a San Francisco friday night

The boys and me. A balmy Friday night straight to the 'real' wharf (along the Embarcadero) from work.

Oysters. Vinegar. Cilantro. Fresh, briny juciness. Prongs scooping out the last bits from the shell. Coupled with a subtle white. Watching ships and ferries dock in the Bay.

A few blocks away. Down a velvet carpeted staircase to the basement of a swank 1930's Asian supper club. Blue back lighting. Festive cocktails. Wasabi vodka. Ginger mojitos. Steaming pork buns. Smoky pineapple ribs. Licking glaze off our fingers. Clinking glasses. Live jazz with a smoking B3 Hammond and skilled drums. The glow of red meshed with the blur of drink... the magic of musical notes pulsing throughout.

A perfect Friday night.

taize

Light squeezes through vivid stained glass dioramas
candles dot the darkness
limbs spread out on a sea of carpet
pews lining the horizon
order and chaos combined

silence ushers in the reality behind the veil
violin and piano break the silence...
gently, soothing...
bringing clarity

pure and simple, her voice leads us into melody
weaving in and out of this mass
every age and color, melding into one
around the foot of the cross

we grasp it's edge, bow our head
weep or reflect or cry out
and thus unify
as one people
returning to their source
recieving the mystery of hope