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Love Letter to San Francisco

Hi,

I just wanted to tell you that I see you.

Through my google glasses.

Just kidding. I remember when we first met. You were windy and grey, my cheeks were pink. The air was strong, unrelenting. You smelled of promise and of hope and of wackadoodle culture, subculture, counter culture, above-ground undergroundedness.

The conversation tables at the Red Victorian, unchanged since the time when people didn’t need to be told to look into eyes instead of screens. Murals, protests, parade after parade of anyone who has something to say. You refuse to let people not talk.

You let me live. You let me bathe in the definition of living until I have soaked it up and rung it out like a towel, only to bathe in a new definition of life soon thereafter.

I see you bleed as you have bled before. I see you being shaken and rattled by clashing perspectives, the tsunami of tech assholes and tenants being pushed, pushed, pushed out and of history repeating itself with black people and white people and brown people and of new art, old art. Where is the art? Where did it go?

I hate you with all of my bones as I get on the dreaded 8 line and love you again as soon as I look out the window.

You have your issues. You need help. But I will not leave you. I will teach your children the best that I can and I will listen. Listen to what you are trying to teach me. I will watch and I will listen to your terrible, lovely, un-hiding story without judgement or inaction. I will act.

Please do not lose yourself in the new Sales Force tower or bureaucracy or violence. Stay raw and messy and keep showing off your sunsets.

I love you.

M.

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