Step Ladder

Apologies!

I haven't written on my perfumed pig's sweet, earthy flesh because I've been on a roof. Yes, for a month I've been sitting on a roof, letting the San Francisco air whip right through me, so much so that I fell into protective netting and broke my hip and lay cradled there for more than a hot minute but less than an eternity.

Okay, this isn't exactly true.

But, for five minutes, sitting high among the spirals and California lights, I got the message and the code, the one augured for me by a woman with gold pendants and an office in the Catacombs. Because you see: the roof is the start of Joan Didion and slouching towards my own Bethlehem, engaging a new mysterious existence, eating fruit, swearing like a sailor, reading/knowing/writing all that has been unimaginable.

I was not on the roof for long but I know now that the roof is where it Begins.