From early January 2008

It's my first day. The offices are right on the edge of the Tenderloin. I park the car, walk down a block and turn the corner onto Market Street.

Even the poverty here is beautiful. The light is bright, but clear, not harsh, making everyone look like they are stepping into a Vanity Fair cover photo shoot. At 9am the subjects are the dejected--those staying in overnight shelters that require vacancy at 8am; those coming off an all night binge; those out trawling for a first necessary fix for the day.

I don't know yet who, if any, will become a part of my life or landscape over the next three months.

It's a Sunday morning drive to another exurb to do some achingly American normal class thing and I would be irritated and sarcastic if it wasn't all so innocent. It's spring here, and the sere hills are green finally and wild mustard is blooming its riot and I am starting to cry because it is hitting me in full force now, that this will be mine, going forward. This will be what I know. This is not a bad thing, it is its own beauty, its own sweetness, but oh how different.