the death of a loved shirt

I don't even want to write about it. But that lovely light cotton affair printed with dust-olive and peach fleurs de lis trimmed with cream crochet and country ribbon is now marred by the rust from a forgotten safety pin that fastened one of the suede ties at the bosom--ugly orange! The irony is that it was only due for a brief soaking, but I left it too long whilst engrossed in composing the woolly mammoth trap G. has set for us in workshop.

Said mammoth needs some slaying and perhaps rearrangement of the bones for an oracular miracle come Wednesday. For the moment, however, I am hungry and still reeling from a giddy nibble of O'Hara's "Why I am Not a Painter" and translating Confucius' analects for 3.5 hours last night. The good news is that I finally got to go that anachronistic deli in North Beach whose windows have been long dressed with country imports: Molinari's. JN and I enjoyed a split sandwich with plump sun-dried tomatoes still retaining their vermilion shape and fresh bolletjes of mozarella on a park bench over which a dark flurry of pigeons occasionally wheeled. The neighborhood church was white gothica and had twin spires that would have gleamed if it had been less overcast.

Best unexpected view of the city worthy of half a postcard: from that of a Chinatown parking garage, third floor looking out to Coit Tower and the Bay Bridge above the seedy laundry lines if you can endure the turns in the stair that collect ancient urines and drink bottles in peeled plastic ruins. The city was coruscating on a breeze.

Oh, and O'Hara rocks!