excerpts from notebook
Airplanes make me sentimental. I want some Great Love to be flying toward. Since I don’t have one, I promote the nearest crush to Great Love status, at least for the duration of the flight, so I can day dream about him waiting for me to arrive.
* * *
I thought I would feel more nostalgia, more affection, for this place. I thought it would feel like coming home, and it does, but in a literal sense, vaguely familiar but slightly strange, both changed too much and not at all. There is no sense of relief, no comfort in this place. I feel like I’ve always been a stranger here.
I don’t miss it. Not Looking Glass, not Berkeley, not even making crepes in my aunt’s kitchen. When I take the N Judah out through and across San Francisco I think “yeah, I could live here,” but I have no particular desire to do so.
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