Loving that one of the main characters in a story that I am reading, written by Richard Brautigan in 1966, is still strong and alive.

It is a library, and though dressed in different clothes and given much more charm for the sake of the story, the ghost of what it never was is still echoing in the walls for those who know.


How it’s Done.

As I walk up the stairs, I reflect on the night.

I unlock the door to my apartment and step inside. Hang my hat & coat, crouch down and give the expected love to Ruby as she walks between my legs slowly, offering up her entire body bit by slow bit to my hands and docking her head in my crotch. Her tail calmly wags.
It’s always nice to come home to her.

I sit, close my eyes, reflect on the night. I of course have seen other large shows, and while I have enjoyed them I usually went home with an empty, dissatisfied feeling after a performance that was mostly just running through the drill, singing the songs, more sucking the audience energy than lifting it up.
This was different. I don’t recall ever seeing a show that had the passion that this did. He ripped his heart out with every word, every motion, and offered it to us.
The more we accepted it, the more he and his band gave.

Nick Cave, Warfield, 7.7.14 With Anne-Marie Goko

Nick Cave, Warfield, 7.7.14
With Anne-Marie Goko

Up until the final fading notes of the last encore song, Nick Cave gave us far more than we paid for. From the songs that built up into a thunderous wave of his passion, the music and the lights, to the songs of love that allowed you the freedom not only to hear every drop of pain but take it inside of you and let it find that moment, that person in your life who wasn’t there anymore.

The best showman I have yet seen – but I have still not seen Bowie.

An incredibly sincere thank you to Anne-Marie Goko, for allowing me this evening, and perhaps even sparking again the passion that once burned so brightly inside of me.

a storm’s courage


The rains come to San Francisco, this time not second guessing themselves and teasing with nothing more than a slightly uncertain shower only damping the streets, but with all the confidence, beauty and commitment that rain should have. They clean the detritus from the streets and sidewalks in the City, both human and otherwise, and I’ve seldom seen the Tenderloin look so rejuvenated and new in the months that I’ve lived here.

I wish that I could say the same for me.

I had the strength Saturday night to call her, but was greeted on the other end of the line with nothing but an automated voice asking me to leave a message. Since then, I’ve been searching for the perfect time, the perfect mood, or making up any other excuse I can for my lack of courage.

Irrational, I know, but common sense and strength are something I fall short of when it comes to giving my Mother yet another chance to leave me.


I should take my lesson from the rain, and wash as much as I can inside of me away, at least for only the moment that I need to commit to dialing her number again…

but maybe not at 3am in the morning on Tuesday. Maybe, just maybe, with the confidence learned from this storm, tonight…