Where do I put my eyes? In my pocket? Is the acceptable manner to look away stone-faced, pretending the other’s presence don’t exist? The only friend is the one on your cell phone. The rest of the world, horseshit. And when horseshit gazes at you absentmindedly while waiting for the 54 bus at a lonely stop you snap “What the FUCK are you lookin at?”
I’m back in the United States—California—San Francisco—the Excelsior—home. My wandering eyes need to be restrained, my heart needs to turn cold and my smile tuck away. I’m in the city of wind where the air can explode if I’m not careful and the story of a friend dodging bullets on Mission Street I carry it in my mind. Home is a place that no one needs to say welcome. Home is a place where you help yourself. Home is a place where in your loneliness and fury strike out at your fellow inhabitant. It is true, I’m home.
