A few hours of sleep, then nothing seemed to what to commit anymore. Not asleep, but almost. Not dreaming, but almost not awake, but… Nothing seemed to want to actually commit to its duties, so – screw it. Apparently I have to take matters into my own hands… prop myself up with the pillows, light the candle, grab the pen. Maybe I'll write myself to sleep…
It's always the early hours, two, three, four in the morning – the silence, the solitude become my muses. Or maybe those hours just know when I'm most easily manipulated to pick up the pen. I think they're all secretly in league together.
I think about the past weekend out at Ocean Beach. Gods, that was needed. Such a simple little vacation, walking on the beach, slowly through the park – the empty trails with the trees towering overhead, dirt under my feet. The archery range.
I decided to leave early Sunday instead of Saturday night, wake early so I have the daylight to clean up Dancer and give her a quick inspection before even this short drive, (flat outside rear tire – check. Right turn signal that makes all the lights dimly flash – check. Nothing looks like it's going to come flying off – check. Cool.) I plug in the mp3 player, get the playlist with Devil Makes Three & Chrome Johnson, roll a couple of cigarettes for the drive, turn the key and she roars to life. It seems like she's as excited as I am, almost that she knows that we'll be driving further than the next closest parking space to avoid the street sweeper. If only I had the money for gas to do this all the time – oh, the places I would go, even just local.
Almost as soon as I make it out of the Mission District the fog gets thicker & the sun begins to fade, which I must admit makes me happy. It will be colder, yeah – but I know there will be less people on the beach, more of a sense of solitude. The sun attracts the people like flies, though. (Don't they know I reserved it for that time?)… and thinking of sunny beaches makes my mind wander back to growing up in La Jolla as a child, the small, beautiful home on Mt. Soledad with a view of the ocean out of almost every window, sometimes hearing the bark of the seals as I fell asleep… I think that even at that young age, not knowing anything different, I was still aware of and able to appreciate the beauty, if not how lucky I was. My parents still have my childhood house – but writing this, thinking too much – I wonder if I'll ever see it again and fight back the tears…
I turn down Fell, then onto Fulton through the Richmond – the closer I get the more excited I become, into the avenues – 20's, 30's, - once it's in sight I know I've made it, mystery fuel and all, and man – if I didn't need three paws for driving I would be pacing back and forth in Dancer, slobbering on the window & sticking my nose…. Oh. Well, anyway, suffice it to say I was happy. I parked so the table windows faced the water, shut off the motor, looked at it for a few seconds then did a small, stupid little "fuck YEAH!" dance – then regaining my composure, just keeping a satisfied grin and shine in my eyes so bright that I could feel it.
Right now those who are actually still reading this blather might be concerned with my sanity, but as I said before – even the smallest of things these days, man – they go a long fucking way. Just the fact that I had enough gas to get to the Sea, some orange juice, crackers & some tobacco left - just how good those simple fucking things made me feel, the knot in my chest… anyway, never mind. I don't think that I would even understand it if it wasn't me, but - fuck - just how far down am I pretending not to be to myself? Then, the inevitable
guilt, thinking of so many others that have so much less…
I stepped outside of Dancer then immediately jumped back in to get a thicker coat. Hands in pockets, I walked past the burnt out fires and debris down to the tide line – and just stood there for a while, looking out at the wind-chopped ocean, the fag-shadows of ships off in the distance, the horizon line barely visible. Just stood there, sometimes closing my eyes and only listening to the music, breathing, smelling. I bent down and laid my hands in the water as it came up to me, then headed back across the sand towards the motor home. As I got closer I decided to make the short walk to the archery range and check it out – I can't even remember when the last time I shot my bow was, with all the moving around and my things being in different places, for a while I didn't even have my bow… I stood at the range for just enough time to smoke a cigarette. That was it – I needed to shoot. Went back to my RV, got my bow – and when I got all st up at the range, target in place, walked off what should be around forty yards, turned, looked at my target – holy shit. That thing is tiny! Long story short, though I was shooting better & better, I'm way out of practice. Still, just getting out there, feeling it in my hands, knowing I was where I belonged – that was incredible, such a beautiful feeling.
As it started to get dark I packed up, looking forward to the next day. That day, well – I was just getting the hang of it again. Yeah. That's it. The serious stuff would happen tomorrow (I told myself as I pulled the arrows out of the random places they hit on the hay bale, only a few actually hitting the target I made with the wacky face on it…)
Anyway, I'm weary of writing this, and it must show. Time to close…
Woken at 4:30am by the police, who must need to go through a course of knock-fu in training. It seemed as if every window & door was simultaneously being pounded on, and the lights made me feel like an escaped prisoner as they swept around, the beams hitting everywhere as if all at once… 5:30, back on Treat St, to my usual haunt, my lovely vacation cut short because I'm guilty of living in a motor home. Fortunately, the police don't seem to bother with something so trivial here.
I'll make it back out there someday soon. It was nice to get a taste, even if all it did was whet my appetite for more.
Someday, soon.
As soon as I catch up with all the copying and work, maybe. Still a few blogs behind…
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