In Fair San Francisco, Where we Lay Our Scene…

 There is nothing like settling into the promise of a beautiful city. And nothing like finding one’s home aglow, a hilltop castle in the middle of it. Sunset or sunrise, the light is reflected into my eyes and heart. Night or day, I feel the gravitational pull of something setting in motion. From here I feel everything. Either the ominous cloak of fog or the hint of warmth taking back its lost ground. Either the dancing of wind or a moment of pure silent thought. I didn’t know such glorious sensations could exist amongst the wheeze of the muni buses or the chatter of a city’s mentality.

 I enter my first scene of the day in the lounge. Dorm life isn’t what one would call beautiful by any means. Already I notice wrinkled clothes, smeared make-up, freckled morning irritation and dripping shower bags. Half hearted good mornings and toothpaste smiles. But somehow that light gifts everyone a glimmer of magic. I cannot help but to imagine the ruins of a lost ancient city, dust illuminated by the gentle morning touch.

From the top campus, one can see from the mist of Ocean Beach to the city in all its glory. It adorns buildings like a top hat. It is the constant temptation from many a classroom window. This campus especially pulsates with spirituality. In this very garden, next to the Jesuit house, my program held one of its first orientation activities. We stuffed ourselves together for pictures amongst the flowers, in awe of the dotting of bridges and buildings on the close horizon. We held hands in a small room with large windows—for how could one ever relinquish a minute of the sights? The first church service filled me with warmth, the air with whispers of the city, my eyes drank in the bridges I could cross in more ways than one. 

 And could there be more perfect an end than a room from a childhood novel? The notorious Harry Potter room beckons for Dead Poet Society meetings and secret conversations. One can find one’s corner amidst the wisest of friends—old books lining the walls, quiet and sure. The room is supposedly haunted, but it can only be friendly ghosts that open and close the windows. The elegance is that of a stowed away romance, the scene of a Downton Abbey ending. How could one not feel scholarly? I am either that or whisked away by my own fantasy.

Out of those doors beacons the downhill glide to home, just a little to the left of the gold of the church. Above it hangs the moon in a crooked smile, in it the bells catch light and glisten like mysterious hearts. Around it the lights of homes up the hills spark enviously. I can touch the light—in a way it is mine. It is part of the dream that never goes to sleep. The last scene before my eyelids drop as curtains and await the next act.