San Francisco, a city block:
smells of pizza, cigarette smoke. marijuana, then leather.
cross the street.
coffee, cheap cologne. flowers.
the sweat of my brow stays trapped underneath my cap. two elderly men sit on their front porch, and regard me as i pass.

Today, I am stricken by a deep and enduring sense of gratitude to be alive in San Francisco.

I got out of bed today and it took me almost a full hour to walk from my home into the heart of the Castro for my breakfast, because I stopped so many times along the way to converse and flirt with my neighbors–so many beautiful loved ones, so densely packed into these few city blocks. I stopped briefly at the Plaza to witness the launch of the Leather Walk, signaling the true start of Folsom Street Fair week…remembering as I did so that I stumbled upon this occasion completely by accident in my first year living here, and marked the occasion in my journal as yet another example of why I hold this city in such a profound esteem.

I arrived at my breakfast destination and could barely manage to communicate with the restaurant host, because so many people I know were brunching there and saying hello to me. The staff knew me by name and expedited my seating, then reminded the bartender to give me the neighborhood merchant discount.

All this, a typical Sunday morning for me; following another memorable performance at one of the longest-running drag shows in the city, at one of the longest-running and most successful club nights I’ve been involved with for the last twelve years.

I kissed my fiance goodbye this morning as he left for work, and my phone was jammed with messages from people I saw out in SoMa last night: One of my dearest and best-loved friends thanked me for my personal support as well as my dedication to certain community organizations. Another reminded me that we shared a very passionate moment together in the swirling mass at Powerhouse. A third reminded me of our mutual past together at The Stud, the club that I first called home when I arrived here in 2002, a fresh-faced emigre who followed his heart without question.

I look back now at the past 13 years as a collection of moments, and easily recall the burning drive I felt to make my home here, so long ago.

I look at the week ahead and brim full of joy in the knowledge of how many of my most loved family will be gathered, and of all the hedonistic indulgence that awaits.

I look at my life, and I see a series of hard-won battles. This amazing existence was not handed to me; it was not easily established. It has taken a lifetime of self-inquiry and mistakes…a million unsuccessful attempts at realizing countless dreams, yet the fractional number of successes laid the foundation for every bounty that I am now able to enjoy.

An unexamined life is not worth living…and a life truly lived can be measured not only by its successes, but by its fabulous failures; for anything truly worth having in this world is surely worth falling down in pursuit of.

I love you, San Francisco. You are alive and well and your heart still beats its hypnotic song to me. You still enfold me in your love embrace, every single day. You have shown me that there is no higher truth than following your heart.

This is a place where I am known–but more importantly, I am seen. And I am loved.

Thank you, home. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being you.

San Francisco:
i encounter a friend;
his roommate sells pot brownies.
i allow him to convince me to remove my shirt.
i cross Market Street and come upon another past lover.
he introduces me to his boyfriend, who i kiss, passionately.
i walk on the shadowed side of the street–
late-blooming jasmine still clings to a tall tree at the corner.