March 2016
Welcome to Jingletown.
Jingletown is a neighborhood nestled right on the water. It is a part of Fruitvale, which is a part of Oakland, which is a city adjacent to San Francisco, all of which is a part of the Bay Area.
Every weekday, I bike through Jingletown to get to my office.
When I first heard the name of the neighborhood, I immediately thought of Christmas and Santa Claus.
But supposedly the name comes from the Portuguese who used to live here. On pay day, they’d come home with their pockets overflowing with coins, so they’d jingle as they walked. And thus, Jingletown.
It’s a really interesting place. Some parts are worn down, but others are well-worn. Nothing is very nicely built. Even so, there’s a certain energy that can be felt here. Of people trying to make the best of what they've got—and of a growing community of artistic types drawn to the cheap rent and large warehouse spaces.
Even though it’s a bit rough, I do really love it.
Sometimes, I pass through beautiful neighborhoods with perfectly painted homes, perfectly manicured parks, and perfectly spaced out trees lining the sidewalks.
I think— this place is cute! There’s a coffee shop there, restaurants here, and the homes are all so adorable!
And yet, that’s it.
Adorable.
But it feels empty.
Sterile.
A pretty face with nothing to show for it.
I don’t mean to trivialize suffering, but I really do love neighborhoods like Jingletown. Life here isn’t perfect, but people are living—gasping for air, they’re doing their best, fighting to live, fighting to be alive.
More than anything else, I don’t ever want to be numb.
Even if it’s painful, I want to know I’m alive.
Once every other month or so, my domestic instincts kick into overdrive. I'm overcome with an urge to create-- something, anything. Sometimes crafts, sometimes art, sometimes music, dance.
This time, I baked.
I baked and baked and baked until I had nothing left to give.
Twelve apple pies (right).
Twelve strawberry cheesecakes (mid-prep, down).
Nine mini walnut tarts (below).
I baked for 2 days straight after work… My original goal was to make 48 pies—twelve apple pies, twelve cheesecakes, twelve walnut tarts, twelve chocolate lava cakes. A perfect quartet of the best types of desserts – fruit, dairy, nut and chocolate.
However, halfway through, I bailed… couldn’t even be bothered to make a full dozen of the tarts.
I'm not much of a cook. My sense of taste is fairly low, much like most of my standards for life, and I think it's perfectly acceptable to just eat tofu with soy sauce and stir fried veggies as a meal.
But I do really love baking.
I love seeing what I can make. I also love the anticipation-- because nothing is ever really done until whatever you've made has been fully baked and fully cooled.
So many things can change. Things continue to bake as you take them out of the oven, changing the taste, texture and shape. Then as it cools, the consistency and shape change once more. You can tell my cheesecakes collapsed quite a bit...
It's exciting-- not knowing.
Sometimes it's disappointing. Other times it's uplifting.
It's a fun process every time.
And, it's a way for me to let my friends and loved ones know I like them because I don't think we express these feelings often enough.
I’ve been running in these shoes for 3 years now.
They’ve seen a lot of mileage. Over 1000 miles by my calculation. It’s probably time to replace them, but it’s hard for me to let go of this sort of thing.
Considering how slowly I run, 1000 miles is an awful lot of hours.
These shoes have done a lot for me.
Kept me company when I was lonely.
Gave me strength and clarity.
Helped me escape pain and frustration.
We’ve had a good run together.