11:02 a.m. - May 13, 2003
More from the secret mixed-up files of personality and individualism
People � my sister, Spec � would be puzzled when I�d water the back yard with the hose and spray attachment instead of simply turning on the sprinklers. My sister would comment on the incongruity of having something to be used and choosing not to use it, while Spec would comment on me doing things my own way, chided me for taking too long. I could never capture the essence of doing something well, even something uncomplicated like watering shrubbery; it�s not the act that�s important but the effort and meaning that goes into it, what some would call the transcendence of the moment. I dislike being watched as I do my own thing, feel somebody�s eyes following me, their thoughts bordering on the impatient and patronizing; I take off my shoes and socks so I can feel the grass and I always end up wet, crouch low to hear the air bubbles and the water fall; it�s pleasurable for me, it�s taking time to do something for myself. I wonder if people don�t understand that need for solitude and reflection and what they do instead. Work out or go shopping? I don�t know. I wonder about these things, wonder about the lives of other people.
One of my favorite sights / sites is the Bay Bridge toll plaza on the eastern rise where downtown San Francisco is immediately before you across the bay and the bridge�s struts and cables rise up up up. But it�s not the view that I am in love with, it is the highways that approach the toll plaza, 80, 980, 24, all coming together into 20 lanes that lead to the bridge. Particularly, I am enamored with the 80 split coming down from Berkeley because of the flyover that gives me a view of all 20 lanes filled with people and autos and trucks and I always feel a thrill to see this congested mass. I have never minded sitting in traffic to cross the bridge. Once, I took Spec from Palo Alto (west) to Fremont (east) across the Dumbarton Bridge only to drive north to Oakland and cross the Bay Bridge (west) into the city, never mind that Palo Alto itself is half an hour south of San Francisco. I wanted to show him something I appreciated and it was timed well, just at dusk, and coming over the rise all one could see was a layer of red brakelights. When he said Only you could like this I took it as a compliment. What I love more is looking at people in their self-contained bubbles going to work, coming home from work, heading into/out for a night, an endless variety of people. I wonder what their lives are like, what they�re thinking about at that moment when traffic isn�t moving and they�ve already pulled out the two bucks for the toll. It�s different than being in or seeing a large crowd in a stadium because there, everybody is joined more or less into the same enterprise whereas on this bridge it�s a mass of individuals being individual. And silly me, I wonder what that�s like. Perhaps were I to spend less time thinking about others and more on myself I wouldn�t wonder as much.
I think people like me tend to die young because we never learn how to fit in and be like everybody else.
