Charles
Journal
Charles
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The mail carrier came just before noon when I was staring out the window. I was not writing, reading or listening to anything and just sitting at the desk and wondering what the naked white bark tree was standing so strikingly there in the center over the branch and by the church's high roof framing an imposing backdrop on top of a hilltop under a sinister sky. The roof changes colors every hour reflected by the light and dark of day. Sometimes, it looks bright and blond like the high brush growing wild along the banks of the branch that rushes free from Timrod creek and flows by a trail covered in dry and wet leaves through the dense woods and into Jeffries creek. It really is a nice, serene view...  
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 Fog like pea soup or the way fog often hovers in San Francisco like a piece of Heaven is over Timrod Park neighborhood this morning. It is a good time to Write for many hours or read fiction and no news; afterward, Chat with the one you love the most on the Eve of Valentine's Day & repeat over and over again, "I Love You." ....though, we just did that earlier. Why not again be the gift we are to each other?   Moye attempts to grab a Confederate flag away from a secessionist demonstrator in Charleston last year. Muhiyidin Moye, a prominent member of Charleston’s affiliate of the Black Lives Matter movement, died last Tuesday, in New Orleans, as a result of gunshot wounds he suffered while riding his bicycle. Moye became infamous for an attempt to grab a Confederate flag away from a secessionist demonstrator in Charleston last year because the sight of it had upset his “elders.”  Muhiyidin Moye, a member of Charleston's affiliate of the Black Lives Matter movement, was much more than a wellspring of indignation, though that was central to his work. Photograph by Randall Hill / Reuters Martin Luther King, Jr., once remarked that social change was dependent upon the efforts of people who are “creatively maladjusted” to society, people whose contours have not been buffed to smoothness by indecent politeness and faulty social grace.
RIP Muhiyidin Moye. After a 3 chapterS re-writing session because that's all writing is...is to re-write endlessly-- that took all day or up until now at 4:00 PM, I felt pretty satisfied with the result. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, I started Betty Crocker dark chocolate brownies. After the timer sounded 35 minutes later, I took them out of the oven and that became late lunch. One slice with two glasses of milk...WoW! They were perfectly moist and better than the ones I last made for Shondale and TENDERLOIN NEIGHBORHOOD DEVELOPMENT CORPORATION that was such a hit without being a "sensation". 
JournalCharles. The art of letter writing. Something I have not done in many years due to instant email and social media gratification. Good Lord! I can remember a time when a lover and I would write to each other every day by snail mail. I could hardly wait to run home in Bernal Heights then from work via slow-ass MUNI J-Church to find his daily letters I could hardly wait to run home to find his daily letter, and I would soak for an hour in the bathtub and read them over and over until I was as giddy as a school girl. He was had moved to Dallas while I remained in San Francisco, so we wrote three-page love-letters on pretty letter paper sweetened with cologne and kisses and then telephoned nightly when I couldn't wait to hear voicemail. My only regret now is that when he died I was so shattered I burned every letter. Today, I re-started an old habit when I realized how lonely it is here no matter who you meet and how much I miss my dearest friends I left behind in San Francisco and have known longer than anyone on the planet . . .   Northern cardinal (Redbird) and still flower buds in a treetop Timrod Park, S. Coit Street. From a living room view a Northern cardinal (the redbird), so beautiful and bold and male because the male species is the more beautiful and colorful in that world of male and female counterparts, is perched near top of the naked tree above the winter forest dotted with patches of green pines by the branch snaking down the low hillside carpeted in dry red and brown leaves I aim to run through like a child without care. Frost stands like dull snow on golden short grass. The cardinal wiggles slightly on a delicate twig in the sunlight and the sky is extremely pale blue and without a single cloud ...
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
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