Buddhists call it the monkey mind, that confused, agitated, unsettled state of consciousness that keeps us flitting about from one thought to the next, like a monkey swinging through a forest of banyan trees, grabbing branch after branch after branch.
My monkey’s been working overtime lately. A lot of overtime. Filling my head with thoughts of shrinking incomes and looming bankruptcies and impending foreclosures and medical care reserved for the privileged and few. (more…)
Last week in San Francisco, I was strolling down Mission Street toward the 24th Street BART station. From there, I was planning to catch a train to the Embarcadero station and then walk to the ferry terminal, where I was meeting friends for an outing to Sausalito. Sausalito is the ritzy suburban tourist town on the north side of the Bay. In all the years I’ve been coming to this area, I’ve never visited Sausalito, so I figured it was time to check it out.
On the way to the BART station, I passed the Mission District unemployment office, where a line of men and women spilled out of the front entrance and flowed down the sidewalk for half a block. Those queued up next to the building ranged in age from 16 to 60, most of them Hispanic or African-American, and most of them just standing there looking at nothing in particular as they waited for the line to start moving. Several of the adults had children with them. The kids, for the most part, stood patiently with everyone else, indifferent to their surroundings, as though they’d been waiting on that sidewalk since they were old enough to stand. (more…)
I’ve been in Florida for over two weeks. I’ve camped, stayed with friends, spent a few nights in hotels. Throughout that time, I’ve met a number of locals, usually chance encounters around campfires or in coffee shops or at a neighborhood bar. More often than not, when they learn I’m from Seattle, they frown, shake their heads, and say, “But all that rain.” Then they extol the virtues of Florida weather.
Had this happened only a few times, I’d think nothing of it. But I’ve run into the same situation in every place I’ve visited here—without exception. (more…)
I stand in Guerneville’s only laundromat, in front of one of those front-load washing machines that promises to get my clothes cleaner and whiter than the kind with the lid on top. I toss in my clothes, lock the door, and insert most of my quarters. Fourteen, to be exact—$3.50 to wash one load.
I step over to the cash machine to retrieve more quarters for the second load. I reach into my pocket for my wallet. My pocket is empty. (more…)
