ever dumbening Fog tacks straight through the Golden Gate, evening summer blanket, but that's summer. Tonight there's a break in the early midwinter rainclouds.

Most days I drive past Berkeley Bowl--if it grows they sell it--on my way home. Sometimes I stop. Good day? Bad day? Greens! Tonight I stop.

Basmati rice, eggs, milk, granola, dinosaur kale (the underside: otherworldly morel-mushroom wrinkles; topside: dragon skin around the nose), curly mustard greens, and a mango.

Waiting in line I eye a tall orange-coated woman with rust hair. Over the shoulder of the man she holds close, her eyes shake hands with mine. Then once more. We both know. God do I love that.

Also, standing two lines over--Mom! A few million people surrounding, and Mom and I happen to procure produce at the same time and place tonight.

Home. Stems removed. Greens chopped. The water on the cutting board is crayola green; my heart and my heart both smile.

Green stone mortar and pestle reduce coriander seeds. I bury my face, swallowing the citrus scent of the seeds. The ghee reminds me of lhasa, yak butter tea, almost gamy but not. Ayurvedic recipe--simple and right.

I know I'm not alone tonight in this town. Hand-ground seeds, alien plants, a love of the fragrance of change. Tonight I'm waist deep in the stream. Tonight I let go.
frAnk it is for writng like this that blather ever existed, journalistic prose that takes us into the line of a berkeley grocery shoppe where we stand behind watching.

right on ever dumbening. you are a skilled artisan.
ever dumbening An early day, a 'reset' in the city (moving liquor bottles a few feet), 6:00 a.m. start. Early return to Berkeley. Some time wasting then leads me outside. Cool warm California winter day. Bell clear, breakable blue. A walk up to Shattuck and then over, past the 'gourmet ghetto' (including Chez Panisse, if you know your fine dining geography).

Some craving, generated by words seen here, has me thinking. Then I try to cease the attachment and watch the thoughts. A brick wall, sun-warmed. Crackled sidewalk squares. A wooden wall, grey paint and plywood with slight aging--plys unplying. The flower stand at the corner of Shattuck and Cedar, always staffed by a flower or two. The wooden face of Ganesh in front of the Thai restaurant (who carved that?).

Farther along another splash on white clapboard reminds me of my first year in California--1983.

Letting go, somehow I'm actually doing it. Be with the sun as it is here, now. Feel this: good or bad: but _this_. I walk to Indian Rock--one of those holy meeting places. People gather to watch the sun fall. The digestion of a million cars adds a bit of abalone to the south side of the sky. One hundred and eighty degrees--Cal's campanile, Richmond's hatboxes filled with some stage of petroleum. Ten or so of us glued to the far vision, and I want to stand up and yell out, "This is the day; do it today!" I also want to throat sing but refrain. The sun leaves us; we leave each other.

Walking back I stop at Cha-Ya for vegan Japanese art. Brussel sprouts, carrots, potatoes, zucchini, snap peas, agedashi tofu, celery, broccoli, mushrooms: curry broth. Brussel sprouts?! I eat meat. I love this restaurant.

I digest.

I let go.

I keep what the sieve catches,

and even that will go.
Annie111 "The digestion of a million cars adds a bit of abalone to the south side of the sky."

Dude. Awesome.
daxle I remember walking down telegraph with your hand in mind. It feels like a long cold nightmare. I tried so hard to make something work when I needed to let go, when I needed to grow.
I've paid zebra and industrial strength to stick needles through my body. Ate fat slice knowing it would cause my intestines to bubble (a nice way of putting it, eh?)
That night we went to 510 and had my skateboard put together, and ate at blake's... one of the last moments you had the illusion...
I just can't get this bad feeling out of my body when I think about berkeley. I never want to be like that again.
ever dumbening tonight's images:

The evening sky rivals the daily melting in New Mexico. "Are they oblivious/To this quality?/A quality of light/Unique to every city's streets"

Dead ivy maintains its grasp, dreaming of climbs it could've had. This tree.

Infused with an unnameable emotion, even the hollow sound of an upright vacuum rolling along the sidewalk, even the woman standing with her phone, even the black steel dragonflies on the wall, even these inform me.

The half-life of musical memory decays slower than normal as I "keep catching that butterfly/In that dream of mine."

The Campanile sports two sides my way, differentially lighted by ninety degrees--orange evening, off-grey evening.

Her ghost still stands at the corner of University and MLK.
Fishawk . 150101
what's it to you?
who go