I couldn’t sleep anymore by 3a, so I awoke to find a link someone had posted about my play on the Virginia Woolf title in this blog post and the story, so I decided that I will write about more boxes lived and worked in after a beachwalk later today.
Life is a box. We live in one, we work in one, we drive in one, we stare at one, we type on one, we ship boxes in boxes to other destination boxes.
I’ve been contemplating all of the boxes I’ve lived in since I embarked on my adult journey from San Diego to San Francisco in 1980. I moved north and never looked back. My Mom followed me here after a horrible stint in Las Vegas leaving her lifeless. I beckoned her to come to the Bay.
I think I’ve moved more times and lived in more places than military personnel. I have staked my claim to a box all over the Bay Area, everywhere but across the Golden Gate Bridge to the north. I’ve lived in Berkeley, Oakland, Albany, El Cerrito, San Francisco, and San Jose (and yes, “I know the way”, Burt Bacharach.)
I’m almost 52 and…
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