|View from my San Francisco window|
Twenty-five of my seventy years of life have been spent in magical, inventive, foggy, quirky San Francisco. The last twenty I’ve lived in a one-bedroom apartment in what has become a trendy part of a city currently experiencing a population exploding with kazillionaires.
The city is fantastic, but increasingly expensive. It is now one of those places vying for the title of “the world’s most expensive place to live.” Seriously. Just as daunting is that my lovely, little apartment is up two flights of stairs, a climb one must make after climbing one of those famous San Francisco hills. Because of the condition my condition is in, stairs and hills lack the charm they had for my 30-year-old self.
|View from backyard at new place in Palm Springs|
What I’m doing here with all this personal blather is setting up an excuse for the erratic posting I expect to make on this site for the next month or two. I’m packing books, thumb drives, furniture, pills, art and some furniture for a move to flatter and considerably warmer ground. I will be especially discom-bobulated until some order is restored. That will happen when the move is completed, my digital connections are hooked up, and my brain, such as it is, has regained the capacity to create. Meanwhile, the process of sorting through the treasures and debris of my life — as those who have already done so know – is sentimentally painful, emotionally exhausting and physically draining. Enough whining.