An Owl Greets My New life

I'm entertained to read the conclusion to my last dispatch - certainly I have an embarrassing compulsion (an insecurity, if you fancy) to end with a fervor, a building of gravity that does not exist. I think my endings serve their purpose to writer more than reader; a consciousness that the words are about to end fuels rallying cry, a shove at the moment of ejection that launches me back into the real world, with feeling.

But I reckon anyone reading has already noticed, parsed, taken in stride, and all that.

The brunt of it is that I plan not to disappear from the planet any time soon. Sure, switching to freelancing increases the vulnerability of my income on some level, it also buttresses it. My ability to gather both reputation and contacts has improved. My ability to appraise the market and my skills has also improved. The days require more concentration, but pass faster. At the moment, the commute is longer, but painless and even a bit rejuvenating (in the form of spoiled-brat air-conditioned shuttles at sunrise and sunset). I'm also enjoying the endorphins that accompany a job switch, and wonder if I shall feel them with more regularity given that I'll be switching venues on a more regular basis. The risks have shown to be superficial.

Also encouraging is that one week after the switch, I received a call on a Friday afternoon from a client desperate for a weekend freelancer. Having no plans, I wasn't opposed to the idea, and I was impressed that I could make a premium off of it. The result was an intense but very lucrative end-product, and I suspect there will be more work along these lines in the future. Doubling up this way has left me expended at the end of days, with two weeks of uninterrupted work, but not in a way that feels wasted.

Beyond even that, my new occupation has changed my viewport onto San Francisco. I now see the city at its best of times - I wake at 6:30AM (with some diligence) and crash before midnight, waiving on the buffoonery of late night No Beach. I only ride my bike on a very mild 5 minute trip over Russian Hill.

My tug abroad, then, has been tempered of late. I can't help but consider it foolish to depart when I am at an apex of competitive advantage. Surely the best moment to depart would be either A) when I had enough saved to depart for a significant amount of time, an admittedly difficult threshold to measure, B) when my skills are no longer in heavy demand, or C) when the market contracts due to financial crisis. A and B are surely months if not a year away, C is in the hands of chance. Overall, I'd have to say that there's no rational reason why I should be even considering leaving yet, with perhaps the caveat that I might be able to work remotely, if I fashioned it right.

Walking back from the shuttle drop-off to my bike, I sighted the unmistakable silhouette of an owl against the pink sky, perched upon a fire escape at the top of a building. If I were Hopi, I'd be on the lookout for death, but I took it merely as inspiration. For have I not died, and moved to a new city, started a new life? And cannot the next chapter afford a raincheck?

Did you expect I'd end this any other way?

Blood Upon Broadway

If I ever return to these writings for a history of my life, I hope I recognize that the library has been pillaged. Sacked. Pissed upon. And all that's left are the tatters of my very tattered mind.

Sometime on the morning of August 17th, I was assaulted on a major street corner of San Francisco, gushing blood out the back of my head from the fall. Someone helped me, called the ambulance. I woke up the next morning, no idea how it had happened. Certainly I could not face that morning like any other morning. I was ready to take a new path no matter what it might be. For better or worse, that path was responding to a headhunter email. Four days later, still nursing a concussion with bemusing symptoms of amnesia, I gave my two weeks notice.

I'm leaving my steady job. And there's no reason that I have that suits Occam's Razor. The fundamental motivations are deeply obscured. I have an undirected thirst to try some remaining things in this city before I leave. And they were not quenched where I was, even if it was the best job I've ever had. There are certainly logical reasons why it's good to enter consultancy (more contacts, better pay, more visible work) but none of them add up to the whole. A strange weight on it all was the fact that Iceland was only ten days, cut to six because of lost luggage. And I am a slow waker - it takes longer than six days for me to reach that deep focused and peaceful core.

Consultancy then has one more advantage - severing my tie to security. I am now vulnerable, as vulnerable as I am walking the streets at 2am. A company goes under, I lose my work. Then I blink a couple times, and I leave. It's almost a dare. To my friends, to my family, that may not see or hear from me when that bluff is called: I apologize. I hope I've left something with you that persists.

My roommate tosses me the painkillers and...

I am going to fight the urge to pen "of a mortal accent" again. It's far too dramatic.

In other news, I just survived my first motorcycle accident. I chose to brake, second guessed, attempted to swerve, and in my half decision, caught the back right bumper of a truck stopping suddenly. It would be nice to see my carcass flying through the air on YouTube, for I have no recollection of it. I only know that I have sustained significant damage to Vikram, and potentially my left knee. I was surrounded by three caring women who witnessed the event. And four passengers of the truck, vaguely smelling of particular herb.

We live most in the wake of such life forks. I stare into the windows of my apartment. They look the same. I blink and reopen, and it's as if all is being reassembled, as if I am not supposed to be here now. I blink again and everything is stupidly normal.

I know that if I had taken either choice, brake or swerve, stupidly normal would be expectable. I know that indecision nearly killed me today. It's left a peculiar discoloration on my laptop screen, and a few expectable discolorations upon my knee. And... that's all? As far as I can reckon at the moment, yes. The ice bag is where it should be - I only hope I can still hike a week hence.

Only that is not all. I am woken, in a manner that fleets. I hope to learn something from it. Is there something to learn, other than split-second decision making? I would hope so. When I sit here immobilized, do I rest and think of nothing? Do I recount events (again)? Do I read the Internet? Do I have a beer? Do I pray/thank/curse/laugh/furrow?

Thoughts have caught up to words. Time to stop.

My Speech Impediment

Don't forget to say thank you. Don't forget to say thank you. Wait for it. Don't forget to say thank you. "Thank you." Wait he's putting it all in a bag. But I've already said thank you. I'll say thank you again. No that's just going to be weird. I'll say have a good day. Don't forget to say have a good day. Don't forget to say have a good day. Wait for it. Don't forget to say have a good day.

"Thangaday"

The Three Chronicles of Song Lee

1.

I have a stowaway on my ride. A spider of incredible resourcefulness lives behind the drivers' side rear view of Song Lee. I suspect since around October. I don't use my car very often, but when I do, there's usually a fresh batch o' web haphazardly stretched across the mirror. I appraise this spider as more dedicated than talented; its creations no geometric masterpieces, but how consistently it redresses its deadly bed. I'm almost empathetic when highway speeds tear its work down. I presume, glumly, that by now the poor arachnid has grown accustomed to this life. Most I can do for it at this point is not to rock its boat. More, I try to have the diligence to park nearby a streetlight. Be there kismet unto unseen friends.

2.

In New Haven, my car parked under a massive maple tree. Over a year and tens of thousands of miles later, I'm still finding maple helicopter seeds diligently tucked into every crevice of the front half of Song Lee. Song Lee is without air conditioning, and in the direst of situations, when even 2-60 cooling isn't cutting it anymore, I'll try the vents. More often than not, a few maple seeds fly out the front vents, spill out with a twirl onto the floor and passenger seat. On one recent occasion, I turn on the vent, refocus to the road. Four seconds later, a single seed sneaks through the panel grid with a raucous, and upon bursting the gate, floats down improbably, ever so precisely, upon the top of my right hand, itself resting on stickshift in a calm (contingency of auxiliary braking) state. I felt the leaf for a few minutes, snuck a glance to confirm its accomplishment, and returned focus, let it lie while we passed through Santa Cruz.

3.

I completely forgot to re-register Song Lee.

A Night in Big Sur

Memorial Day weekend be damned, a friend and I decided to go to Big Sur. We were very much winging it, without much preparation. Who watches a trailer before what will undeniably be an worthy movie?

Nature, of course, requires more resources than a trip to the movie theatre, and so we'd come with rations, tent, and sleeping bag, but couldn't be certain what our camping options were. We stopped at three national park campsites along the way, at each to find they were occupied. Other than concern for where we would sleep, in no case were we particularly put out. Something about the stomp-ass motorhomes, their generators, and ginormous shade shelters was scaring the crap out of us. In a brighter mood, the shade's plastic patterns would reminisce of Alice and Wonderland. But this was a foggy day, and I saw checkered flag - which implies wholesome-fun-for-the-whole-family.

Well fuck that. I have only a vague understanding of Big Sur and its history, but I could guage nonetheless that this was a charade. I asked a resourceful looking ranger at the third campsite where we'd be able to pitch a tent and he set us on the right path: a little south of us was a spur road called Nacimiento Ferguson.

We embarked, splitting west of the coast to wind through the switchbacks of 'the birth'. Whoever Ferguson was, he surely must have been a special man to've been associated with this road. We drove increasingly uphill, until we saw a path splintering off of the road. Parking, we scrambled up the promising hillside until we reached a crest, where to our surprise and mild chagrin we ran into another hiker, Alex, who was planning on spending the evening there. We ate our sandwiches remarking at the seclusion and the massive view below us. At this patch there were many places worthy of camping, but we decided to pay our respects to Alex and continue up the Nacimiento in search of a hilltop of our own.

Several unpaved hairpin-turns later, we were beginning to second-guess. The trail appeared to bend further and further inland. The rocks where beginning to rattle the undercarriage of poor Song Lee. As we stopped at a turnout to discuss, we noticed an uphill trail. A short wander led us through some trees, and then abruptly opened to pasture. There we found fortune: a majestic lookout that, at first sight, we knew would be our home for the evening.

Below was a valley, with mountain rises on both sides. Eucalpytus, evergreens, and bright Yucca sapplings dotted the slopes. These descended further and further downhill, where at the convergence of the mountains a snap of sea could be glimpsed. Farther out - much farther out - far as the distant horizon our considerable altitude allowed, gentle sea-clouds rolled off into infinity, not unlike those you'd witness from a plane. The wine uncorked, we watched the sun pinken the clouds in descent. As the light gave way to halfmoon, the unfamiliar far off rolling white beggared existence-thoughts: what we saw - were we really here? Is this a trick, below us only a vast plane of ice and snow, viewed from high over Greenland? Do I compare this way because I am a stranger of the coast of California? If I could close my eyes, travel to another life moment atop another apex, and reopen, what would I see?

The grass floated in a modest wind. All was of a highly mortal accent.

After 34 months, I leave this country again...

Less dramatic than it may imply... I've decided that there are places that I want to see in this world that actually are compatible with a two week vacation. And so it is, I've booked a flight to Reykjavik for June. Eleven days later, I return to San Francisco.

It's a short space of time - enough perhaps to be able to pronounce city names, but not enough to be able to speak the native tongue with much confidence. It may not be travel to its fullest, but I hope that it will be enough to rejuvenate.

On another metric, the timing is ideal. My good Aussie mate, Phil, will be a few months short of reassignment. His two years on the east coast of Iceland has been potent, and I'm curious to see how it's changed him. He's very much on the cusp - after it's all done, he may stay, he may go back to Oz, or he may pull a rabbit out of his hat. I love talking with people on the cusp. Unfortunately, it won't be an entirely mutual exchange. I'm beginning to realize that I'm going to be here a while.

At least a year more?

Trusty, dusky, vivid, and now true

Sometimes even powerful memories drift severely out of all context. Such is the case for me, in regards to my first encounter with four very potent words.

I can say with comfortable surety that it occured between the age of fifteen and nineteen. I sat in my room and opened a novel whose title I have long since forgotten. I have also forgotten the contents of this novel in their entirety, with one exception: the author made a dedication to Eudora Welty. It was a very short one: "Trusty, dusky, vivid, and true".

My young mind was transfixed by this sequence of adjectives. Then as now, I am normally not one to dwell on introductions, dedications, preambles, prologues, or the such. But these words were worthy of focus. I read them aloud, repeated. Trusty and true, at first appeared synonomous, then stood out distinct. Bookending cousins. In contrast, dusky and vivid presented a paradox. A paradox that I found impeccable for expressing a deep love.

I held this up to such high regard that I began letters to my then-girlfriend with the phrase. I admit doing so with some trepidation. Partly because I wasn't sure she would like the comparison. But mostly because she wasn't vivid at all. And as for the trusty, well, I can only hope the letter was not the reason we broke up months later.

Years later, in a fit of muse, I'd recall the phrase. I decided it deserved a second chance. With some courage, I reintroduced it - into letters to another girlfriend. She didn't drop me nearly as fast, but neither I nor her thought she was particularly dusky.

Over the years,I've met a gaggle o' trusty's, a handful of duskies, a few vivids, and even a few true's, but never altogether. I stood in a bookstore in Mission feeling generally contemplative when I picked up an unfamiliar biography on Chatwin, and read with shock those four words again. According to letters kept by his wife, it was one of Chatwin's personal favorites. Not because he had read the dedication I had. Even better, it's originally from a poem by Scottish traveler, Robert Louis Stevenson in Songs of Travel:

TRUSTY, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble–dew,
Steel–true and blade–straight,
The great artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The mighty master
Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow–farer true through life,
Heart–whole and soul–free
The august father
Gave to me.

So it took eight years for the origins to come to light, but neither is the magic of this sequence dispelled. One day I may even find it's avatar.