Oakland Pix

So above are the two twin towers of Oakland, I call them, at sunset. The Federal Buildings, just two doors down from me in the State of California Building where I work. Very new and beautiful
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This is the main entrance.

Below is that Clorox building with its rounded side, followed by the tradition of the Tribune tower and City Hall, 12 Street City Center Station, where I exit from Bart.

Directly below is more of the Clorox Building, the 6th tallest skyscraper in Oaklnd. More to follow . . . .

A Kaleidoscope Oakland

Haven't figured right way to do pics. Tribune Tower Atop. Marriott Flatiron Next, Followed by City Center Jewels and then . . .


This is the City Hall building that I see each day exiting Bart. Note the Clock on top! (Frank Ogaza Plaza) The two new towers above are part of the Federal Building and to the right is the eating area/park of the Oakland City Center. There's so much and it is so diversified. No more Whitebread SLO stuff for me!

There are those who think that Oakland is a dangerous place, the ghetto, but I am dazzled by its diversity and the architecture. In particular the area where I work, which has been undergoing major renovations since the 1980s. I lived in San Francisco in the mid 70s, but never ventured to the East Bay. I was fearful too. 'Let me deal with the prostitutes and the gay clientele of SF,' I reasoned. I had lived in NYC for the previous 3 years and having been a fledgling actress/singer, this was my comfort zone.
Forty years after the fact I find myself in a brand new job - social services - smack dab in the heart of Oakland's City Center. As I take the escalator up from my Bart station, (Oakland City Center 12 Street Station) I see a glistening white City Hall, ornate, with a clock that tells me I am 15 minutes early! (Those who know me are incredulous.) Generally, the 7:45 sunlight welcomes me, along with the numerous homeless brothers and sisters, who continue to 'Occupy Oakland' or at least Frank Ogawa Plaza.
They are alive. After freezing their rear ends all night, they're animated, laughing, carrying on. One or two might still be cocooned in their sleeping bags with the top zipped tight, shopping bags with a few personal items. The guy who owns the Sankofa Cafe/Gallery always has his little white Honda parked outside his shop in the plaza, under a cemented in tree. This is a plaza and his is the only car I ever see here. He seems to host political meetings later in the afternoon, and there are many signs on his shop "Tax Wall Street" and "We are the 99%". I told him I wanted his parking pass and he laughed.
The police have cleaned out Ogawa Plaza several times since I began in December. It seems to happen on the weekends, and I have yet to get into a true 60's mode. Occasionally, on my way home, there are rallies going on that I lend an ear to. Miniature purple teepees erected on the ground- about 6 inches tall - are the other reminder of Occupy's summer-fall presence.
Two guys are rinsing down the pavement, and they have little motorized carts for transporting the trash to parts unknown. This pathway leads me to the State of California Building, sister to the jewel of the Federal Building. 1515 Clay Street is the address where I work. The building is glass and steel, like all of the renovations here. As you can see, this is not what comes to mind when someone says 'Oakland'. Until you look across the street at the parking garage, which surely was erected in 1960.
I have a mandated hour for lunch. Since I have to stay til 5 pm, and I bring my lunch, I like to walk during the noontime hour. Yesterday, as I toodled around, I looked up and saw what appeared to be an illusion. It was a tall modern building, rather one side of a building, with windows, just waiting for another three sides to materialize. The wall reflected sunlit circles from the taller building standing next to it. So, I walked over to 11th and Broadway to find the Oakland Convention Center at the bottom of this structure, which did have three other sides and was - a Marriott Hotel. Well, being a Marriott was a bit of a disappointment, but I suppose it can't be any worse than another architectural marvel being - the Clorox Building. How had I never noticed this new age flatiron? None of the people at my office seemed to be aware of it either. As I looked for pictures to do justice to my vision, I found there is a pool underneath. That piques my interest and I wonder if there is a way for me to crash it during a summertime lunch hour?
Can't seem to upload the Marriot image in this spot. It's the first one atop ---


What is so very fascinating about Oakland is the older buildings in the midst of all this. The Chronicle is a beautiful building, ornate and old, but vacant. There is the Tribune building, equally symbolic of another era. I am not sure that either of these papers exist anymore. These older ones remind me of my hometown Dayton, Ohio. Even though I haven't been to Dayton in years, and it suffers the same economic blight as Detroit, these remnants could be living there now. That makes it feel comfortable.
And one last pix the Clorox Building

This is the Westmoor Pool Story

Yes, so here it is - the pool where I will be twisting, turning and moving my kundalini in about 30 minutes. (I do have that knack of writing before I am about to swim.)

This picture was taken on a slow day- Sunday, when there are not so many lessons going on. The pool is most interesting because of the clientele. I could say it is Asian, but it is more than that. There are so many dialects that happen in the locker room Tuesday and Thursday evenings, when the majority of lessons occur. I recognize some of the Chinese dialect because of the different pitches and intonations. No doubt some of these darlings are Korean, others Filipino. I keep thinking there might be Japanese, but I never recognize it during my locker room time. And after my time in Japan, I can recognize Japanese.

On Saturdays I can zero in on the Chinese because the ones not swimming are doing homework in their workbooks filled with Chinese characters. They are all beautiful little girls with jet black hair and lovely almond eyes. Sometimes a grandmother helps them change; they have a tendency toward being fish wives, so it sound. Other times moms are there, urging their girls to move. That translates in any mother's tongue. And 90% of them are wearing the pre-requisite hot pink for girls in clothing, in bathing suits, in towels, in swimming bags. Disney Princesses for the most part - I gag when I think what a commodity it has become- thank you Walmart - compared to its precious-ness (A Madame Alexander Sleeping Beauty doll for Easter one year) in my day. So it is either Disney or Dora, a few Pokeman or Spongebobs, but mostly those are for the little boys that make it into the woman's locker room with mama.

They eye me suspiciously, because I am- well - my age, with bluish veins in my legs, more flab than I care to acknowledge and a chicken neck. Fortunately, the girl who punches my card doesn't ask if I am coming for aqua aerobics anymore. But the little ones and the middle aged ones, no older than 11 I think, are scared to see what lurks underneath my bathing suit. Or am I the one who is scared? Yes, I am! But the little girls are so very modest. Learned behavior already. Even the tiniest ones are cordoned off with a towel between two lockers so no one will see their 'privates'. And now, after all of my years of "I gave birth. I don't care if anyone sees me," I am becoming modest too.

I avoid the mirror when my legs are bare. The cellulite and the veins look too much like my grandmother's legs. Damnit. They don't hurt, but they look like an old woman's. And I am so much younger than these legs look. Oy vey.

So it will have to be my 'Life is Good' attitude, a song to sing at some unexpected interval, and my boisterous laugh to lance the appearance of my sagging flesh. I am quite young for a gal my age. Onward.

Swimming History and the new Hx at the Westmoor Pool

I have always been a swimmer. Our first home in Dayton, Ohio had close to an Olympic size pool - with a diving board, annual Memorial Day parties to paint the pool, and my mom who was the lifeguard. One of my first memories was Little Dee Dee frantically paddling her way up to the top of the pool where Margie Haas, my mother's best friend, reached down and yanked me out. Later that year I swam atop Joel Mink's back to the same deep end; he dove deep into the pool and miraculously, this time I was swimming on my own. Before I turned five, I stood at the corner of the pool wiping wet strands of hair out of my face and a neighbor kid rushed by, accidentally knocking me into the deep end of the pool. I lost my two front teeth and had 16 stitches in my lip.

In spite of the traumatic history, perhaps this ability to survive bonded me to the water. Summer days - 8 hours long I spent playing with others, but also by myself underwater deep in a 12 foot pool. More than anything I loved the sound of being underwater. A cushioned quiet with only the sensation of your own breathing, barely audible. I wonder if it is the sound of being in the womb? I never competed. I just loved to swim. It was a place where I felt graceful, 20 pounds lighter and at peace.

In my twenties I migrated to California from NYC. Walking was the New York way of life, to work, from work, late nights, the 72nd Street Boat Basin, sometimes Central Park - drugs, of course, and my good buddy Michael. New York is best explored on foot. On the West Coast that is not the case. In California one must drive and then walk. But . . . living in paradise affords a year round pleasure of swimming and that underwater escape. My little blue volkswagen purchased for $900 from UCB (United California Bank - long ago swallowed by some corporate monstrosity) transported me from apartment to pool.

I swam where-ever I could find a pool - a friend's apartment, sometimes my own apartment - the few that had a pool - the Y, public pools, the motels where the band would stay during Holiday Inn gigs, other motels with unlocked gates. In LA I used to frequent (sneak into) the Hollywood Roosevelt pool, where Desi Arnez' band played poolside gigs in the 'I Love Lucy' series. I got tan, I was exercising and life was always good after 30 minutes of laps. And I learned how to swim the butterfly stroke. To this day I swim regularly.

About ten years ago I remember showering after a swim and changing at the Santa Clarita Swimclub. There were always little ones who would come for lessons after lapswim times. Boldly, I would towel off, naked in the locker room. Little ones would look on and I always mused - "I've had children. Who cares? I don't have hang ups about my body. And that's how it will always be." I shrugged off any curious stares.

But now, I am 62. I don't have a lover. (My passion for performing I think has kept that at bay.) Now I have a new job, in a new city. I am not much interested in dieting. - I enjoy evening wine, beer or vodka, whatever, and my body, although not obese, is certainly not svelte. Although my visage is 'handsome', my grandmother's legs certainly are not. My suit holds in some notion of a full figure, but I am grateful for the beach towel's camouflage before I take a plunge. Still I swim.

And that brings me to my new public pool. High atop of the hill in Daly City is the Westmoor Pool. It was totally redone a year ago and it is quite lovely.

Streaming Sunshine in Colma

I don’t recall living in a place so accessible to the sun streaming through the windows. But that’s how it is in Colma on this pre - Ides of March morning. (Way pre Ides of March.) Most mornings I am out the door by 6:50 and the fog is still lingering. – Like in my picture of the Salem Memorial, just across the rooftop where I live. Colma - Home to thousands, more like 1.5 million – since the turn of the century – of corpses. This is San Francisco’s burial grounds and I live smack dab in the middle of 2.2 square miles, population 2500 give or take, and 17 cemeteries. Reportedly, the corpses were originally moved here from San Francisco - yes, bodies exhumed- to make room for real estate deals. The robber barons were at it back then – just like today! I haven’t had this particular perspective of Colma yet, but I assure you, it is nearby. Although I hardly feel the need to lock my door here, a co-worker said there had been some grave robbing last week! And my neighbor said he had ratted out a transient (early Occupy Colma guy??) from the creek area behind the apartments.

But I digress. At the suggestion of a few, I am re-activating, re-imaging this old blog. Whenever I relocate, the journaling seems to spew. And there is so much to absorb in this new life! Plus, since the venue is new and I am at a ridiculous age to begin again, the phone doesn’t ring as much. Gigs have yet to begin, and learning the new job is the priority.

“No, singing is not a hobby!” I told my co-worker. “Career goals?? I think I came to San Francisco because there would be more places to play.”

These people are dedicated social workers and I think I am even more of a puzzle than I was during prison times. At the prison, everyone was an oddball. Who would want to work at a prison? (Besides the custody guys, who with only a GED in hand, are there for the overtime and 6 figure paycheck.) Anyone who opts to go through the daily security checks, the clanging of the sallyport, the keys, the alarms and the subsequent paranoia is way out of the mainstream. Some of the teachers come with a mission of rehabilitation, like my friend Deborah. She was an artist facilitator who brought me to CMC to sing doo-wop with the guys. When her position was eliminated, she went into the outside sector to create arts projects for parolees. And she is doing wonderfully. See www.poeticjusticeproject.org And there were other teachers, who believed they could make a difference with these guys. But most of them came on when the state really did try to educate these men into a different world. - Instead of succumbing to standardized testing for guys that might be in your program for 6 weeks before they were shipped off to INS or another prison. Ay yi yi. . . . More musings after a swim