San Francisco Blues II

The trip started out well enough. We arrived an hour early, which gave us just enough time to wander the ornate walls of Union Station, the sweet aroma of coffee leading the way and tempting our weary minds. I was up till 5 am remembering the backhills of my mind and immersing myself in my own San Francisco Blues with the help of dear Kerouac. My mother awoke me in her sing-song way at the beautiful 8 am mark, but I lay in bed for a good half hour, tying up loose ends from the night before. And then it rained and then it stopped, and in between shared laughs and remarks, I focused on my own world changing, covering my glazed over eyes with my 60s Swedish shades.

There's this boy sitting a few seats behind me now, reading some epic work about freedom and truth and if I had the guts and the vigor I would attempt a polite and simple conversation, but instead I sit here hiding behind my Kerouac and these blue velour seat cushions, while Lou Reed puts a spike into my vein. He only brought a guitar and a book with him, and as intriguing as that is for me, I haven't the faintest idea if it is intriguing for him. Maybe he's one of those secret beats, the ones who don't relish in the fact that they may have the key to the universe. I'm not a secret beat; I sit here in my loud Kerouac shirt, reading my goddam Kerouac, writing my own goddam Kerouac, knowing that if asked, my mind would not be able to catch up with my thoughts, and therefore my mouth would be dumb, mute, ignorant, fake. Enough about this boy, he's making me depressed.

My trips to San Francisco always fascinate me. I'm not talking about actually being in San Francisco, I'm talking about the journey up, the always silent, always mystifying journey. I've spent hours just staring out the window organizing thoughts and rhymes, trying to match my life to these surroundings. Most of the landscapes consist of blackened weathered trees, or dry golden feathery grass, or the lost souls of soon-slaughtered cows, and power lines after power lines. Sometimes a river or two, but mainly just desolate nowhere. The baggage compartments keep popping open and my OCD desires telepathic powers so I can close each one or open all of them, one of the other. I'm sitting in a seat that when vacant causes an ultimate ruckus and makes concentration almost impossible. For the whole first half of the trip no one was brave enough to sit in it apparently and it disrupted the minds of those without headphones for the first 3 hours. Lots of windmills, lots and lots of windmills. I honestly can't tell if I am asleep or awake, or confused or focused, but in any case, the weather's hitting me hard with its dark grey clouds, not even revealing some patches of light or hope, and I can feel Kerouac's grip on my heart, soul, and mind tighten as we get nearer and nearer to dear Ol' Francis. It's very reflective of the day Mander and I left San Francis back in January before her ultimate African dream captured her for 4 months and banished me to solitude. I can't complain, though, I think my time alone was meant to let me reflect on the things I learned from dear Amanda, and I got back on track well enough.

And I end here with green rolling hills and a motion sick stomach. My adventures continue in San Francisco, though my life may be separate.