Where Did the Day Go?


I have felt perpetually three hours behind all day long.

I got locked out of the house this morning and my whole plan on the day was just like that, tossed out the window.

That’ll show you, don’t step outside without your keys to check the fig tree.

I had gotten up this morning, a little late, but I was up a little late, making plans with a friend to do some museum stuffs this afternoon.

I had suggested the MOMA.

And what do you know!

The museum is closed for the next two years.


I had no clue.

Well, that makes me re-consider renewing my membership.


There were a couple of shows he was interested in, and of course, it’s a Monday and the shows weren’t open.

Long and short of it, we decide to hit the Jewish Contemporary Museum for the photography show of Allen Ginsberg.  And because he’s a beat and we’re in San Francisco (so close I can taste the salty foggy air) we further decide to go wander the stacks in City Lights.

Jewish Contemporary Museum

Jewish Contemporary Museum



Photograph by Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg’s Grandmother


It’s a date.

I get up, shower, do the deal, start the coffee, get the oatmeal going, then, I think, “oh I should check the fig tree, I’ve been gone all weekend, maybe there’s a ripe fig on the tree.”

It’s a nice little treat, fresh, warm purple fig diced up on top of a hot bowl of oatmeal with a little ripe banana and cocoa and cinnamon.


I have moment, why don’t I listen to these moments?


When I think, out of nowhere, go out the back door.

Now why, would I do that?

The fig tree is out front.

I almost do it anyhow, the cats are on the back porch and Fred looks like he needs some pets and then, I turn, go out the front door, and check the tree.

No ripe figs.

Oh well.

Back inside.

Or the attempt to go back inside happens.

The door handle is broke.

I actually bang on the door and say, “Hey!” really loudly, like there was someone in the house with me who turned the dead bolt.

Like the cats have suddenly gained opposable thumbs.

Nothing happens.

I am still locked out.

You know what the curse of modern technology is?

No one remembers a god damn phone number any more.

They are all programmed into my phone.

Not into my head.

I sit and jiggle the door handle and shake the door and think, well, what’s next?

There’s got to be a spare hidden on the property somewhere.

I am sure there is.

But I do not find it.

I check.

I check again.

I lift ceramic frogs, mats, planters, I look under pottery, beneath the back steps, I get dusty, cobwebby, dirty, slightly hot, and I marvel, not too annoyed, at how I am actually fairly serene through this entire process, although I am hungry.

That was breakfast in the microwave.

I can almost smell the warm banana wafting under the door.

The hot coffee I would really like to have a cup of right now.

I clamber around the yard, make a complete circumference, look at all the entry ways that could possibly let me in, say hi to Fred, the cat, give him some loves, hi to Buford, another cat, hi to the neighbors.

I peer through the thicket of plant life they have going on and wonder if they are home.

I bet they are.

Maybe they have a key.


They do not, but they do have my room mates number and a call is placed and I am directed to the key safe.

But it is not there.

It has been moved.


No one knows.

The key fairy took it.

I sigh.

He says he’ll come back from the city.

I feel bad.

Why wasn’t I happy with the yummy oatmeal I had working, why did I have to pretty it up with figs?  I have strawberries, they would have been just fine.

Damn it.

The wife of the neighbor insists I take their card and call if I need help.

Um, lady, I know that the garden in back is for “personal use” but I think you should lay off the bong for a minute.

I don’t have a phone.

That’s why I, uh, don’t even bother to explain, take the card, pocket the card, continue on.

I walk around the house a few more times, holding the useless card in my hand and then just get into the moment.  I am going to have to settle down and just chill.

I turn the card over to look at it before I toss it in the recycling.

“Trash Hauling. Maintenance. Repairs. Locksmith.”


Does that happen to include the really awesome way you jiggle the handle on the door and said, “ahyup, that’s broke.”

Dude, you seem like a really nice guy and you were sweet to let me use your phone, but maybe, take the locksmithing off the business card.

Suffice to say I got some meditative time on the back porch.

I sat and watched the birds rustle through the plum trees, fledgling robins with new wings, hummingbirds, pigeons, ravens, nuthatches, sparrows, the wind kept me company, the sounds of the neighborhood, the cats on the steps.

This is not so bad, I thought, and put my feet up on the ledge.

And eventually the room-mate came back, I slugged down a tepid cup of coffee, ate my oatmeal, which was congealed, but still tasty, and hit the road a few hours back from my schedule.

I was not too far off time for showing up for my friend, but I did not attend to any of the errands, writing, or other chores I had in mind.

Oh well.

That’s how it goes.

Sometimes we get locked out.

How did I accept it?

By accepting it.

And being very grateful I had just used the bathroom before going outside to check the fig tree.


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