Dirty, sticky walls. An off-white, nearly liminal shade of eggshell. A stench that reminded us we were in a manmade dwelling, constructed from wood, concrete, and drywall. Cabinets that didn’t seem new or old, not from any past or present, a sort of sign that time always was and always will be; a stark reminder that the concept of chronology is only as linear as we all agree it is.
So for an apartment in San Francisco, it wasn’t half bad.
I was living out a fantasy that was both a long time coming and yet exceptionally new- looking at apartments with one of my closest friends from college. When we sat around shooting the shit, knocking back vodka and bouncing around the campus of our rural university, it seemed like nothing more than (another) well meaning pipe dream.
“Oh come on, man. We would run that town, it’d be insane. We gotta hit up this one Korean pool hall my friend hangs out at….” he would half-jest.
Fast forward a few years in time, and we have graduated. Life is starting to finally make a little bit more sense, even if my face curls into a sheepish smile when I admit that. The flowers are blooming, and the garden that houses a life well lived is gradually becoming watered, steadily growing and becoming a feast for the eyes.
In another life, the garden would be a guillotine. Instead of beautiful flowers, a fence built by hand, delicious fruit, stunning leaves, and the charming aroma of soil, there would simply be a sharp blade, hoisted above, ready to engage.
I occasionally feel this guillotine, but I have been doing my best, especially this year, to dismantle it, piece by piece, screw by screw, wooden plank by wooden plank, and retire it for good.
Whenever I feel myself become invariably angry at someone, that is the guillotine. When a friend is an hour late, and provides me no information on why, and I begin to stew, that is the guillotine. When my mother asks me, for the 3rd or 4th time this week when I’m going to visit my grandparents, and I am blind as to why I should, that is the guillotine. When they get my burrito order wrong, and I’m looking for someone to explain that they could’ve killed me, that is the guillotine.
It is not learning to let go. It is not realizing exactly how much a small gesture could mean. It is being overly dramatic, in a situation that has no reason to be. It is, at it’s root, cynicism.
And I’m happy to say a lot of the guillotine is sitting on the castle floor, nearly disassembled down to it’s last screw. The process is long and it will probably be on-going for a long time, but that’s okay. I have made many mistakes, both in the disassembly of the guillotine and outside of it, but the choice to reject it paralleled the first time I decided to water the garden: why not, if you can, choose the good thing? Why not reject the guillotine, & embrace the garden?
Going through the rest of the apartment, the friend and I come out to the balcony. There’s an expansive view of downtown, and the spot is dead-on with the Transamerica Pyramid. It’s a nice view, and not a common one. On this side of Telegraph Hill, my friend would be on the crossroads of nearly four different neighborhoods, each one with it’s own striking personality.
We head down the stairs from the balcony, and come face to face with the garden. A myriad of lush greenery surround us, with the landlord piping in: “My Mom loved these, she’s from Tahiti,” he said, touching the stem of a bright pink flower. “No clue what they’re called though!” he added, with a hefty chuckle at the end. We laughed too. This place wasn’t incredible, but it had a lot of personality.
I, of course, was not going to live with my friend. I had re-signed my lease with my motley crew in the heart of North Beach; the three lovable idiots were coming back for a season two. But I was happy for him. A pipe dream that formed so many years ago was finally coming to fruition. The guillotine that was once so present- the gate keeping, the cynical scoffing, the writing off of certain places, it was starting to rust away. I just wanted him to be as happy here as I was. (Even if I did complain every now again, especially when it came to trendy cocktail spots, my friend’s ultimate achilles heel.)
Walking back from the viewing, I voraciously ran up three or four sets of stone steps, leaving my friend to catch up. Once we both got to the top of the hill, we took in the view. It was seventy-five degrees, sunny, and a light breeze had just picked up.
In other words, it was perfect weather to tend the garden.