Hummingbird

I met a hummingbird the other day. It was the second one I've seen in San Francisco. I wish I had a picture. He was grey-brown, with a bright magenta throat and a white belly. I know this because as I stood and watched him hover around some orange flowers (were they nasturtiums?), he came over and flew around me. And it wasn't a coincidence. He was looking right at me. And I wasn't sure if he was thinking he was going to find nectar in the furry edging on my jean jacket or if he was plotting to attack me, but anyway, he (or she) made several passes, hovering at various points around me, before going back to the flowers, and eventually disappearing into the air.

It's amazing how much energy a hummingbird has. You don't expect it, because they are so small, and they look so benign and dainty in pictures. But there is really nothing benign or dainty about them when one of them is looking at you like he or she is about to drive his pointy little beak into your flesh. Ah, but such is nature. And the beating of their wings is nothing short of miraculous. That in itself seems to create something like a cloud of energy that's palpable once you get within a certain radius. It's awesome and it's humbling. It makes you feel small to be near this tiny thing that takes up more space than you do.

It’s a fog that changes everything. Reaches in and brings you back to your immediacy with the sound of glass bottles falling on each other and dishes in the restaurant, just closing for the night, the last customers at the counter through the window, and the man in the street yelling at the sky and laughing with his friends as the train pulls away and droplets float in waves, cushioning the air.

the Man in Pink

Perhaps this blog could be about the things that people wear in public in San Francisco.

For example, this morning, I was riding the muni train to work and a man's glasses caught my eye. They were somehow stylish, with their bright white rims and squared frames. But they were tasteful, not ostentatious. As I looked at the man, I realized that he was wearing a bright pink jacket and a matching pink bandana tied around his neck. Even his earbuds were pink, with a pink cord. Truly shocking, however, was when he boarded the front of the train and revealed that he was indeed clad in flourescent pink from head to toe, including the shoelaces on his white-and-silver shoes. The only thing on him that appeared not to be pink or white was a bit of his plaid shirt that stuck out between the pink jacket and the pink track pants. It was quite astounding, and all somewhat blinding.

The man situated him self across the aisle from me, to my left, and one seat ahead. I had to keep my eyes closed most of the way because it actually hurt to look at him.

At Powell station, he got up for some reason and changed seats. As he did, his pink plastic-covered iPhone fell on the floor, right at my feet. As I returned it to him, his forefinger grazed my hand as he looked at me and thanked me. I cringed. That is one of my least favorite gestures. I mean, please. I'm just returning your phone, which fell on the floor. It doesn't mean that I want you, and it does not mean that you need to feel up my hand, thank you very much. Especially when you are wearing a hot pink tracksuit.