Baseball is finally back. I returned to AT&T Park last week with my team (once again) being the reigning World Champions. Even though the team has changed, there’s something about this field. It’s one of my favourite places in the world to spend an evening.
I have never held a gun.
I have never learned how they work.
Up until now, I haven’t wanted to know.
For a long time, this space has needed a makeover. And not just a cosmetic one. A down to the bones type one. For a while, it hasn’t felt as welcoming or as inclusive of me with a person of ever evolving opinions and tastes, and that’s because I was afraid of saying what I really thought. Why? Because like every evolving human, I change my mind. And in this new online world, your thoughts on subjects from when you were younger and far less experienced are there, searchable, for all to see. That makes me uncomfortable. But is it the perception of being labelled a hypocrite? Perhaps it is that, in part. But perhaps it’s also about the unseen, unenunciated labels I have placed on myself and the categories I have put myself in. I’m not what I once was. I want to keep writing, but I also want to showcase more than just my thoughts and opinions on living a life in a different country. I want for The Rebecca Project to be …
Little has changed in the Bay Area since I’d been gone — aside from rents that have increased exponentially, something everyone complains about on a daily basis here. And really, the rents are ridiculous. Getting settled always takes longer than anticipated. But I knew what to expect. I’ve taken plenty of walks, shot plenty of time lapse down by the bay. Started my new job. Mapped out the new projects for 2015. Taken a roadtrip up the coast. Reconnected with old friends. Started to catch up on the overdue obligations. It’s a interesting time. It’s still home. One of my homes. And it’s nice to be back.
The registrar asked if I had seen my x-rays, and I shook my head in the negative. Her face dropped and she said, “Ooooh!” rather ominously, then asked us to follow her into a consulting room. I looked at my sister with wide eyes, and whispered to her, “That’s not good. Not good.”
Sometimes life bites you in the arse. Hard. I took a tumble at basketball on Wednesday night and have spent the last 44 hours in hospital. I had surgery this morning to have a plate inserted in my wrist. But I cried when it was apparent I wouldn’t make it to see the Swans in the Preliminary Final tonight. So I have made it home with 90 minutes to spare. My lovely sister is cooking fancy pizza, I’m freshly bathed and morphined up. And we’re going to Cheer Cheer the red and the white from the comfort of the couch.