I’m sitting in a small room on the third floor of my San Francisco apartment.
Sharing the ludicrously small desk I found on the street outside my house are my sewing machine and surger.
I have 400 feet of black, recycled irrigation tubing on the floor next to me, a closet full of sparkle tape in colors any artist would envy, and shelves of hand tools. The wall in front of me, painted a stark, headache white at the request of my new landlord, is now covered in vision boards – postcards, images, posters, tickets, scripture, reminders, stickers, patches and other similarly inspiring pieces of the life I’m attempting to co-create.
The two windows to my right behold a fantastic view of the rain dripping down the peeling, murky white siding of the house next to me – close enough to spit on. On the 2 remaining windowless walls I’ve rigged large hooks to hold the main source of my income here in the Bay – the somewhat pursued, somewhat stumbled upon career choice of my dreams, the very essence of a whole lot of heart-centered trust – hula hoops. That’s right, hula-hoops.