it’s just a jump to the left
Oh, dizzy Monday morning, you begin for me in a small room just off the sidewalk along B Street in the Golden Hill neighborhood of San Diego. Sweet San Diego. Me, channeling my best Stevie Wonder – “Just like I pictured it.” I sit on the edge of the bed on the floor, and I couldn’t guess, never mind imagine, who’s slept in it before, but I sit on it this morning in silence, in the dark save for the street light glowing through the slatted blinds, for 22 minutes, either something akin to meditation or else an experience exactly like it. I don’t believe there’s a difference, long as I’m aware there’s something goin on. I put on sweatshirt and jacket against the chill, slip out the door at 5:15, a genuine cheery goodbye to the pit bull on the floor, stow the last stuff in my car and drive out of the gated-lot and over and around to B Street and a space in which to pull over and hop out and get a large Starbuck’s for the road and the high-speed drive back here to Encinitas.
Much of the stuff I own in the world that isn’t back in Joyce’s garage in Portland has been left in Golden Hill where I will begin to live all the moments of my days ahead beginning Wednesday. Coupla days here to wrap this Encinitas gig up, have the easier drive to show up and be of some service to the San Marcos kids today and tomorrow. Then the boogie-board kid points the Camry south on the 5 Wednesday in the a.m. and thereafter does his Pacific glides and slides and light-speed rides next to Dog Beach in OB on into the future.
Did I live in Golden Hill in some other life? A different physical existence, reveling and celebrating in the ain’t no thing like me but me reality of it all? Doing the time warp – again and again and again?
And will I ever be the same?