Late Night San Fran
Tonight we went to the Punchline downtown and watched 15 comedians try their talents on the stage. A few were dynamite, though most were average. The last one was a fat man with a high voice who smeared his face with white vanilla frosting and danced for the audience in a green dress and a wig. We were all tired of comedy by that point. Laughed out. Our funny bones were bruised from repeated test-taps over a three hour period and we just wanted to go home.
We rode home in Mary's van through a fine darkness, the outline of far hills implied by mist that spilled over the expansive twinkling towns below. There's a depth here that's unavoidable. It recedes into a visible infinity, and it sweeps back down to meet you at the bottom of all things. I stared out the window as I've done since we arrived here, feeling small and immersed. The forests seem nearly as far away as does the moon behind. They're both reachable destinations.
And I ask myself: what is this anxiety? I'll go back to my world in just a couple of days and that means work, and it means pressure. It means all the things that one goes on vacation to be free from. So is anxiety just a normal reaction to return? That seems reasonable.
But no, something is wrong. I feel sick. California has stopped me spinning and my gut revolts at the stillness. Give me a little more time, I'll be able to draw a straight line from me to anywhere: the moon, the mist, the sea, the trees.
But time is running out, and return to my whirligig town is unstoppable now. I'll arrive and look for a doorway to something different.
We rode home in Mary's van through a fine darkness, the outline of far hills implied by mist that spilled over the expansive twinkling towns below. There's a depth here that's unavoidable. It recedes into a visible infinity, and it sweeps back down to meet you at the bottom of all things. I stared out the window as I've done since we arrived here, feeling small and immersed. The forests seem nearly as far away as does the moon behind. They're both reachable destinations.
And I ask myself: what is this anxiety? I'll go back to my world in just a couple of days and that means work, and it means pressure. It means all the things that one goes on vacation to be free from. So is anxiety just a normal reaction to return? That seems reasonable.
But no, something is wrong. I feel sick. California has stopped me spinning and my gut revolts at the stillness. Give me a little more time, I'll be able to draw a straight line from me to anywhere: the moon, the mist, the sea, the trees.
But time is running out, and return to my whirligig town is unstoppable now. I'll arrive and look for a doorway to something different.