I lived here for 18 years.
Arrived in October 1992, fresh, or actually, rather stale, off the I-80, wide-eyed and bushy tailed.
It's not that San Francisco didn't take care of me. She did, in her way. Under her ward I was always, if sometimes barely: clothed, fed, fucked and/or loved. Well, at least until I wasn't. But most of the time the basics were provided. Yet, why did I always feel such overwhelming loneliness? She inspired so much thought and wonder, yet ignored all my creativity. She made me work until I was injured. Love until I hated. Talk until I craved nothing but silence. She took some of my friends away, into eternity.
She was like a glamorous mother-with a dark side. You admire her as she dresses for one of her nights on the town. She being so beautiful, wrapped in a rosy pink veil of powder and perfume that made her appear younger than she was-instantly transformed by her desire to unfurl. You can only watch from side stage as she adorns herself with treasures attained by questionable means.
She walks to the door, you rush towards her; begging her to stay with you, keep you warm in the frigid, foggy night. She violently swipes you aside, like a jaded Mission bar-back listlessly brushing aside yet another roach, knowing they'll never stop coming. She doesn’t want you to ruffle her plumage. The night is hers. Not yours. And if you cry about it, she'll smack you across the face and storm out, and you never knew when or if she'll return. But she would, and in her sated afterglow rub your wounds and kiss your furrowed brow and give you perfectly ripe *Avocado.
*Actually THAT was Berkeley
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