future, she's been here eight years already.
And English is a very difficult language to learn.

Surely I find Chinese the same?

Not really. Hard to remember, yes. Especially characters and locutions I seldom use. But English IS difficult. She'll probably master it in time, though. She has a teenage daughter. That by itself will force a person to figure out a language. There's another kid behind that, born in the United States.
I cannot imagine that his Cantonese is anywhere near fluent enough. If you want to talk to your son, instead of middle-aged eccentrics, it may take a bit of effort. Eccentrics are good listeners, young people often aren't.


I do not recall ever having had a problem communicating with my own parents. That may just be me, and neither of them are around to ask.
It is not unlikely, though, that their recollections would be slightly otherwise. Not by much; English was the language of the family.

I wish my dad had told me more about his life.
There is so much I could ask him if he were still here.
But he was a resilient and quiet man, and all I can really remember is the anecdotes. Autumn evenings seem like the right time to remember, and recount the past.

London. Beverly Hills. Hollywood. New York. Canada, aeroplanes, and bombing Germany. Berkeley. South America.
San Francisco. Los Angeles.
Holland.


Autumn. Pipe tobacco.
A glow in the west.




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