San Francisco Then & Now

I’ve been at a psychiatric conference in San Francisco this week and I have to say it was a bit on the boring side.  Of course I am comparing it to the same conference in the same city I attended 13 years ago.

At that time I was a young and robust 45 year old with friends to share in the experience.  One was a Russian-American friend who I’d befriended in Bloomington, Indiana in the mid to late 90’s.  He was studying choral conducting and music composition and eventually took a job in the Bay area, living in Oakland.  He picked me up in his clunker of a car and we trundled across the Golden Gate Bridge, wound through the hills of Marin County, and parked in the shadows of the giant redwoods.  He also took me to the grand and gorgeous Joy of All Who Sorrow Orthodox Cathedral to venerate the relics of St. John the Wonderworker of Shanghai & San Francisco (his dried out remains reclining in a glass-topped casket to the side of the nave).  We also visited the famous Japanese Gardens and a museum featuring Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring”.

Another evening or two was spent with an Armenian-American friend who I knew from our shared four year psychiatry residency at Walter Reed in Washington DC.  He was obviously there for the conference as well, but as an added bonus his brother joined us - up from LA as a lawyer on the lam.  The three of us roamed the city which included yucking it up on a nighttime trolley rolling up and down the hills of San Francisco and dining at an Italian restaurant on the edge of Chinatown. 

In those first two days of the conference I figured out the city bus system (BART) through trial and error and utilized it to visit various parts of the city to include a beach to the west of the Golden Gate Bridge for a photo-taking opportunity and the hilltop park that included the “painted ladies” houses featured on the TV show “Full House”.  This need to use public transportation was in part motivated by my decision on that first day to attend a Vespers service at the oldest Orthodox Church in the US.  In a kind of ascetic gesture I decided to walk to it from my hotel up and down those famous San Francisco streets, arriving an hour or two later with sore legs/hips and sweaty, understanding that this type of travel was unsustainable and not particularly efficient.

And of course I took lots and lots of photos, but at that time it was with an actual camera.  I had a small BlackBerry phone from work that was not designed to take photos like smartphones these days.  A memory that stands out perhaps most clearly from this trip was the night I was returning to my hotel from hanging out in Chinatown and happened upon a homeless man sleeping against a wall.  On the wall was a large Levi’s Jeans advertisement of a beautiful blown up model standing probably 10 feet tall gesturing down to the sleeping man.  The juxtaposition was so striking that I literally ran back to the hotel to retrieve my camera and returned to take the photo, leaving a tip in his cup as a thank you.

Upon my return to the Midwest I couldn’t stop thinking about that photo and I ended up writing a poem inspired by it.  It was my first published poem/photo combo in the pages of “So It Goes”, the literary magazine of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library.

***

So fast forward to 2026 (this past week) as a 57 year old with much less hair and a graying beard.  My camera was at home collecting dust in the back of a closet but my phone and its handful of photo-apps was busy taking new pictures of San Francisco.  Another friend from residency had contacted me to meet up with her and her friends at a restaurant on the far side of Chinatown right across the street from the one I’d been to 13 years ago with Vahag and Varand.  It was a little over a mile away and I decided to walk to it as a street photography opportunity.

One of those photos was of a flyer taped to a light pole: Bruce Lee - Double Feature.  An image of Bruce Lee from “Enter the Dragon” was just what you might expect to see in Chinatown and brought back memories of my younger years when my dad took me to a Bruce Lee double feature at a drive-in theater when I was in middle school.  This opportunity had been provided by my Kenpo Karate sensei who was running his school out of a church basement in Paoli, Indiana.  He gave our class free tickets and his blessing to watch inappropriate movies for our young age.  At the time I was into buying throwing stars from advertisements found in my comic books and making nunchucks from an old wooden broom handle with my dad’s power tools on the down low.  My mother eventually figured out she was missing the broom and accurately surmised that I was the guilty party.  

In my early twenties I visited Chinatown in Washington DC after returning from two years of Army service in Korea between my junior and senior years of college.  I had the summer free and decided to visit DC where a Korean friend had started school at American University and a college buddy of mine was now working post-college.   I roamed the city as was my wont and in Chinatown I came across a bonafide pair of yellow-with-black-stripes Game of Death nunchucks!  Of course I bought them and today they are in a box in my attic waiting to be some day gifted to a grandchild that will surely ruffle feathers.

So back to this past Sunday… after I got back to my hotel from dinner I was looking at the photos I took and examined the Bruce Lee one more closely.  The bottom half of the flyer had a picture of “Saikat for SF” and an internet search revealed he was a candidate running for Congress who had worked with Bernie Sanders and AOC.  I also learned it was “free admission” and at the “Great Star Theater”.  Another internet search revealed this was the oldest theater in Chinatown and a historic landmark.  Last of all I saw the date and realized it was happening the very next evening.  I scanned the QR code and it sent me to a site where I could RSVP for the event.  I filled it out and was notified I was in!

When I arrived the next night at the Great Star Theater there was a small line out front and volunteers taking down people’s information while they waited.  The young man who approached me had very long hair and a beard.  He asked for my phone number  and then my zip code.  I was feeling some serious imposter guilt but I held the course.  “Are you registered to vote in SF?”  My answer was succinct, “No”.

Inside the theater lobby they had a catered spread that I bypassed and headed into the theater proper.  The building structure and seats looked old and worn out.  Colorful shapes were projected on the ceiling and viewing screen with music playing over the speaker system.  I found a side seat and settled in.  Next to me standing in the aisle was an animated young man hamming it up with two women who he’d just met and they were taking selfies together.  I suddenly became aware of the music playing - a smooth jazz type song that I recognized from my late teen years.  For a brief moment I felt like I was in a dissociative dream state.  It was my favorite song by a jazz guitar duo known as “Acoustic Alchemy”.  I had their album “Red Dust & Spanish Lace” on cassette that I would listen to on my Walkman until that Walkman with tape inside was stolen in Korea.  The song was “Girl with a Red Carnation”.

The movie started and the first thing I noticed was the 70’s wicka-chaka-wicka-chaka soundtrack.  The crowd was into it and laughed and cheered at the appropriate moments, especially when Bruce was kicking some bad guy’s ass.  The feeling of community and connection in celebratory mode was palpable and something I’m not used to where I live in the Midwest.  Before the intermission where Saikat and company were going to talk I slipped out the back.  On my walk back to the hotel I had the feeling “my reality” was slowly reasserting itself after being caught up in something that was almost like being in a movie where I was an extra. 

SAVE THE CAT!

 

I’m guessing it was sometime around 2013 when the idea presented itself for a novel.  The fam and I were traveling up to see a particular doctor whose practice was in a quaint old house somewhere south of Cleveland in the country.  There were two different appointments to be had that day with a few hours between them so we decided to go out to find something to do with the kids.

We found a putt putt golf course out in the middle of nowhere.  We were the only people there apart from the lone employee at the front desk.  The setting was peculiar in its isolation and had a kind of lost melancholy feel to it.  The idea that surfaced from that experience was of a monk-like figure who has taken up habitation in this type of a place, but the putt putt has been long abandoned.

From this I brainstormed what the theme of the putt putt would be: Its decorating scheme, layout, and vibe.  I began jotting down ideas and notes in a notebook of these possible themes: Pirates?  Haunted House?  Outer Space?  Each idea got a subset of what structures might be a part of such a putt putt place and how I could tie it into the monk’s story in a creative or clever way.

I ended up going with the Outer Space theme because I’ve always had a fondness for Science Fiction since my first introduction to it in elementary school with Alexander Key’s “Rivets & Sprockets”.  When I ran out of ideas I doodled what I thought the putt putt course might look like.  The main character was going to be “Aaroneous Monk” and resemble my son with red hair, a long beard, and wearing a faded cassock.

Over the years I revisited this idea from time to time to see where it might lead and what ideas might pop out of my subconscious which I was sure was working on it outside of my awareness (or at least I hoped it  was).   When I came across books about how to write a novel I would buy them and read them through.  It all seemed too overwhelming and complicated to the point my frustration seemed to stifle any real progress.

After writing everything else except a novel over the past 13 years I’ve decided 2026 is the year to finally do it.  Part of this determination came from finally finding a book that can walk me through the process in a way that is organized and makes sense to me.  I found that book a few months ago in downtown Lancaster Pennsylvania in a very cool independent bookstore.  My daughter was competing in an indoor field hockey tournament there and while they slept in at the hotel Saturday morning I roamed the streets.  

The red cover caught my attention where it was sitting next to some other titles about writing novels that I’d already read.  The book title itself was inauspicious in that it was published under the umbrella of a “SAVE THE CAT!” series.  I flipped through it and was interested enough that I reserved it at my local library when we returned home.  As I made my way through it I realized most of the beats of my story were falling into the categories the author was describing in a way that a structure started to materialize before my eyes.  I could do this!  

When the book was due back at the library I used the speaker’s fee I’d received the weekend before from talking about my book of childhood stories (Flowers from the Dirt) and bought a copy of my own at our local independent bookstore.  For the first time in 13 years I feel like I can see a way forward.  I’ve organized the outline and essential structure with 3x5 cards drawn from the notes I’ve taken over the past several years and new ideas that have started to flow from working through the SAVE THE CAT! book.  It doesn’t have a title, but the opening scene and ending scenes have been worked out and I’m super excited about an Epilogue entitled “A Thousand Years from Now”.  All that’s left is that massive middle section that is about 95% of the rest of the book.

***

On the Hook

 

on the hook

for partial art

at hallway’s end

cabinet top

***

Too Far from the Sun

 

 

Artemis II, what to do?

You’ve left me behind

at the farthest point 

beyond the moon.

I’m floating in space

with ambient sounds

all around to sooth me

but even so, so lonely.

I need to connect to 

something beyond 

myself, a proven need

easier said than done.

Artemis III, where are thee?

Returning for a lunar landing,

they’ve left me standing

too far from the sun.

***

A Dog on a Beautiful Morning

 

It’s a dog thinking her thoughts

on this particularly beautiful morning.

She sees the squirrels and jogging girls

but heeds my annoying warning.

Look, don’t touch, and most assuredly

do not run after what you see.

It’s just a time to take it in 

and let what will be, be. 

***

Conditional Love

Conditional love is a peculiar thing.

There is no argument there should 

be reasonable expectations, but it 

is the controlling aspects that are  

troublesome and then there is the 

sad reality that these conditions  

seem to be so rarely met without

sacrificing a needed sense of self.

And so, you see, there is no love.

***

Apologia Contra Arial

 

I was eating breakfast with my 15 year old daughter yesterday in Nashville at our hotel.  We got onto the topic of the upcoming event at Orleans Public Library to discuss the collection of stories from my childhood growing up there - Flowers from the Dirt.  She has been concerned that I’m using the Arial font for all my books and “everyone hates Arial”.  That struck me as a bit forceful if not exaggerated, but she assured me that that was the consensus amongst her classmates and English teacher.  I explained that I liked the simplicity of it but she insisted, “Dad, it’s too basic.  It’s like being in a room that has nothing but white walls.”   

She went on to explain about ornamentation and the importance of letters being pleasing to the eye to facilitate reading.  She pulled up fonts on her phone to illustrate what she was saying.  She talked about Times New Roman as the standard of sorts and scrolled through others to include Cambria and Garamond to show me their stylings.  I described my short story collection (Tales of the Strange & Wondrous) as having a kind of pulp fiction feel and she suggested Courier to give it an old-timey typewriter look.  For Flowers from the Dirt she thought Cambria might look nice.  And for Hear Me with its poetry and prose she thought “maybe Lexend?  I don’t know.”  

It was a fascinating conversation because I really hadn’t put much thought into the font for these books.  My focus had been on organizing the stories, designing the covers, and writing the blurbs on the back.  Fonts just hadn’t figured into the creative calculus until this moment of sitting across a two-person table watching her eat waffles.  

She’s a creative kid and I thanked her for her input, though she informed me her interests lie mostly in music.  This checks out as her 10 year old self wrote me a lovely melancholy tune on her ukulele called “Take My Hand” and I hear her sometimes in the basement working out songs on guitar from some of her favorite singer-songwriters.  “I’m not into the visual arts so much” she confided, but I reminded her of the beautiful abstracts she created with paints and a butter knife during the first summer of the Pandemic.  

And then I felt my mind wandering and wondering - where did this captivating young lady come from?  How is it she’s schooling me on the importance and place of fonts in improving the reading experience?  It’s like having a 15 year old literary agent.  I told her I’ve read a lot over the years, but the mystery of fonts had not been fully revealed to me.  The font had to be pretty outlandish to distract me and pull my notice.  In my mind the letters have simply been teeth on a cogwheel and as long as the information is being transferred in the machinery of my brain, I hadn’t noticed the shape so much.  

But “everyone hates Arial” don’t you know?  I’ll have to keep that in mind moving forward and be more mindful of my font choices.

____________

For full disclosure, pretty much my entire blog is in Arial including this post.

***

Son - Daughter

 

A Night at the Museum

A lovely evening was spent at the Columbus Museum of Art with my psychiatric colleagues.  To start, a staff member from the CMA ran us through a 3-minute creative exercise where we were given random materials to be combined in whatever way we saw fit.  These materials included some tin foil, wooden stir sticks, coffee filters, and garbage bag ties.  When the time was up each of us were asked to explain what we’d made.  Some went the abstract route with underlying meanings and forms while some, like me, went the concrete route which was more on the surface.  The beautiful evening and warm temperatures outside had me thinking of dancing ladies in skirts with floppy sun hats.

From there we were led into the museum proper to two different paintings - one quite large and one much smaller with very different looks and tones.  Time was given to take them in before the staff member asked us questions about what stood out to us, what we were feeling, and what certain things might mean.  Standing in a half-circle around each we offered our answers drawn from our different life experiences and emotional makeup.  On some level it seemed to be a group Rorschach test that provided us an opportunity to plumb the depths of our minds and emotions a bit.

We then moved on to a larger gallery and each of us was given a word and asked to answer the question “what does it look like?” in regards to any particular piece we might choose.  She encouraged us to pick something that would not be obviously connected to the word to force us to really dig deep and fully exercise our creative muscles and imaginations.

My word was “Listening” and my eye was drawn to a collage of seemingly random objects affixed in a circle that included several sets of protruding eyes pushed outwards towards the observer.  The impression I had was that they were straining in some creepy way trying to “listen” to me.  As I am wont to do, I started writing down this impression in a poem to process the experience:

Straining eyes want to hear,

but struggle and fracture in doing so.

They see my lips moving and

want to know what I am saying.

They anticipate self-incrimination

to draw me into their present nightmare…

a love of shiny things affixed to the surface.

As part of this process we were advised not to look at the placard next to the art that gives information about it.  I glimpsed mine after the fact and simply saw the title: Halcyon.  What a strange name for this work!  The extreme contrast between the art piece and its name would have likely unduly influenced what I thought I was seeing, but maybe not.  Chaos, trauma, denial, and inhumanity all seemed to be in the mix (dare I say “demonic”).

All of us had a go at explaining how we found our word in the art piece we chose - more Rorschachy stuff it would seem.  I hope I didn’t reveal too much of my deeper self.  Some of that can be disquieting - yet to be fully dealt with.  Thank goodness we are psychiatrists and have a category for that kind of necessary work.

***

The Trauma Clown

 

Retained trauma 

is like a Jack-in-the-Box,

the music of life

in the cranking of a handle

until BOOM!

the trauma clown explodes 

from the box,

a jump scare of unexpected

terror and pain,

the response disproportional

to the situation.

___________________