Well that was a 2 days of travel I won't soon forget.
I hate packing things up. I particularly hate trying to stevedore an entire life into my huge backpack without its seams bursting.
There were few extra possessions that I needed to lynch into it, a shirt, a book from City Lights, some guide books, and tat (receipts, bart tickets, museum tickets etc.) for memories, but the backpack just seems to be growing every day. I wouldn't mind it's flourishing, but I've killed every pot plant I tried to do the same with. It's a bulbous misshapen ball sack, like a hard syphilitic sailor's cock, and about as intimidating to be alone in a room with.
The impending doom of United Airlines hung over us all morning like a grey-cloud of bitter hangover. It even seemed to be infectious as the cloud spread over San Francisco and piddly drizzle and biting winds started to whip at our ankles as we killed time roaming hill and street until zero hour. It's hard to feel upbeat about two days of travelling, but it’s totally impossible when the travel is courtesy of the worst commercial air carrier I have come across. It suits our budget which is priority one (sickening though it is to admit), but is not designed for any kind of comfort.
We started reasonably well with a late breakfast in a traditionally modern Chinese restaurant just off Chestnut on one of those streets that's too small to make it into the guidebooks.
I had sweet and sour pork with bland bland rice and it was wonderful. It’s the first time I have tasted food that reminded me of home since I got here. It was so nice to taste home. My stomach also thanked me for liberating it from the fried Yankee breakfasts we have existed on since we arrived.
Autumn and early winter were both lapping at the heels of our adventure. The chill in the air and on our backs seemed to signal our departure and I couldn't help but feel distressed to leave.
The people passing by were poorly dressed for the sudden change in temperature.
Unhappy Californians shivered in their shorts and sandals and frowned into their mobiles and Bluetooth headsets saying:
"It's so cold",
and
"It’s, like, so cold."
whilst ignoring each other on the street.
We shivered around the streets, wandering how to pass the time between hotel checkout and airport check-in. After smoking, meandering, bookshop browsing and drinking too much coffee and not enough booze, we gave up and decided to hike it to the airport an hour early.
After being intimidated by the big city, enamoured with it, scared of it, fed up with it, and then round trip back to sweet love for it, we didn't need to squeeze anything else from the rind of our remaining time, so to go to the airport felt like a release. The start of the next episode.
Sarah knew I was being quiet but she didn't question it much.
This, the day of our flight into a new world, was the day that miserly pessimism decided to smash me firmly in the stomach, steal the seeds of hope, and replace them with the cold childlike fear possessed of all over-mammied Irish boys in new situations.
Australia hung over me like a monster in the cupboard, and I had no blanket to hide under.
I think Sarah knew she couldn't do anything about it. I was just working myself up into oblivion. I wound myself up and I was away, she isn't able to stop me. I guess I just ponder the worst too much.
Thank god she is here with me, stemming the wounds of my own inability to maintain forward motion in happy exaltation of new sights and experiences.
I'm frequently lost in the doldrums of self-hatred and she is my one guiding light. Her and this laptop, and the familiar rhythm of typing and deleting that lets me shut out the shadowy oblivion until drink, new sights or excitements steer me back on course to normalcy and the ability to put up with myself.
Again, I just hoped that the worst of my fear-binge wouldn't affect her too much. But it was becoming impossible to hide it from her.
For her I am an open book, even for my most embarrassing moments and lowest points.
She is my greatest friend and counsellor through life, who has helped me with everything from dealing with great sadness to dealing with athlete's foot. All I can think when I stare at her beautiful eyes is thank God for her.
Thank God, for something is spurring me on, and it certainly isn't me.
We went back to the La Luna to collect our bags. That little Motor Inn is framed in my brain forever now, incandescent Americana like the beach boys, chipotle sauce or chronic heart disease.
We definitely lived well in San Fran. I'm proud of how we managed to navigate our way through a strange few days. I feel closer to Sarah than ever now. We are bonded by weirdos and questing. Of course the budget wasn't a major issue, and we couldn't save ourselves from eating out continually, with no cooker or facilities, we were fed from the guts of the
American culinary industry for our entire stay.
I can't remember one bad meal, but my stomach is just aching for familiar fare.
I'm really missing home cooking. I love the messing around with saucepans and meats, going to a local shop, then another, then another to find all the ingredients for any of my ridiculously over-complicated dishes.
I only ever cook for Sarah though.
There never seems much point or reward in cooking for myself. I never smile at my own creations and I love to surprise and please her, even if it is only for something as silly as a warm cooked meal after a hard day's work.
I'm beginning to feel like I can do nothing for her. Laundry and cleaning and cooking are taken out of the equation.
All I ever want to do is make her smile, but I'm not always so good at it.
I think I would make a great housewife.
Sarah is like a rock through my ambling self-indulgence, shoring me up mentally. She is finding the accommodation and coming up with ideas. She is also eternally decent to me and basically carrying me on her back like I were a wounded ranting soldier wheezing morphinated nonsenses in cold fear of failure.
I am not sure how I will fare now that my old friend, self-indulgent depression, is beginning to swell in my stomach again. The bastard.
It's a plight maligned by all who know me, who know of my tendency towards the negative, but it is still a part of me, as plain to my familiars as the nose on my face, though I try to hide it like the sweat stains.
I try to bury it deep inside like we all do with our failures. But I still perma-suffer whilst upsetting most that come into contact with me and my sulks. I'm just grateful that all my great friends stick by me and feel that I'm still worth knowing despite my worn-on-my-shirt flaws.
I know who I am.
I don't know how to build a bridge over the pit of my stomach to make it to happiness from self-constructed despair.
I am definitely beginning to miss home, friends, comforts and the friendly open prison of my life in Limerick. And my little car with its squeaking brakes and baldy tyres.
I miss getting up and making myself a cup of coffee from my own kettle, in my underpants with a fag in my mouth, a quick scratch and a few wheezy coughs. I miss laundry and kitchen cleaning and the minutiae of daily living. It's strange the crap that you miss when you strip most of your life away except for one beanstalk of a backpack.
I miss friends most of all.
I miss my drinking buddies, my sage counsellors, my adopted children, my guiding lights and my confidants and my brother. I miss the group life, the secrets shared on drugs, the heartening steel of friends who stick by no matter what.
I will never miss working, but the rest is a hard knot in my heart, bound to me with chains and love.
In Melbourne, the place we have booked is a lovely central apartment, Carlton, a strong-armed stone's throw to the Central Business District, with its own cooking facilities.
That's heartening me.
Everything else is making me feel like a little boy lost in a supermarket. All the choice in the world, but no currency or intelligence to pick anything.
I really felt like I shouldn't catch that flight to Melbourne.
I feel like I should take the first hop of the flight, to LA, and then just cut and run, enjoy more of tourist's America and then go home to the palms of friends and family, find a job and a car and hop around the places I will always know, beginning something new from the ashes of the old.
I am not sure if travel with my world on my back is a beast I can tame.
I don't know if it's something I want. Maybe feeling like I have conquered this fear, just once, will mean that I can finally put this fear to bed, but maybe again I don't want to.
I hope I can, but it's the ever-doubting hope of a Catholic priest, peddling along in a profession where your boss never thanks you for a job well done. I never pat myself on the back for smoothing through the hard edges life sometimes deals me. I always kick myself worst when I'm down.
Maybe the meat of this story is in my stomach and how I learn to digest change, and all of the exotic foreign strangeness is just an aside to how I feel, right here, in the centre of my chest.
You already know I'm stubborn; I just need that heroic stubborn to push through and fend off the worst of the unknown until I am back on my feet mentally.
Fear of failure is at my back pushing me on. Fear of the unknown lies ahead, pushing me home. I feel like a leaf floating on the trade winds of both, with little say as to who wins. I'm hoping I will learn to sail these seas of meandering dread. I need a tiller to fend off the worst of these storms, a beacon of hope at the shore.
It's really not easy being this precious.
We took a cab to the airport. The of-Russian-origin driver ignored us and played classical music. I saw his hands directing and conducting it as he drove, and realised that he made me do the same. It was something or other by Brahms according to the DJ.
He was the only taxi driver I was in the car with in my whole time in San Francisco who didn't beep his horn in anger once. Most drove with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the horn. His hands clicked and he let the angry reactions he felt dissolve away into the rhythm of the classical music.
Once we arrived at the airport, weighed down with backpacks, we took the round-robin monorail that circumnavigates SFO to domestic terminal 3. We began our trek to yet another continent with a United Airlines flight to L.A (UA856) on sept. 28th.
It's a short jump, less than two hours of discomfort and ear-popping until LAX and the dreaded.
We flew low around LA for a while, waiting to land in one of the busiest airports on the East Coast.
I was listening to channel 9 on United Airlines in-flight radio, distracted with the business of stopping my brain from going where my body doubtless was.
For some reason, this quirky channel 9 was a direct link to the LAX control tower radio, full of "Ready to push" "219 and holding", fast prompt requests with token politeness underlining commands that needed urgent responses or lives or jobs would be lost.
I heard American, Australian and Japanese accents all asking to land and take-off and calm voices from the ground telling them how and when.
It landed me (but not the plane) again in the familiar tranquil home of a 12 year old boy spending time with his dad.
As long as I can remember, my father has always had a portable multiple band radio, one of those radios with a million short wave frequencies and eternal battery life, possessed of all older generations desirous of a world beyond their own limitations.
These little portable radios (they were constantly upgraded, about one a year) went everywhere with him. In the back of his car, out whilst gardening, to his office in work, and when I was a kid, it seemed to contain entire unknown worlds that could be digested by even my weak stomach from a safe distance. I had grown up with the strange sounds of airports, taxicabs, garbled low frequency messaging and I remember how relaxing and intriguing it is to listen in on conversations whose meaning, other than garbled reading between lines and judgement of tones entirely eludes me, like a Spanish soap opera.
As we hit closer to LA itself, I took to gaping out the window. The expanse of the place was a distractingly hyperbolic sight. It was approximately 8pm and twilight was hitting in, and the lights of a big city stretched further and further to the end of the landscape, time, space and the universe. Under me, and beyond, all I could see from both sides of the plane, an eternity of suburbia and advertising, pushing and hacking away at the desert.
That song, playing over in my head, Sandy Shaw.
"LA is a great big freeway, put a hundred down and buy a car. In a week maybe two they'll make you a star"
My heart soared away with it, a dot on the skyline I was staring at, turning happily into largesse from obscurity, or just learning to live in what must be the largest goldfish bowl in the world.
I might never see LA again, and though I have only ever viewed it from the safety of a plane or a bus, passing through to a friendlier start, I don't think I could breathe there without money.
Lots and lots of money. Any place like that should never have existed in the first place.
I can't help but wonder, also, if Australia is my San Jose.
Is it an idol I have held up, to be toppled by impossible expectation?
A reflection of a memory of a place I have never seen that cannot hope to live up to my dreams for it. I have lived in the wonder and excitement of getting back on the road for so long that it seems impossible that it holds anything for me but disappointment when compared to the picture of it in perfect 20/20 in my mind's eye.
We landed bumpy on the tarmac, and again, sweaty brick wall of fear hits in and Nick goes postal.
I caved and babbled at Sarah over cigarettes outside, everything came out and it felt good to know she knew my heart, even if it's a dank place in my chest that suffers with malignant fear.
I have a feeling that in the next few days, she will see more of my heart and soul than she could ever hope to. I just hope it doesn't send her screaming and she still thinks she can deal with me until after I grapple this monster.
I hate showing that side of me to other people.
I hate how often I cave and people see it anyway.
But she exists forever in my heart, lighting through my darknesses, vices and weaknesses.
It's only fair to show her the rooms I haven't cleaned for her yet. After all she is paying for them.
I really felt like I couldn't get on that flight.
Everything it represented suddenly seemed appalling to me, as I sat supping a double whiskey in LAX waiting out the 4 hours till the dotdotdot.
Even Sandy Shaw's sweet voice, exalting the dream of travelling for the sake of friendship, rebirth, and the power of dreams over the reality of rampant consumerism is mixing bitter with the cold fuel of upset in my brain.
Now the same song, over and over in my head just felt like a bitter rampage against a disgusting world we so easily immerse ourselves in, mulling like bitter wine.
Maybe my travel reflected her anger, and the reality of her dreams probably floated away in a trip from recording studio to concert.
"And all those stars that never were are parking cars and pumping gas."
UA839 to Melbourne via Sydney.
An arrow through the commonplace that sustained me.
A bullet through my happiness.
A placebo where a smile should be.
My mind hung on grimly through the white-knuckle boredom of security, check-in and dawdle. Playing over and over in my head and the pit of my perma-weak stomach, the same in-flight movie of terror and the need to run back home.
I gulped it back again and again, deep into my chest, imprisoned in my head so I could learn to tame it, swimming against the tide of my own revolting cowardice.
How silly, I kept on thinking.
How fucking hilariously sick and silly.
And how ashamed I am of where my mind goes, what I put myself through, and how I dawdle along with decisions, shambling and ambling through life on the back of other's dreams like every writer until the reality of reality hits in and I want to run home to mommy like a sobbing schoolchild.
Fear of flying has nothing on fear of landing.
I really want to explore more of this great fear I have for the unknown. I need to quench my thirst for the knowledge of its origin, or how and why it controls and tries to win out over the rational calm side of my brain.
I know the only hope for me to learn to control this abominable ague is to sit through the fierce distemper of the instability and land myself in a world unknown, but I don't know if this will reveal a sour scared tempo to my personality. I want to succeed, for Sarah and for myself. I just would hate to push her away amidst this fierce and personal battle that she cannot hope to understand.
Through my brain, images of this cycle through my life were beginning to play out their late show.
I know it started with pre-school. I didn't like pre-school. I asked my mom if I had to go anymore after three days. I can even remember then, the same fear eating away at my stomach about this strange new world, with its swings and sandpits and strange toys that everyone else seemed to love, and the brisk and even tempered woman who presided, designating lunches, rewards and nap-times with ever-patient kind smiles. I don't think she had a tool in her teacher's handbook for dealing with my monsters though.
I just wanted my own toys.
My own thoughts in my own room with my family where it was all safe and suffocating, and the droning of relentless life could patter about around me in my own little cell of comfort. So I didn't go to pre-school. I started school in Infants with the same fears and let them wash over me with every new change, right through my time in school, right through again to the dawning of adulthood.
You remember when the teacher was ill? And your class got divided up into groups of 4 or 5 and fed out amongst the other teachers, set to do nothing for the day? How wonderful and freeing it was to sit elsewhere and not work and have the day off from the mundanity of school?
I hated it. I hated the change. It upset my stomach. I broke out in sweats. I sat sullen, hoping for time to fly by and take me back to normalcy.
Seeing as how it started so early, how can I hope to remember the trigger that started me off on living with the fear, rather than rising up against it? I want more than anything to battle tooth and nail to the grim and bitter end with all of my forthright stubbornness until I taste sweet victory or bitter defeat in the arms of a foreign world and time where I could finally know myself.
At least to know myself would be victory, even if it meant sidling home in defeat. To know so little of myself that I let this fear win out all the time sickens me almost as much as the alternative.
I was only allowing myself to think that the boredom of flying would mean I would be glad to land anywhere, and that this is how it was meant to be. 16 hours in the sky, over the Pacific to Sydney was the prospect.
The Pacific.
In the words of every sailor, traveller or any who have traversed or dealt with it, what a poorly named ocean. But the great size of it alone made it seem like there was all the time in the world to plan and get over this hurdle.
I boarded the plane and took my seat. I got the middle seat, no comfort of the window, its cold shoulder to sleep against, and no comfort of the aisle, with its quick escape to bathrooms without bothering others.
We seemed to spend forever taxiing around aimlessly. We spent another hour waiting for clearance to take off. (Again, in flight radio was telling me exactly when it was no-going-back-sucka time, through the calm robotic voices of LAX control tower.)
Friday, at about 11:15pm on American time we finally got our clearance to leave, took off, trundling down the runway towards the inescapable reality of something new and scary.
It's done now I thought. Just accept it. Dammit, enjoy it you fucking pussy. You fucking total pussy.
I slept furtively, and watched some of the same movies I had seen on my United flight to San Francisco. Within a few short hours, boredom set in like a drunken bastard at a taxi rank.
My 6 foot 1 frame was not built for air travel. I clashed with my seat, pushing the fucker as far back as the evil capitalists who designed airplane seating arrangements would allow (about 4 inches). This then caused a clash with the person behind me's knees (some poor woman who was clearly distressed by my aggressive seat pushing. What could I do? As I said, 6'1''. Not exactly easy to squeeze that into the smallest seat space per person of any transatlantic carrier.)
The seat in front also took a bashing as I squish squashed left and right to gain some leverage and 15 minutes of comfort before ass-numbness prompted the next round. Sarah on the window seat and a Peruvian to my right who had the misfortune of getting the aisle seat next to mine also took a beating from my constant squirming.
The Peruvian to my right, couldn't have been older than 20, got woken up some 4 times during the night by my incessant need to get out of the tiny little cushioned prison I had paid a fortune to be trapped in so I could go to the bathroom. I went there to not pee despite needing to, splash cold water on my face and quietly fart, navel gaze and stare at my ever more haggard complexion as I exalted in finally being able to stretch to my full frame if even for only a minute.
My breath rapidly deteriorated to paint thinning grade halitosis ad the pit stains slowly grew to meet the chest stain.
I read Tom Robbins and drank white wine. I took prescription medication my dad had bought me to relax, but it didn't work. (How could it, it wasn't a horse tranquilizer.)
Like all things though, time and the worst of the self-imposed torture passed, and quickly became just another jotted individual memory like everything else on this crazy trip.
Sarah and I were already planning how to get back home by taking flights by any other airline, and taking hops of no longer than 6 hours each time.
I will never ever fly with those fuckers again. It’s possible I will never fly again, and just swim home, or hide in a freight ferry with a crate of whiskey and a packet of rice in my pocket.
We tipped down in Sydney at 8am local time. I was wild-eyed from furtive sleep and travel, prescription drugs and booze, and barely able to coherently navigate the airport. Both Sarah and I found it impossible to orienteer our way through the signposts and snapped at each other whilst getting lost for an hour before we found our gate.
We are both intelligent people. We both have good heads on our shoulders, and I have always believed that only morons get lost at airports.
Total morons.
But this was before I took a 16 hour flight. My IQ was less than my age plus my shoe size at that point, all I could do was drool and roar, and fantasise about punching someone, anyone, repeatedly, until their face caved in and they were left with nothing but a jiggly stump of spinal cord waggling cartoonishly where their head used to be.
We took a transfer from Sydney to Melbourne, so we still hadn't arrived at our final destination and when you are transferring from Sydney, they don't let you fucking smoke while you are waiting. Again, the over-regimented anti-smoking laws meant that I couldn't get my much needed fix.
This is after multiple freak outs.
After 16 hours without a smoke.
After the worst airline in the history of the world for that full 16 hours, no decent food and some 45 minutes of sleep.
They gave me jelly beans and a packet of crisps for breakfast.
And the stupid fucking pious holier-than-thou fucks who designed the airport didn't have a door that opened to the outside to just let me have a cigarette between one fucking awful flying experience and another.
All I was thinking throughout my whole time in the airport was "those fucking fucking cocksucking total absolute cunts." and similar colourful descriptions.
Yeah. I'm mellow.
Thank God that our last flight was only another two hour hop down the coast, but by this stage, I was existing entirely on the far edge of the seat.
My head comprised 95% vein throbbing in anger and 5% black rings under my eyes. I ignored the air-hostesses as they smiled and asked me stupid questions, for if I had opened my mouth, I would have bitten one of them, possibly on the throat, and then spent my time roaring and drinking the blood whilst screaming my anti-United anti-Capitalist manifesto until I was subdued by at least two, possibly more of the multiple mullets on the plane.
Finally we landed and got through border security thankfully quickly. We picked up our prodigal bags after waiting an hour at a rotating carousel, bleary eyed and barely able to stand.
Cigarette, smoke, fag, toke, pull, tug, drag, filter, tobacco, smoke smoke smoke smoke smoke smoke.
We then had to get through customs. They scanned our bags with haste, possibly noticing how my throbbing forehead vein was reaching toward them whilst their backs were turned, trying to strangle them. We got through to the arrivals lounge, and sped, no sleep and exhaustion disregarded, we sprinted out to the Melbourne air, fag and lighter already in my hand, for the final smoke I had been looking forward to for what seemed like 20 years.
Fucking total cunting bastard United Airlines and cock-assing Australian government can suck my smoke filled cock for all eternity.
Bastards and scum the whole cocking lot of them.
There are no dirty cars in California.
I'm sittting in the hotel, slightly freaking about Melbourne whilst sipping good Californian wine and hoping to get a bit drunk to ease the worry that has plagued me ever since I set out on my own in life, at 17.
You know you have a problem when even your 16 year old brother is texting you telling you not to be so worried about things, and of course, he is right.
But just as certain is the fact that there is only one person that can stop me worrying, and after all the strange and crazy I have been fed here in San Fran, I think that I am due a little freakout. I have been trying to mask it from Sarah so as not to worry her, though I know she would kiss my cheeks and neck and make me feel better about everything. I just don't want to heap my shit on top of her shit and make anything more difficult for her than it needs to be.
I don't want to be putting a bad spin on what is sure to be a great and grand adventure. I also don't want to cut and run.
Most times I am a stubborn bastard, but I'm always quick to cut and run when the going gets too tough or I know I can be happier elsewhere.
It's a gift and a curse. I mean I sat through 4 years of that goddamn Comp. Sys. course through sheer stubbornness. But the freakouts turned me into a drink lovin' stoner that passed through giggling, smelling strange and attending no lectures. I know I couldn't have had a better time in University than I did, but the thought of cutting and running never crossed my mind.
I just have to strike a balance between knowing I want to be there and being able to function as an apartment renting job-hunting capitalist. It's the latter part I am worried about. This last month away from any and all work has made me lazy, and happy too.
I mean look at me.
I'm writing like I did in college.
Im starting to dream, and dream beyond nice cars and LCD tv's and Xbox 360's and all the stuff that they make you want when your life is already shit.
I have smiled more times in 9 days than I have in the whole of the previous year. It seems childish to think I can continue like this. I just wish that there was some way to escape the sickening rat race I have been caught up in, for jobs I don't want in an industry I hate.
Pot, weed, smoo, the reefer, mary jane, ganj, as always, makes things a lot easier.
I hate being away from Eamonn sometimes. In the past month where I was living at home, he really made everything easier for me. He's smarter than I am, has more direction and verve than I do. He is like me with youth re-injected and with a desire to strike out on his own as soon as he can.
I really love that kid.
Through all the years of big-brotheryness, and largely ignoring him through college, I used to feel guilty that we hadn't bonded more. Now I see that he is doing fine for himself, always has done. And its a privilege to be related to him. I have a feeling that I'm destined to be in his shadow, and I am truly delighted about it. I just want nothing but total success for him.
For me, I just want to avoid working for a little longer, maybe score some more weed, and to relax and have fun, not freakouts, in Melbourne.
Sometimes I feel like the little brother and I want that to change, but I can only be who I am. Success would give me ulcers.
Lets face it.
We spent the day camped out in the hotel. Venturing out for breakfast, dinner and booze left me tired and sore.
I think all the sights we have seen have knocked me for 6, and it's nice to stop and smell the hotelroom coffee once in a while. I really needed the time off. I feel much better about the potential 30 odd hours of travel facing us tomorrow.
I am glad to be leaving California, strange as it may seem. It would be great if it wasn't for the Californians. And their fucking soy milk.
Today, for dinner, I had, and I quote from the menu:
Corn meal beer battered mahi mahi tacos with lime guajillo and a mango and red cabbage slaw.
They were battered fish on tiny tortillas with not enough sauce. We ate in this restaurant because every time we passed by it was always packed, brimful of white well-to-do's waiting at the bar, eyeing the tacos. This is just another encapsulation in daily minutae of the style vs. substance and money vs. happiness debate.
In California, style and money won.
You know you have a problem when even your 16 year old brother is texting you telling you not to be so worried about things, and of course, he is right.
But just as certain is the fact that there is only one person that can stop me worrying, and after all the strange and crazy I have been fed here in San Fran, I think that I am due a little freakout. I have been trying to mask it from Sarah so as not to worry her, though I know she would kiss my cheeks and neck and make me feel better about everything. I just don't want to heap my shit on top of her shit and make anything more difficult for her than it needs to be.
I don't want to be putting a bad spin on what is sure to be a great and grand adventure. I also don't want to cut and run.
Most times I am a stubborn bastard, but I'm always quick to cut and run when the going gets too tough or I know I can be happier elsewhere.
It's a gift and a curse. I mean I sat through 4 years of that goddamn Comp. Sys. course through sheer stubbornness. But the freakouts turned me into a drink lovin' stoner that passed through giggling, smelling strange and attending no lectures. I know I couldn't have had a better time in University than I did, but the thought of cutting and running never crossed my mind.
I just have to strike a balance between knowing I want to be there and being able to function as an apartment renting job-hunting capitalist. It's the latter part I am worried about. This last month away from any and all work has made me lazy, and happy too.
I mean look at me.
I'm writing like I did in college.
Im starting to dream, and dream beyond nice cars and LCD tv's and Xbox 360's and all the stuff that they make you want when your life is already shit.
I have smiled more times in 9 days than I have in the whole of the previous year. It seems childish to think I can continue like this. I just wish that there was some way to escape the sickening rat race I have been caught up in, for jobs I don't want in an industry I hate.
Pot, weed, smoo, the reefer, mary jane, ganj, as always, makes things a lot easier.
I hate being away from Eamonn sometimes. In the past month where I was living at home, he really made everything easier for me. He's smarter than I am, has more direction and verve than I do. He is like me with youth re-injected and with a desire to strike out on his own as soon as he can.
I really love that kid.
Through all the years of big-brotheryness, and largely ignoring him through college, I used to feel guilty that we hadn't bonded more. Now I see that he is doing fine for himself, always has done. And its a privilege to be related to him. I have a feeling that I'm destined to be in his shadow, and I am truly delighted about it. I just want nothing but total success for him.
For me, I just want to avoid working for a little longer, maybe score some more weed, and to relax and have fun, not freakouts, in Melbourne.
Sometimes I feel like the little brother and I want that to change, but I can only be who I am. Success would give me ulcers.
Lets face it.
We spent the day camped out in the hotel. Venturing out for breakfast, dinner and booze left me tired and sore.
I think all the sights we have seen have knocked me for 6, and it's nice to stop and smell the hotelroom coffee once in a while. I really needed the time off. I feel much better about the potential 30 odd hours of travel facing us tomorrow.
I am glad to be leaving California, strange as it may seem. It would be great if it wasn't for the Californians. And their fucking soy milk.
Today, for dinner, I had, and I quote from the menu:
Corn meal beer battered mahi mahi tacos with lime guajillo and a mango and red cabbage slaw.
They were battered fish on tiny tortillas with not enough sauce. We ate in this restaurant because every time we passed by it was always packed, brimful of white well-to-do's waiting at the bar, eyeing the tacos. This is just another encapsulation in daily minutae of the style vs. substance and money vs. happiness debate.
In California, style and money won.
The heat is finally on.
We got up late this morning. It was nice to sleep in but I was still cranky before breakfast. Coffee resurrected me. We had booked tickets to Alcatraz on the ferry and had to get to Pier 39 by 1 to make the trip. It was only 11, so we ambled down Chestnut to the touristy cusp of San Francisco, Fisherman's Wharf. The heat was fierce, about 30 degrees, so we stayed on the shady side of the street all the way down and got there sweaty with two empty water bottles.
Alcatraz is an incredible place. The island is named after a Mexican term derived from alcatrices, a nod to the huge amount of Avian wildlife on the island.
In a hilarious duality, since the Ice Age flooded the bay area and left Alcatraz as an isolated unfriendly rock, there has never existed predators on the Island to threaten the bird population, making it an ideal nesting spot.
If you are ever in San Francisco, you can see Alcatraz from the top of virtually every hill. Its a permanent fixture on the horizon, about a mile off the coast and very easy to spot.
I had noticed it before and was really excited about going back there. Of course I visited it when i was first in San Francisco, but only had a postcard memory of the place that I wanted to cement with an ambience.
The place has atmosphere. The architecture is imposing, a product of a hodge podge of many generations of different building styles, as its structures dated from as early as civil was era, and as late as the late fifties. Its history is colourful, and steeped in blood and redemption. It exists now as an independent national park, complete with park rangers and no smoking signs.
We strolled around behind bars, and heard stories from old prisoners and prison officers on the audio tour. it was fun and creepy and occasionally sent shivers down my spine.
We finished up our tour at about 4:30 and headed back to the pier to wait for the next Ferry and swat the many flies that had suddenly come out of nowhere to annoy us all day.
The ferry took 15 minutes of humpy bumpy on the Pacific to land back in tourist land. We went to In n' out burger, an acceptable fast food place near Fishermans Wharf that trades on the freshness of its produce and making food to order.
After that we took the long walk home, though my legs, knees and ankles ache from walking. It feels good to get all that exercise, and I like arriving home caked in sweat to stand in front of the air conditioner drinking icy cold beer.
I must admit I am getting very anxious as the prospect of Melbourne and a new continent as the time to leave California draws near. We are leaving on friday, which leaves us with just two more days near. I don't even want to think about leaving. This trip is so strange and weird and wonderful that I just don't want to return the tone to apartment and job hunting and the reality of the money chase.
I am missing driving and cooking and my own place and home and friends though.
I'm wondering how much mental strength I can muster to thrive there. Sarah is doing great, checking the net for hostels and hotels, reading guidebooks and feeding me facts to help me digest the lump of unknown that faces me, and occasionally manifests as a dull panic in my stomach.
Sometimes I really hate being so precious.
Alcatraz is an incredible place. The island is named after a Mexican term derived from alcatrices, a nod to the huge amount of Avian wildlife on the island.
In a hilarious duality, since the Ice Age flooded the bay area and left Alcatraz as an isolated unfriendly rock, there has never existed predators on the Island to threaten the bird population, making it an ideal nesting spot.
If you are ever in San Francisco, you can see Alcatraz from the top of virtually every hill. Its a permanent fixture on the horizon, about a mile off the coast and very easy to spot.
I had noticed it before and was really excited about going back there. Of course I visited it when i was first in San Francisco, but only had a postcard memory of the place that I wanted to cement with an ambience.
The place has atmosphere. The architecture is imposing, a product of a hodge podge of many generations of different building styles, as its structures dated from as early as civil was era, and as late as the late fifties. Its history is colourful, and steeped in blood and redemption. It exists now as an independent national park, complete with park rangers and no smoking signs.
We strolled around behind bars, and heard stories from old prisoners and prison officers on the audio tour. it was fun and creepy and occasionally sent shivers down my spine.
We finished up our tour at about 4:30 and headed back to the pier to wait for the next Ferry and swat the many flies that had suddenly come out of nowhere to annoy us all day.
The ferry took 15 minutes of humpy bumpy on the Pacific to land back in tourist land. We went to In n' out burger, an acceptable fast food place near Fishermans Wharf that trades on the freshness of its produce and making food to order.
After that we took the long walk home, though my legs, knees and ankles ache from walking. It feels good to get all that exercise, and I like arriving home caked in sweat to stand in front of the air conditioner drinking icy cold beer.
I must admit I am getting very anxious as the prospect of Melbourne and a new continent as the time to leave California draws near. We are leaving on friday, which leaves us with just two more days near. I don't even want to think about leaving. This trip is so strange and weird and wonderful that I just don't want to return the tone to apartment and job hunting and the reality of the money chase.
I am missing driving and cooking and my own place and home and friends though.
I'm wondering how much mental strength I can muster to thrive there. Sarah is doing great, checking the net for hostels and hotels, reading guidebooks and feeding me facts to help me digest the lump of unknown that faces me, and occasionally manifests as a dull panic in my stomach.
Sometimes I really hate being so precious.
I'm good to go.
We spent the day kinda out of it.
I wanted to go to the Exploratorium, a hands-on type science museum for doubting Thomas's of physics. We got there at about 11 after another morning in which i got up early feeling strangely refreshed even though I drank that wine last night and stayed up late after another exhausting day.
For some reason I only need 7 hours sleep now and I'm good to go.
Unfortunately, because it was monday, the Exploratorium was closed. I didn't mind too much though, because it's located at the Palace of Fine Arts, a hugely opulent arch left over from some 1916 economics fair. We sat there in the park, looking at the manicured lake and its arches and smoking cigarettes and cursing while disapproving mothers steered their children around and away from us.
I can't help cursing too much, I'm Irish. Cursing is as alluring as good poetry to me.
But here in California, cursing and smoking on the street makes you akin to a homeless junkie, or one of those moron hippies begging for weed money or bus money or soy milk latte money.
That just makes me want to curse and smoke more. I think I have had over 120 cigarettes since I landed. I can count them from the 600 we bought at the airport. Though I am smoking much less weed because it's very very strong.
After that we went back to the hotel to get a bit of downtime and watch daytime tv until the heat of the midday sun stopped beating down on the cracked landscape.
Cormac texted us to meet up. He and Meg had just biked over the Golden Gate from Pier 39 on rental bikes. It sounded like fun, and Sarah and I decided we would have to include it in our own plans for our last three days, after Cormac and Meg left for New York. The bike route took them all the way across the Presidio Park along the beach and across the bridge, then back again before their 3 hours ran out.
I can't stop thinking about Cian and Sarah and what faces them. They are taking off from Ireland soon and spending a year in Australia with us. They are starting their travels in Bangkok, a place that frightens the shit out of me, and from there, moving to Phi-Phi and Laos and other places whose pronunciations are up for argument.
I knew that Sarah hadn't got her loan confirmed and was hoping that that and the other bureaucratic bullshit was all sorted so they could worry about taking care of themselves and getting nicely drunk to ease the culture shock.
I was also worried about Cian. In the weeks before we left he seemed very self assured. He has this quiet confidence and is never phased by the big stuff that sends my stomach twirling and my mind to heac-achey distraction.
He took refuge on the Internet, reading up about where he was going and what he was doing, making sure he knew as much as possible about what was in store to protect against any potential trouble.
That workhorse style has to have its just rewards.
I definitely thought that that was a good move on his part. I'm doing the same with Melbourne, reading guidebooks, forums and websites to find out as much as I can. I still feel like Melbourne is going to kick my ass for at least two weeks before I humble myself enough to apologise and buy it a drink.
I remembered that I did the same thing when I first came to California on a J1. After I spent two weeks in San Francisco, I moved to San Diego to find a job and a place to live for the summer.
That was a bad move. I hate San Diego, and after leaving California yesterday to get to Santa Cruz, I realise now that I also hate the rest of California outside the boundaries of San Fran itself.
It's such a strange state, full of surfers and surfing, liberals, hippies, soccer-moms, vegan restaurants, Pro-gun weirdos, organic foodstores and nuclear families.
I'll give you a minute example, try to put the jigsaw together of the tiny things that make me feel like this.
At one stage, whilst more ambling, we passed by a beaten up Volvo estate with two kids in the back, and an overweight mom in the front berating them. The licence plate read "NRAYES." It took me a while to figure that one out but when I did I loudly started insulting them as we passed by. I couldn't help it. The idiocy of making one pro-murder statement so important to you that it's labelled on your car every time you take your fat ass to the foodstore to slap your kids some more and buy them some diabetes. It just made me see red.
We met Cormac and Meg at the Palace of Fine Arts again because they hadn't seen it and I wanted a closer look. Meg was badly sunburnt on her shoulders. When I was sitting next to her, I fancied I could actually feel the heat from her back it was so red.
We walked back to our hotel at my suggestion as the lads were tired and wanted to use the WiFi we had set up at our hotel, Cormac rang his mom from Sarah's laptop, waking her up because it was 12am in Ireland, even though it was only 4 in San Fran. We drank Sam Adams in the hotel while everyone took turns surfing the net. We were all just talking and relaxing, everyone seemed happy and the vibe was great.
We decided to hike it to North Beach (A wonderful Italian area of San Francisco with a million restaurants and bars, but no beach) to get some good cheap Italian food on our last night together. We set off and walked almost the full length of Chestnut Ave across about 20 or so blocks. We meandered around the small parks and restaurants looking for some place to eat, and eventually stopped in an Irish bar called O'Reilly's for a drink before dinner.
The American barman in the Irish bar poured a bad Guinness that was brought to our table by an Australian waitress while U2 played on the stereo.
It was that kind of place.
Posters full of pictures of Irish bars and Newgrange and old-timey Dublin in the toilets, violins, green post boxes and random old looking bikes hanging spare everywhere.
The waitress recommended the Trattoria Siciliana on the corner a block away for cheap and cheerful pasta and pizza, so we went there. I got the best seafood spaghetti ever. Baby calamari, clams, mussels, prawn, shrimp and miscellaneous in a garlic and tomato sauce.
Cormac and I both really liked our meals, but Meg and Sarah weren't delighted with theirs.
It was a cheap place though, so I put it on my credit card, collected some cash from everyone as I am running low.
After that we went back to the Irish bar again. As soon as we arrived, a guy sitting on his own outside started berating us with drunk Chicago. Ken was his name. He looked like a cross between Charlie Sheen and Simon Cowell with bad teeth.
He was a mad laugh, full of contradiction and contrite diction like most Americans.
Pictures of his kids, Irish jokes, patriotism and flirting with waitresses. All were in his arsenal and all got a stage tonight. I love that East Coast cynicism. California certainly needs some.
He entertained us while I got drunk on more bad Guinness.
I got such a kick out of being Irish and drinking Guinness and smoking on the street outside an Irish bar with no Irish people in it in North Beach San Francisco. I keep catching myself like that, suddenly amidst the doldrums of travel or eating, I keep realising the enormity of San Francisco and the wonderful novelty of being abroad, far from home, and just out to have fun.
We said our goodbyes to Meg and Cormac as we pushed them into a cab. I was really sad to see them go. I don't think I will see Cormac for a year, Meg, I might never see again. I hate those kind of goodbyes.
We got our own cab home and stumbled around the hotel room, rolling and smoking weed, feeling dizzy, changing channels, shouting at the TV, surfing the net and generally being typical Irish hotel guests.
I woke up at 5am and turned off the TV and lights.
I wanted to go to the Exploratorium, a hands-on type science museum for doubting Thomas's of physics. We got there at about 11 after another morning in which i got up early feeling strangely refreshed even though I drank that wine last night and stayed up late after another exhausting day.
For some reason I only need 7 hours sleep now and I'm good to go.
Unfortunately, because it was monday, the Exploratorium was closed. I didn't mind too much though, because it's located at the Palace of Fine Arts, a hugely opulent arch left over from some 1916 economics fair. We sat there in the park, looking at the manicured lake and its arches and smoking cigarettes and cursing while disapproving mothers steered their children around and away from us.
I can't help cursing too much, I'm Irish. Cursing is as alluring as good poetry to me.
But here in California, cursing and smoking on the street makes you akin to a homeless junkie, or one of those moron hippies begging for weed money or bus money or soy milk latte money.
That just makes me want to curse and smoke more. I think I have had over 120 cigarettes since I landed. I can count them from the 600 we bought at the airport. Though I am smoking much less weed because it's very very strong.
After that we went back to the hotel to get a bit of downtime and watch daytime tv until the heat of the midday sun stopped beating down on the cracked landscape.
Cormac texted us to meet up. He and Meg had just biked over the Golden Gate from Pier 39 on rental bikes. It sounded like fun, and Sarah and I decided we would have to include it in our own plans for our last three days, after Cormac and Meg left for New York. The bike route took them all the way across the Presidio Park along the beach and across the bridge, then back again before their 3 hours ran out.
I can't stop thinking about Cian and Sarah and what faces them. They are taking off from Ireland soon and spending a year in Australia with us. They are starting their travels in Bangkok, a place that frightens the shit out of me, and from there, moving to Phi-Phi and Laos and other places whose pronunciations are up for argument.
I knew that Sarah hadn't got her loan confirmed and was hoping that that and the other bureaucratic bullshit was all sorted so they could worry about taking care of themselves and getting nicely drunk to ease the culture shock.
I was also worried about Cian. In the weeks before we left he seemed very self assured. He has this quiet confidence and is never phased by the big stuff that sends my stomach twirling and my mind to heac-achey distraction.
He took refuge on the Internet, reading up about where he was going and what he was doing, making sure he knew as much as possible about what was in store to protect against any potential trouble.
That workhorse style has to have its just rewards.
I definitely thought that that was a good move on his part. I'm doing the same with Melbourne, reading guidebooks, forums and websites to find out as much as I can. I still feel like Melbourne is going to kick my ass for at least two weeks before I humble myself enough to apologise and buy it a drink.
I remembered that I did the same thing when I first came to California on a J1. After I spent two weeks in San Francisco, I moved to San Diego to find a job and a place to live for the summer.
That was a bad move. I hate San Diego, and after leaving California yesterday to get to Santa Cruz, I realise now that I also hate the rest of California outside the boundaries of San Fran itself.
It's such a strange state, full of surfers and surfing, liberals, hippies, soccer-moms, vegan restaurants, Pro-gun weirdos, organic foodstores and nuclear families.
I'll give you a minute example, try to put the jigsaw together of the tiny things that make me feel like this.
At one stage, whilst more ambling, we passed by a beaten up Volvo estate with two kids in the back, and an overweight mom in the front berating them. The licence plate read "NRAYES." It took me a while to figure that one out but when I did I loudly started insulting them as we passed by. I couldn't help it. The idiocy of making one pro-murder statement so important to you that it's labelled on your car every time you take your fat ass to the foodstore to slap your kids some more and buy them some diabetes. It just made me see red.
We met Cormac and Meg at the Palace of Fine Arts again because they hadn't seen it and I wanted a closer look. Meg was badly sunburnt on her shoulders. When I was sitting next to her, I fancied I could actually feel the heat from her back it was so red.
We walked back to our hotel at my suggestion as the lads were tired and wanted to use the WiFi we had set up at our hotel, Cormac rang his mom from Sarah's laptop, waking her up because it was 12am in Ireland, even though it was only 4 in San Fran. We drank Sam Adams in the hotel while everyone took turns surfing the net. We were all just talking and relaxing, everyone seemed happy and the vibe was great.
We decided to hike it to North Beach (A wonderful Italian area of San Francisco with a million restaurants and bars, but no beach) to get some good cheap Italian food on our last night together. We set off and walked almost the full length of Chestnut Ave across about 20 or so blocks. We meandered around the small parks and restaurants looking for some place to eat, and eventually stopped in an Irish bar called O'Reilly's for a drink before dinner.
The American barman in the Irish bar poured a bad Guinness that was brought to our table by an Australian waitress while U2 played on the stereo.
It was that kind of place.
Posters full of pictures of Irish bars and Newgrange and old-timey Dublin in the toilets, violins, green post boxes and random old looking bikes hanging spare everywhere.
The waitress recommended the Trattoria Siciliana on the corner a block away for cheap and cheerful pasta and pizza, so we went there. I got the best seafood spaghetti ever. Baby calamari, clams, mussels, prawn, shrimp and miscellaneous in a garlic and tomato sauce.
Cormac and I both really liked our meals, but Meg and Sarah weren't delighted with theirs.
It was a cheap place though, so I put it on my credit card, collected some cash from everyone as I am running low.
After that we went back to the Irish bar again. As soon as we arrived, a guy sitting on his own outside started berating us with drunk Chicago. Ken was his name. He looked like a cross between Charlie Sheen and Simon Cowell with bad teeth.
He was a mad laugh, full of contradiction and contrite diction like most Americans.
Pictures of his kids, Irish jokes, patriotism and flirting with waitresses. All were in his arsenal and all got a stage tonight. I love that East Coast cynicism. California certainly needs some.
He entertained us while I got drunk on more bad Guinness.
I got such a kick out of being Irish and drinking Guinness and smoking on the street outside an Irish bar with no Irish people in it in North Beach San Francisco. I keep catching myself like that, suddenly amidst the doldrums of travel or eating, I keep realising the enormity of San Francisco and the wonderful novelty of being abroad, far from home, and just out to have fun.
We said our goodbyes to Meg and Cormac as we pushed them into a cab. I was really sad to see them go. I don't think I will see Cormac for a year, Meg, I might never see again. I hate those kind of goodbyes.
We got our own cab home and stumbled around the hotel room, rolling and smoking weed, feeling dizzy, changing channels, shouting at the TV, surfing the net and generally being typical Irish hotel guests.
I woke up at 5am and turned off the TV and lights.
Hippie with vet bills and cute dog. Please give generously.
The day started well. We got breakfast in the same place we had eaten for the two previous days.
I think it's just important for Sarah and I to have a breakfast place, I'm pretty sure we will probably get one in Melbourne pretty quickly.
Its true what they say, I'm totally capable of eating the exact same meal for breakfast until I die.
As long as that thing is crispy hash, bacon, two eggs, sausage and a motherload of great coffee.
We caught the BART to the airport to rent a car, figuring that the airport was the easiest and quickest place to actually rent one. Also, SFO is about 15 miles out from the city, and opens up straight onto the Santa Cruz freeway, 101, highway 280, and basically a driving route straight out to Santa Cruz
So basically we had done our revision when planning the route.
PARAGRAPH DELETED
I had about 6 cigarettes in an hour and a half, but in the end we arrived safely at Santa Cruz.
We were there to meet Cormac's sister, who was studying in UCSC for the year.
The campus is ridiculous. It might make sense if it was a cartoon show version of a University for kids and the students were all squirrels and chipmunks, but as any model of a functional college, its just totally ri-goddamn-diculuous.
The whole thing is across what must be like 40 or 50 acres of Forest. The SU is a bus ride from the Dorms. All the study depts are miles away in some backwater forest. There are frequent deadends leading to scenic nothingness for no apparent reason.
For some reason I really loved the campus.
The only problem is their unhealthy attitude to not drinking.
A college campus should really focus on the booze. Students living on campus are only allowed to drink on campus if they are in their room, on their own.
And they want to prevent problem drinking.
Hannah is 20 and has been drinking for at least 4 years in Ireland. But because she is in America, she cant have a drink for the year. I felt really bad for her, so I used my drivers licence to buy her two bottles of wine. She was really fun and had a great attitude to life, kept high-fiving us at the excitement of living in Santa Cruz for a year.
While we were ambling around the campus, we couldn't help but get immersed in Californian student speak. These dreadlocked disapproving deciduous kids with ideas about a life they had only just begun to taste made me laugh.
They reminded me of me when I started University, so certain of myself it was ridiculous considering that I knew absolutely nothing.
The conversations of the students there were ridiculous, even if you aren't a wannabe intellectual snob like me.
"I cant believe that the senior class didn't know the difference between "Should of" and "should have"" "I was like, my god."
"The thing u gotta, like, realise is that college is not like high school.
It's a whole different animal."
I'm serious. Students here are idiots.
We drove around Santa Cruz for ages, looking at beaches and promenades and piers. It was all pretty samey and dull, very disappointing, but I was still delighted to have the drive up and see the California countryside again.
Pretty much as soon as we left campus I was aching to get back to Frisco though. I only have 4 more days here after today, and I don't want to waste them in shitty seaside towns like Santa Cruz, replete with surf shops, students, surfer morons, vegans, rich hippies, organic supermarkets and goddamn soy milk.
Fuck soy milk.
It was nice to see the place, but even nicer to know that I wasn't staying.
Goddamn I am hard to please.
We finally left at about 7:30 after dropping Hannah off at her campus with her organic groceries.
I know she was glad to see us and hear Irish accents and see familiar faces, but she still walked off without glancing back at her brother, or by extension, I guess her old life.
I really sensed that everything in her was resiliently looking forward. She smiled and said a word to a guy with dirty dreadlocks who came out of her dorms, and strolled into her room.
I really liked her.
We drove home. A fast scenic race against the sunset to change hotels and get some food.
We got as far as one BART stop from the airport before we turned back and decided to drop the car back to the airport rather than driving into San Fran tonight and leaving the car back in the morning.
I was so glad because I couldn't face driving through the San Fran town centre, even if it was late on a Sunday night.
I just don't think I could have sat through that.
So we brought back the rental car (Corolla), got screwed on the cost of petrol (The guy went to wanting to charge us 60 bucks, to 40 bucks, to 23 bucks), and took the bart mack to mission.
We got off at Mission and 24th.
Its the first BART stop that vaguely resembles city, opens up onto a well lit intersection. Its preferable at the moment to getting off at Mission and 16th, even though both stops are equidistant from our motel, but Mission and 16th is much rougher area.
Or so I thought.
On our way back, passing Mission and 23rd on our way to the El Capitan on Mission and 20th, I saw a cop car crossing by on 20th st.
I turned to the guys and started telling them about how cool I thought it was that there were so many police patrolling the tougher part of the city, and how safe it made you feel, even in strange areas. But as soon as we reached the end of the block I realised that something was very wrong.
The cop car that passed by and went out of sight had stopped just a block away, and was now lost amongst 6 other cop cars and an ambulance.
We passed by, silent and worried. I turned to the right and looked, curious as always about what could warrant such a response.
There was a man lying prone on the street.
the police were shining a torch over him. The EMTs from the ambulance were ambling about 10 feet away, The guy was dead and they were shining a torch to examine the scene.
He was one of 7 shootings, stabbings and attacks in the Mission area in the last week.
he was the only victim to die.
We hurried back to the El Capitan, picked up our bags from Cormac and Meg's room, hailed a cab and got the hell back to Lombard and the La Luna as soon as we could. We were tired and hungry after the day and were aching for comfort like the lambs we are.
The Mission is fine really, but after the two dead bodies in two days, a little too much reality was on display and I was glad to turn my back on it, however callous that may sound.
It seems very easy to slip into habitual racism here. I'm not talking KKK or Neo-Nazi stuff either. I just mean racism of the mind, that never crosses your lips and is hard to admit even to yourself. Crossing the road to avoid a group of poorly dressed Latinos on a dark night. Feeling uncomfortable on the bus. Survival mode kicks in and you just don't want to take chances, no matter how silly it all seems the second the imagined danger has passed.
Something non-specific seems to make every demographic want to keep to itself and that even infects the tourists. I hope it doesn't stay with me after I leave.
Still, nobody can tell us we didn't see as much as we could have on my return to San Fran.
I still have 4 days left here, I'm wondering if I will get the hat trick of corpses before I go.
The cab driver was silent and sullen, but he went like the wind, carrying us away from the mission and towards the comfort of a motor inn.
Thank god for him and the bottle of fantastic 2004 Amarone in my bag. I got nicely drunk for the first time since I got here. And man did it feel good. I watched TV for most of the night while Sarah got her Internet fix. At one stage, I managed to flick channels for a full 16 minutes before I saw something that wasn't an advertisement.
I think it's just important for Sarah and I to have a breakfast place, I'm pretty sure we will probably get one in Melbourne pretty quickly.
Its true what they say, I'm totally capable of eating the exact same meal for breakfast until I die.
As long as that thing is crispy hash, bacon, two eggs, sausage and a motherload of great coffee.
We caught the BART to the airport to rent a car, figuring that the airport was the easiest and quickest place to actually rent one. Also, SFO is about 15 miles out from the city, and opens up straight onto the Santa Cruz freeway, 101, highway 280, and basically a driving route straight out to Santa Cruz
So basically we had done our revision when planning the route.
PARAGRAPH DELETED
I had about 6 cigarettes in an hour and a half, but in the end we arrived safely at Santa Cruz.
We were there to meet Cormac's sister, who was studying in UCSC for the year.
The campus is ridiculous. It might make sense if it was a cartoon show version of a University for kids and the students were all squirrels and chipmunks, but as any model of a functional college, its just totally ri-goddamn-diculuous.
The whole thing is across what must be like 40 or 50 acres of Forest. The SU is a bus ride from the Dorms. All the study depts are miles away in some backwater forest. There are frequent deadends leading to scenic nothingness for no apparent reason.
For some reason I really loved the campus.
The only problem is their unhealthy attitude to not drinking.
A college campus should really focus on the booze. Students living on campus are only allowed to drink on campus if they are in their room, on their own.
And they want to prevent problem drinking.
Hannah is 20 and has been drinking for at least 4 years in Ireland. But because she is in America, she cant have a drink for the year. I felt really bad for her, so I used my drivers licence to buy her two bottles of wine. She was really fun and had a great attitude to life, kept high-fiving us at the excitement of living in Santa Cruz for a year.
While we were ambling around the campus, we couldn't help but get immersed in Californian student speak. These dreadlocked disapproving deciduous kids with ideas about a life they had only just begun to taste made me laugh.
They reminded me of me when I started University, so certain of myself it was ridiculous considering that I knew absolutely nothing.
The conversations of the students there were ridiculous, even if you aren't a wannabe intellectual snob like me.
"I cant believe that the senior class didn't know the difference between "Should of" and "should have"" "I was like, my god."
"The thing u gotta, like, realise is that college is not like high school.
It's a whole different animal."
I'm serious. Students here are idiots.
We drove around Santa Cruz for ages, looking at beaches and promenades and piers. It was all pretty samey and dull, very disappointing, but I was still delighted to have the drive up and see the California countryside again.
Pretty much as soon as we left campus I was aching to get back to Frisco though. I only have 4 more days here after today, and I don't want to waste them in shitty seaside towns like Santa Cruz, replete with surf shops, students, surfer morons, vegans, rich hippies, organic supermarkets and goddamn soy milk.
Fuck soy milk.
It was nice to see the place, but even nicer to know that I wasn't staying.
Goddamn I am hard to please.
We finally left at about 7:30 after dropping Hannah off at her campus with her organic groceries.
I know she was glad to see us and hear Irish accents and see familiar faces, but she still walked off without glancing back at her brother, or by extension, I guess her old life.
I really sensed that everything in her was resiliently looking forward. She smiled and said a word to a guy with dirty dreadlocks who came out of her dorms, and strolled into her room.
I really liked her.
We drove home. A fast scenic race against the sunset to change hotels and get some food.
We got as far as one BART stop from the airport before we turned back and decided to drop the car back to the airport rather than driving into San Fran tonight and leaving the car back in the morning.
I was so glad because I couldn't face driving through the San Fran town centre, even if it was late on a Sunday night.
I just don't think I could have sat through that.
So we brought back the rental car (Corolla), got screwed on the cost of petrol (The guy went to wanting to charge us 60 bucks, to 40 bucks, to 23 bucks), and took the bart mack to mission.
We got off at Mission and 24th.
Its the first BART stop that vaguely resembles city, opens up onto a well lit intersection. Its preferable at the moment to getting off at Mission and 16th, even though both stops are equidistant from our motel, but Mission and 16th is much rougher area.
Or so I thought.
On our way back, passing Mission and 23rd on our way to the El Capitan on Mission and 20th, I saw a cop car crossing by on 20th st.
I turned to the guys and started telling them about how cool I thought it was that there were so many police patrolling the tougher part of the city, and how safe it made you feel, even in strange areas. But as soon as we reached the end of the block I realised that something was very wrong.
The cop car that passed by and went out of sight had stopped just a block away, and was now lost amongst 6 other cop cars and an ambulance.
We passed by, silent and worried. I turned to the right and looked, curious as always about what could warrant such a response.
There was a man lying prone on the street.
the police were shining a torch over him. The EMTs from the ambulance were ambling about 10 feet away, The guy was dead and they were shining a torch to examine the scene.
He was one of 7 shootings, stabbings and attacks in the Mission area in the last week.
he was the only victim to die.
We hurried back to the El Capitan, picked up our bags from Cormac and Meg's room, hailed a cab and got the hell back to Lombard and the La Luna as soon as we could. We were tired and hungry after the day and were aching for comfort like the lambs we are.
The Mission is fine really, but after the two dead bodies in two days, a little too much reality was on display and I was glad to turn my back on it, however callous that may sound.
It seems very easy to slip into habitual racism here. I'm not talking KKK or Neo-Nazi stuff either. I just mean racism of the mind, that never crosses your lips and is hard to admit even to yourself. Crossing the road to avoid a group of poorly dressed Latinos on a dark night. Feeling uncomfortable on the bus. Survival mode kicks in and you just don't want to take chances, no matter how silly it all seems the second the imagined danger has passed.
Something non-specific seems to make every demographic want to keep to itself and that even infects the tourists. I hope it doesn't stay with me after I leave.
Still, nobody can tell us we didn't see as much as we could have on my return to San Fran.
I still have 4 days left here, I'm wondering if I will get the hat trick of corpses before I go.
The cab driver was silent and sullen, but he went like the wind, carrying us away from the mission and towards the comfort of a motor inn.
Thank god for him and the bottle of fantastic 2004 Amarone in my bag. I got nicely drunk for the first time since I got here. And man did it feel good. I watched TV for most of the night while Sarah got her Internet fix. At one stage, I managed to flick channels for a full 16 minutes before I saw something that wasn't an advertisement.
The tighty whitey mighty fighty.
Today we spent the day like real tourists. We strolled through Union Square and up on into China town. It was bustling, the air was full of exotic smells and the streets were swelled with Chinese people. The 4 or 5 blocks of China Town we walked through had the heaviest footfall of anywhere in the City.
It's a great place. Everyone there is respectful and cheerful, and apologetic when they inevitable bump into you because the crowds are so thick. All too quickly we had strolled through it, and we stopped off at City Lights. City Lights is a bookstore / occasional publishing house that is one of the Historical homes of the entire Beat Generation of writers that I adore. Across the street is the Beat Museum. A door down is Vesuvio, the famous bar pictured in many of the most famous Beat scenes. This was another real highpoint of the holiday for me.
Just walking through there, I felt connected with all the drunken, crazy, esoteric glaring genius that the place had sucked an existence from. I browsed through more Beat writers than I knew ever existed and felt elated. Hairs were actually standing up on the back of my neck as I red the placards under the pictures on the wall. It really was a shrine to the Beats, the star fucker of the entire 50's literary and musical counter-culture scene.
There is an air in the place like a hushed church. Jazz music plays slow in the background as people quietly amble through pictures of Ginsberg and Dylan.
Something else has been happening lately.
For some corny reason, I can feel my faith and spirituality is re-awakening. I am beginning to comprehend the thoughts of higher powers without making a face or contorting in the anger of a staunch atheist. I don't think I was ever a good Catholic, and the idea of their doctrine is still laughable to me, but somehow I am feeling a higher power looking over us on this trip.
Sarah lost her credit card in the bookshop.
I think it must have happened when she opened her wallet to pay for three postcards, little paper plaques to connect us to the place.
The guy working behind the counter came out onto the street and asked
"Are you Sarah Madden?"
She nodded affirmation. We were both really confused, not knowing if we were to get some prize or the cops were about to show up.
He handed Sarah her credit card. It was a bit of a shock for both of us. We were delighted to have it back but incredibly freaked out at what might have happened had this worthy guy not been so perceptive.
Phew all round.
And thats what I mean, little strokes of luck like that have cropped up a number of times since we got here. Tidbits from conversations, sage advice, crazy fun, all have popped our way for no reason and for which I am grateful and slightly shaken.
When we were outside, we started talking with a college professor who was taking some students on a tour of the area. He started asking me about writers that I had never heard of, but also had a font of information. He pointed out Francis Ford Coppola's building, and also the cafe where he wrote his screenplay for The Godfather. He showed us a famous speakeasy on the corner, and the first topless dancing bar in San Francisco.
Apparently the Beats were allowed to flourish in North Beach, a largely Italian area. I was wondering if this was because of the continental, ignore what you can't fix attitude, but either way, when I left the bookshop i was in awe.
From there we went to Coit Tower. It was a gift to the City donated by some kind and moneyed lady, and stands tall on North Beach with a towering view. You have to pay four dollars fifty to ride an elevator to the top, but once you are up there, a panorama of the city awaits that is quite breathtaking.
The view was great but the plastic windows you had to peer through made it feel fake.
Pier 39 was our next stop. It's the most tourist friendly area of the city and also one of the worst money traps. It has a lovely atmosphere and a million vendors lined up to take money off of you for sea lion teddies, candy floss and hot dogs. Everyone there is not a local because there is nothing in Pier 39 for any non-tourists.
I remembered from being here 4 years ago that one of the main attractions were a huge number of sea lions that lazed around on floating crates at the end of the pier. I thought it would be fun to take everyone down, because we were in the neighbourhood and it's great cheesy fun. They fight each other like puppies. We watched them for ages, completely transfixed by the strange interactions.
By this stage we had walked through most of downtown and I was ready to drop. I strolled to pier 33 to buy tickets to take a ferry to Alcatraz and then we caught the bus back to the hotel.
We had a nice smoke and took the weight off of our feet, but after an hour we got up again and we all hailed a cab for Golden Gate Park. We ended up getting a limo there. We hailed a normal cab which passed us by, but this small black limousine pulled up behind it, ready to take us. The guy was really decent and took us all the way to Golden Gate Park for 20 dollars, like 5 dollars each. and we got to ride on leather seats with the windows open and hear him tell us stories about how it was his first day back and his boss was already on his back.
When we got off at the Haight it was just as dodgy as before. It was made even more dodgy in our heads because the Cab driver had told us stories of people being gunned down in broad daylight by automatic weapons. So understandably, we strolled past upper Haight and Hippie Hill quite quickly. The only trouble was that by the time we got there, all the bike and boat rental places we were closed and we were all too tired for serious hiking. Cormac found us a bus and we took it all the way downtown so we could get a BART back to the hotel, find a local restaurant, eat there and fall asleep early for tomorrow, when we are hiring a car and driving to Santa Cruz. I'm really looking forward to it, and also to the La Luna Inn, where we are staying tomorrow night. We are leaving the El Capitan two days early to head back to cable TV and motel based king size bed comfort. It's only 50 dollars a night each and is worth it for the toilet in our own room alone.
Really looking forward to tomorrow. It's one of the few times I will be on the open road in America. Meg is driving as she is the one with the American licence, so I can drink when we get there and everything.
Excited!
It's a great place. Everyone there is respectful and cheerful, and apologetic when they inevitable bump into you because the crowds are so thick. All too quickly we had strolled through it, and we stopped off at City Lights. City Lights is a bookstore / occasional publishing house that is one of the Historical homes of the entire Beat Generation of writers that I adore. Across the street is the Beat Museum. A door down is Vesuvio, the famous bar pictured in many of the most famous Beat scenes. This was another real highpoint of the holiday for me.
Just walking through there, I felt connected with all the drunken, crazy, esoteric glaring genius that the place had sucked an existence from. I browsed through more Beat writers than I knew ever existed and felt elated. Hairs were actually standing up on the back of my neck as I red the placards under the pictures on the wall. It really was a shrine to the Beats, the star fucker of the entire 50's literary and musical counter-culture scene.
There is an air in the place like a hushed church. Jazz music plays slow in the background as people quietly amble through pictures of Ginsberg and Dylan.
Something else has been happening lately.
For some corny reason, I can feel my faith and spirituality is re-awakening. I am beginning to comprehend the thoughts of higher powers without making a face or contorting in the anger of a staunch atheist. I don't think I was ever a good Catholic, and the idea of their doctrine is still laughable to me, but somehow I am feeling a higher power looking over us on this trip.
Sarah lost her credit card in the bookshop.
I think it must have happened when she opened her wallet to pay for three postcards, little paper plaques to connect us to the place.
The guy working behind the counter came out onto the street and asked
"Are you Sarah Madden?"
She nodded affirmation. We were both really confused, not knowing if we were to get some prize or the cops were about to show up.
He handed Sarah her credit card. It was a bit of a shock for both of us. We were delighted to have it back but incredibly freaked out at what might have happened had this worthy guy not been so perceptive.
Phew all round.
And thats what I mean, little strokes of luck like that have cropped up a number of times since we got here. Tidbits from conversations, sage advice, crazy fun, all have popped our way for no reason and for which I am grateful and slightly shaken.
When we were outside, we started talking with a college professor who was taking some students on a tour of the area. He started asking me about writers that I had never heard of, but also had a font of information. He pointed out Francis Ford Coppola's building, and also the cafe where he wrote his screenplay for The Godfather. He showed us a famous speakeasy on the corner, and the first topless dancing bar in San Francisco.
Apparently the Beats were allowed to flourish in North Beach, a largely Italian area. I was wondering if this was because of the continental, ignore what you can't fix attitude, but either way, when I left the bookshop i was in awe.
From there we went to Coit Tower. It was a gift to the City donated by some kind and moneyed lady, and stands tall on North Beach with a towering view. You have to pay four dollars fifty to ride an elevator to the top, but once you are up there, a panorama of the city awaits that is quite breathtaking.
The view was great but the plastic windows you had to peer through made it feel fake.
Pier 39 was our next stop. It's the most tourist friendly area of the city and also one of the worst money traps. It has a lovely atmosphere and a million vendors lined up to take money off of you for sea lion teddies, candy floss and hot dogs. Everyone there is not a local because there is nothing in Pier 39 for any non-tourists.
I remembered from being here 4 years ago that one of the main attractions were a huge number of sea lions that lazed around on floating crates at the end of the pier. I thought it would be fun to take everyone down, because we were in the neighbourhood and it's great cheesy fun. They fight each other like puppies. We watched them for ages, completely transfixed by the strange interactions.
By this stage we had walked through most of downtown and I was ready to drop. I strolled to pier 33 to buy tickets to take a ferry to Alcatraz and then we caught the bus back to the hotel.
We had a nice smoke and took the weight off of our feet, but after an hour we got up again and we all hailed a cab for Golden Gate Park. We ended up getting a limo there. We hailed a normal cab which passed us by, but this small black limousine pulled up behind it, ready to take us. The guy was really decent and took us all the way to Golden Gate Park for 20 dollars, like 5 dollars each. and we got to ride on leather seats with the windows open and hear him tell us stories about how it was his first day back and his boss was already on his back.
When we got off at the Haight it was just as dodgy as before. It was made even more dodgy in our heads because the Cab driver had told us stories of people being gunned down in broad daylight by automatic weapons. So understandably, we strolled past upper Haight and Hippie Hill quite quickly. The only trouble was that by the time we got there, all the bike and boat rental places we were closed and we were all too tired for serious hiking. Cormac found us a bus and we took it all the way downtown so we could get a BART back to the hotel, find a local restaurant, eat there and fall asleep early for tomorrow, when we are hiring a car and driving to Santa Cruz. I'm really looking forward to it, and also to the La Luna Inn, where we are staying tomorrow night. We are leaving the El Capitan two days early to head back to cable TV and motel based king size bed comfort. It's only 50 dollars a night each and is worth it for the toilet in our own room alone.
Really looking forward to tomorrow. It's one of the few times I will be on the open road in America. Meg is driving as she is the one with the American licence, so I can drink when we get there and everything.
Excited!
Friends!
We met up with Cormac and Meg after a half an hour or so of uncomfortable waiting around outside the BART station. After seeing some of the worse elements of the Mission, and also having experienced the red-eyed lunacy that long distance air travel can reduce to you, I thought it would be better to meet them and escort them to the hotel, to save them the thinking about where to go with no sleep in 36 hours.
Again I think it was just a situation where I was unfamiliar with the area, but Sarah and I kept moving around to avoid any potential trouble.
Cormac and Meg were in great form, particularly as they had just travelled for 20 hours. We walked them back to the hotel and they stayed up for a beer and a smoke with us. It was great to see a familiar face, and also to hear an Irish accent. It's very hard to stem the incorporation of a mild Cali twang in my voice, but while anyone else Irish is around, its much easier to cut that out.
Again I think it was just a situation where I was unfamiliar with the area, but Sarah and I kept moving around to avoid any potential trouble.
Cormac and Meg were in great form, particularly as they had just travelled for 20 hours. We walked them back to the hotel and they stayed up for a beer and a smoke with us. It was great to see a familiar face, and also to hear an Irish accent. It's very hard to stem the incorporation of a mild Cali twang in my voice, but while anyone else Irish is around, its much easier to cut that out.
Turtles must have sore backs.
We checked out from the La Luna inn on Lombard after waking up at 8am again.
I was really sorry to leave.
The relative luxury in the place made a nice comfort blanket.
It protected me from the worst of the early homesickness, and also seemed a safe haven from the outside world.
I love a cocoon, and I was definitely a little apprehensive about moving to the Mission district, even if it was only for 2 nights.
The jet lag has us beaten up a bit still but we slept soundly with ear plugs for a nice 8 hours.
Lombard is a busy street and the traffic starts at 6am and doesn't ease all day so the road noise is quite bad.
I was pretty hungover when I woke up.
Not puking and headachey hungover, just that cranky tired feeling that Sarah has had to put up with for so long.
I drank a lot of vodka last night to try and get drunk, but I couldn't get any sort of buzz on and fell asleep at 11:45 watching Family Guy.
Because of this goofing off last night, we had to pack our backpacks this morning before we checked out. I grabbed two coffees from the breakfast tray downstairs and packed everything up as quickly and rolled up and folded all my clothes to try and make them fit as snugly as possible in my overflowing lifepack.
I don't know how anyone can haul a big heavy backpack like mine around everywhere.
I know I don't want to do it much.
Backpacking and world travelling from hostel to hostel is something I think I could never enjoy. I don't feel like a backpacker. I'm too early-old and middle class to enjoy the grime of the city. I like to see the sights and hide from the seedier aspects of the area.
In many ways I am akin to an ageing American tourist.
I'm a bit disappointed with myself saying that, but I'm pretty sure that I will never be the kind of person who would never be comfortable roughing it.
I threw out some old clothes to make room for cigarettes and lighten the load a little bit.
My socks have gone nuclear since I got here, if Sarah smells them she might pass out. I'm used to it, and there comes a point where the smell of my socks gets so bad it's actually vaguely impressive.
Like how sometimes you can revel in the smell of your own gas.
I didn't want that smell permeating through my 65 litre bag, infecting the remainder of my clean clothes, so I was glad to see them go, and taking out a few of my heavier tee-shirts and anything I bought in Dunnes made for a much happier back when I had to throw the big bag over both shoulders.
It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to carry the laptop bag around too, but its worth it for music, and the fact that I can actually write no matter where I am.
I still can't believe how the writing is pouring out of me. I have to get everything down so quickly, to try and remember exactly what was special about this trip.
That's been bothering me lately too. This style of diary, mile a minute writing, there is no finesse to it. I can't rewrite and fix things. Though I always thought that the first draft is the honest one. And each rewrite introduces a new lie to the story, even if you are only lying to yourself.
But it is great to flex my personal writing muscles. I'm thinking that it might be something I will look back on when I'm old and useless and be proud of some of the travelling I did while I could.
So many times I have seen wonderful things, and for the want of a photo, or a little note to self, the memory of them flits away like an autumn bird, only to return in a fleeting dream, or just hiding over the tip of my tongue, tantalisingly out of my memory though I fight to reclaim it. But this is possibly just one small part of what definitely feels like a new stage in my life, I am beginning to feel really adult, and I am certain that I want to remember this experience forever.
We got a cab straight from the La Luna to the mission. wondering what was in store at the El Capitan hotel.
I'm really certain that the most interesting people in San Francisco are the cab drivers.
First off, the way they cut a swathe through the traffic is really impressive. Aside from that, for the ten dollars or so I give them, I generally like to ask a few questions, you know, find out a bit of local info straight from the horses'.
Is this restaurant nice?
Whats the music like here?
Basic stuff.
But as soon as you ask one question, there seems to be an automatic warmth built up, these crazy people are all on their way to something better, or people happy with their life, and they all seem to have great stories or attitudes or smells.
The cab driver we got to the Mission was one of the best.
He really reminded me of Hammy.
He played guitar, mandolin, ukulele, piano, just about everything. Told us he was moving to France next year with his girlfriend.
He was 61 and was going out with a french woman for 12 years.
I initiated by asking him if there were any Irish bars in the city, so we could catch the rugby, but as soon as I started him, he was off sprinting.
He began with tales of how he had played in a load of blues groups in the city and segued into his back catalogue of musical proficiency.
Pretty soon, he was telling us about how his mom died.
She left all of her 7 kids a little note telling them not to mourn, that it has to be this way, so get on with your life, live it and be happy.
This guy seemed really happy, and from nowhere, I suddenly hoped that his mother is happy too.
This is another sin that this city commits. My spirituality is coming to life, despite my cynical mind trying to keep it down.
I even hate the word spirituality. The non-specificity of it makes it a cliche. Particularly in America where spirituality refers to everything from healing crystals to Toyota Prius's. But somehow, I have a hunch that there is something, somewhere, keeping a general eye on us, content to watch, but occasionally intent on poking in the right direction. Its nice to feel that protection, particularly as we didn't buy travel insurance.
I turned to the cab driver as he was telling us how much he missed her, just missed talking to her about his life. For some reason I said a very catholic thing. I told him that he should still speak to her, because she will always listen even if she doesn't reply.
Its funny how the bond of mothers and sons can cross even that barrier. I remembered my mother in a stomach warming flash. It was calming to know that the Atlantic barrier we had could be traversed with a phone call or an email, and I know she will always listen too.
The cab driver kept telling us how lucky he was, and he had high hopes for France, which was to be his retirement home after all. He is retiring there to play in a band with some of his friends. He was also a native American, part of some tribe I don't remember, and he made jewellery in an Indian style. He had a cert to teach English as a foreign language . He also lived in Haight Ashbury in '67! He saw the summer of love.
I hope I end up like that guy. But I probably drink and complain too much.
We pulled up at the El Capitan and he helped us with our bags. It was a real beatdown place. From the outside it looked like an abandoned cinema, a place that had definitely seen better times. When we got to the reception the military guy that ran the place was very friendly, very matter-of-fact.
The room is pretty bare. We have a sink, a small bed and a cupboard. And a TV from the early '80s where the picture is predominantly red and never in focus. I always leave a TV on in the background. Like a lonely dog, the chatter is comforting to me if I'm alone or Sarah is quiet.
We were pretty happy with the place, but disappointed with the bare functionality in comparison with the La Luna, though neither of us would admit it to each other. It's great to feel that both of us are really trying to make the most of every situation. Even if we are both secretly unhappy about something, sometimes just ignoring it makes it go away, and soon we were laughing and I had a smile on my face again.
We owned up and both decided to head back to La Luna for the last 3 nights. I felt like a lost tribesman wandering in a rival's patch for some reason, like I really didn't belong in the Mission. I couldn't really weed out the anthropological reasons for my discomfort, but I was happy to run with it and call up the La Luna to book the last 5 nights there.
And its pretty cheap too, less than 50 dollars each a night. I will put it on credit card and worry about it when I get to Melbourne.
We went for breakfast, leaving our worries about the El Capitan behind as we crossed it's threshold.
I love American diners. The choice is fantastic.
Two types of mustard, ketchup, grey poupon, half and half, skimmed milk, cream, bacon crispy burnt or mild, eggs up, over, easy or medium, hash crispy or buttery, and coffee, lots and lots of good coffee with everything.
Why don't they have English muffins in England? Or Ireland for that matter. It is the final perfection of toast. The predator of toast. It will hunt down all white, brown, sourdough and baguettes and destroy them mercilessly without regard for creed, colour, or nutritional value. If Jimmy Page was a baker, his Stairway would be the English muffin.
I was full as hell after breakfast and lit up a cigarette as soon as we came out of the diner. The diner we chose was just over the street from the hotel, so as soon as I came out, I could see the entrance to the El Capitan. The main gate, a big steel edifice that was clearly put there for a reason, was obscured by a police car, lights flashing, no siren. Hairs on the back of my neck suddenly at half mast.
When we had a look in reception, it turns out some guy, late 40's, died in his sleep last night. His work called the hotel when he didn't show up last night.
I know all this because I eaves dropped on the military guy who runs the El Capitan talking to the police.
Well I'm trying to write, and I;m curious about everything and everyone, and death is pretty interesting stuff.
The guy who runs the hotel said it was the 11th person to die in the hotel in 6 years. He also said that the guy who died used to work security in the exact same hotel.
He must have known him well.
The dead man lived here permanently. Its kinda sad because its hard to imagine some guy dying alone in a small bedroom in a hostel in San Fran. Nobody would have known for days if his job hadn't called the hotel, probably angry about his no-show. I think he had a more pressing appointment that night I hope his employer will understand.
The real unfortunate thing was that when we left after collecting our maps from our room, when we passed the stairway to the exit, we also passed a corpse shaped white plastic bag, with a stretcher next to it and two EMT's sitting around silently.
The guy was easily 6 foot and probably about 15 or 16 stone. Stout like most security guards, but I wouldn't say fat. I guessed all this from the lumpy shape in the white plastic bag which was the only memorial left to this guy's mark on the world, other than a possibly unpaid rent cheque.
I left a note with the receptionist to tell Cormac and Meg which room we are in so they would know where to go when they arrive tonight. Looking forward to seeing them really. Its hard being so far away. I called my dad this morning and it seemed so weird to hear his voice so clearly from 5000 odd miles away.
I was really sorry to leave.
The relative luxury in the place made a nice comfort blanket.
It protected me from the worst of the early homesickness, and also seemed a safe haven from the outside world.
I love a cocoon, and I was definitely a little apprehensive about moving to the Mission district, even if it was only for 2 nights.
The jet lag has us beaten up a bit still but we slept soundly with ear plugs for a nice 8 hours.
Lombard is a busy street and the traffic starts at 6am and doesn't ease all day so the road noise is quite bad.
I was pretty hungover when I woke up.
Not puking and headachey hungover, just that cranky tired feeling that Sarah has had to put up with for so long.
I drank a lot of vodka last night to try and get drunk, but I couldn't get any sort of buzz on and fell asleep at 11:45 watching Family Guy.
Because of this goofing off last night, we had to pack our backpacks this morning before we checked out. I grabbed two coffees from the breakfast tray downstairs and packed everything up as quickly and rolled up and folded all my clothes to try and make them fit as snugly as possible in my overflowing lifepack.
I don't know how anyone can haul a big heavy backpack like mine around everywhere.
I know I don't want to do it much.
Backpacking and world travelling from hostel to hostel is something I think I could never enjoy. I don't feel like a backpacker. I'm too early-old and middle class to enjoy the grime of the city. I like to see the sights and hide from the seedier aspects of the area.
In many ways I am akin to an ageing American tourist.
I'm a bit disappointed with myself saying that, but I'm pretty sure that I will never be the kind of person who would never be comfortable roughing it.
I threw out some old clothes to make room for cigarettes and lighten the load a little bit.
My socks have gone nuclear since I got here, if Sarah smells them she might pass out. I'm used to it, and there comes a point where the smell of my socks gets so bad it's actually vaguely impressive.
Like how sometimes you can revel in the smell of your own gas.
I didn't want that smell permeating through my 65 litre bag, infecting the remainder of my clean clothes, so I was glad to see them go, and taking out a few of my heavier tee-shirts and anything I bought in Dunnes made for a much happier back when I had to throw the big bag over both shoulders.
It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to carry the laptop bag around too, but its worth it for music, and the fact that I can actually write no matter where I am.
I still can't believe how the writing is pouring out of me. I have to get everything down so quickly, to try and remember exactly what was special about this trip.
That's been bothering me lately too. This style of diary, mile a minute writing, there is no finesse to it. I can't rewrite and fix things. Though I always thought that the first draft is the honest one. And each rewrite introduces a new lie to the story, even if you are only lying to yourself.
But it is great to flex my personal writing muscles. I'm thinking that it might be something I will look back on when I'm old and useless and be proud of some of the travelling I did while I could.
So many times I have seen wonderful things, and for the want of a photo, or a little note to self, the memory of them flits away like an autumn bird, only to return in a fleeting dream, or just hiding over the tip of my tongue, tantalisingly out of my memory though I fight to reclaim it. But this is possibly just one small part of what definitely feels like a new stage in my life, I am beginning to feel really adult, and I am certain that I want to remember this experience forever.
We got a cab straight from the La Luna to the mission. wondering what was in store at the El Capitan hotel.
I'm really certain that the most interesting people in San Francisco are the cab drivers.
First off, the way they cut a swathe through the traffic is really impressive. Aside from that, for the ten dollars or so I give them, I generally like to ask a few questions, you know, find out a bit of local info straight from the horses'.
Is this restaurant nice?
Whats the music like here?
Basic stuff.
But as soon as you ask one question, there seems to be an automatic warmth built up, these crazy people are all on their way to something better, or people happy with their life, and they all seem to have great stories or attitudes or smells.
The cab driver we got to the Mission was one of the best.
He really reminded me of Hammy.
He played guitar, mandolin, ukulele, piano, just about everything. Told us he was moving to France next year with his girlfriend.
He was 61 and was going out with a french woman for 12 years.
I initiated by asking him if there were any Irish bars in the city, so we could catch the rugby, but as soon as I started him, he was off sprinting.
He began with tales of how he had played in a load of blues groups in the city and segued into his back catalogue of musical proficiency.
Pretty soon, he was telling us about how his mom died.
She left all of her 7 kids a little note telling them not to mourn, that it has to be this way, so get on with your life, live it and be happy.
This guy seemed really happy, and from nowhere, I suddenly hoped that his mother is happy too.
This is another sin that this city commits. My spirituality is coming to life, despite my cynical mind trying to keep it down.
I even hate the word spirituality. The non-specificity of it makes it a cliche. Particularly in America where spirituality refers to everything from healing crystals to Toyota Prius's. But somehow, I have a hunch that there is something, somewhere, keeping a general eye on us, content to watch, but occasionally intent on poking in the right direction. Its nice to feel that protection, particularly as we didn't buy travel insurance.
I turned to the cab driver as he was telling us how much he missed her, just missed talking to her about his life. For some reason I said a very catholic thing. I told him that he should still speak to her, because she will always listen even if she doesn't reply.
Its funny how the bond of mothers and sons can cross even that barrier. I remembered my mother in a stomach warming flash. It was calming to know that the Atlantic barrier we had could be traversed with a phone call or an email, and I know she will always listen too.
The cab driver kept telling us how lucky he was, and he had high hopes for France, which was to be his retirement home after all. He is retiring there to play in a band with some of his friends. He was also a native American, part of some tribe I don't remember, and he made jewellery in an Indian style. He had a cert to teach English as a foreign language . He also lived in Haight Ashbury in '67! He saw the summer of love.
I hope I end up like that guy. But I probably drink and complain too much.
We pulled up at the El Capitan and he helped us with our bags. It was a real beatdown place. From the outside it looked like an abandoned cinema, a place that had definitely seen better times. When we got to the reception the military guy that ran the place was very friendly, very matter-of-fact.
The room is pretty bare. We have a sink, a small bed and a cupboard. And a TV from the early '80s where the picture is predominantly red and never in focus. I always leave a TV on in the background. Like a lonely dog, the chatter is comforting to me if I'm alone or Sarah is quiet.
We were pretty happy with the place, but disappointed with the bare functionality in comparison with the La Luna, though neither of us would admit it to each other. It's great to feel that both of us are really trying to make the most of every situation. Even if we are both secretly unhappy about something, sometimes just ignoring it makes it go away, and soon we were laughing and I had a smile on my face again.
We owned up and both decided to head back to La Luna for the last 3 nights. I felt like a lost tribesman wandering in a rival's patch for some reason, like I really didn't belong in the Mission. I couldn't really weed out the anthropological reasons for my discomfort, but I was happy to run with it and call up the La Luna to book the last 5 nights there.
And its pretty cheap too, less than 50 dollars each a night. I will put it on credit card and worry about it when I get to Melbourne.
We went for breakfast, leaving our worries about the El Capitan behind as we crossed it's threshold.
I love American diners. The choice is fantastic.
Two types of mustard, ketchup, grey poupon, half and half, skimmed milk, cream, bacon crispy burnt or mild, eggs up, over, easy or medium, hash crispy or buttery, and coffee, lots and lots of good coffee with everything.
Why don't they have English muffins in England? Or Ireland for that matter. It is the final perfection of toast. The predator of toast. It will hunt down all white, brown, sourdough and baguettes and destroy them mercilessly without regard for creed, colour, or nutritional value. If Jimmy Page was a baker, his Stairway would be the English muffin.
I was full as hell after breakfast and lit up a cigarette as soon as we came out of the diner. The diner we chose was just over the street from the hotel, so as soon as I came out, I could see the entrance to the El Capitan. The main gate, a big steel edifice that was clearly put there for a reason, was obscured by a police car, lights flashing, no siren. Hairs on the back of my neck suddenly at half mast.
When we had a look in reception, it turns out some guy, late 40's, died in his sleep last night. His work called the hotel when he didn't show up last night.
I know all this because I eaves dropped on the military guy who runs the El Capitan talking to the police.
Well I'm trying to write, and I;m curious about everything and everyone, and death is pretty interesting stuff.
The guy who runs the hotel said it was the 11th person to die in the hotel in 6 years. He also said that the guy who died used to work security in the exact same hotel.
He must have known him well.
The dead man lived here permanently. Its kinda sad because its hard to imagine some guy dying alone in a small bedroom in a hostel in San Fran. Nobody would have known for days if his job hadn't called the hotel, probably angry about his no-show. I think he had a more pressing appointment that night I hope his employer will understand.
The real unfortunate thing was that when we left after collecting our maps from our room, when we passed the stairway to the exit, we also passed a corpse shaped white plastic bag, with a stretcher next to it and two EMT's sitting around silently.
The guy was easily 6 foot and probably about 15 or 16 stone. Stout like most security guards, but I wouldn't say fat. I guessed all this from the lumpy shape in the white plastic bag which was the only memorial left to this guy's mark on the world, other than a possibly unpaid rent cheque.
I left a note with the receptionist to tell Cormac and Meg which room we are in so they would know where to go when they arrive tonight. Looking forward to seeing them really. Its hard being so far away. I called my dad this morning and it seemed so weird to hear his voice so clearly from 5000 odd miles away.
Day One San Fran
The haight is dead man. The homeless generations that marched there have finally rolled their death knell, given up, passed the pipe and now works as a waitress in a Mc. Donalds downtown.
Don't bother telling me what you're thinking. I'm 24 and its 2007. As long as I can remember, the word "hippie" has been an insult. A joke. It's just another byword for kitsch, an identity for cooky teenagers to act out, a label, a slogan.
They use flower power to sell cars now.
Anyone who actually mattered in that scene in the sixties sleeps on the side of the road. Or six feet under.
I'm not talking about hippies here. I'm just pissed off because we have lost one more stage where we had the freedom to express freedom.
For anyone of the millions of disillusioned idiots like me, with dreams beyond dollar signs, it's just so funny to think, what killed the messages from the sixties? Who silenced the idea that the power of youth could become a force that mattered rather than a phase you pass through between drudgery?
Between school and work.
Between the warm hug of your dreams for yourself slowly turning to mediocrity.
The sense of a new evolution in human thinking, of hope in folly. Just dead like so many useless hippies.
I wonder what my dad would say if he ever read that. I see him laughing in my face or roaring at me for thinking that what was born there was ever anything more than a bunch of dirty drug addicts.
And yeah, he is right.
The cab dropped us on Lower Haight st. at about 2:30 today. The weather was beautiful too. 2 degrees too warm to wear a jumper, just breezy enough that pit stains weren't a problem.
For me, pit stains are a big issue. They can make or break my night. I'm nearly always nervous, or anxious, or pissed off, or carrying drugs.
So I sweat a lot.
I was truly delighted this morning.
Giddy.
I felt 16 again. With everything that has happened in the last two days. For some reason, the 20 hours of cars, planes, trains and busses that it took to get me here from Ireland had rebirthed my soul. It burned away the ire that hung over me like so much sweat in Limerick.
Why wouldn't I be happy? I landed a day ago. I've overcome the jetlag. I spent the morning walking in the park. This afternoon I had the best prawn I have ever eaten.
It came in a seafood linguini brought by a stoner waiter on Chestnut Ave. But even the waiter had some new tricks now. I felt the force of a million customer service seminars behind his every friendly movement. This guy, with the slits for eyes and the attitude that a stoner recognises in another, who when we told him we were going to the Haight told us he lived there, had his shit down when it came to maxing out our tip. Maybe it's just me, and I was a bit paranoid of any other human wanting to talk to me after so much time travelling, I don't know.
The point is, the poor guy lost our order. They were using one of those computer systems they have in restaurants to put our order through to the chef some 15 feet behind him. The computer froze, and in the minute or so it took to boot back up, he had forgotten our order. So yeah, he was definitely a stoner. Sarah even said it to me.
She noticed the second we came in. I was so hungry by the time we got to the restaurant that I wouldn't have even thought of it if she hadn't pointed it out. But when he came over to tell us, he did something really weird. The first thing he did was to kneel down, to our eye level as we were sitting down.
I know. Inconsequential.
Silly to even notice, let alone moan about it. But I'm telling you. I was there, and that little hunkerdown before he opened his mouth, that wasn't something any human would naturally do. He got down, peered into our eyes, and with every fake sense of apology he could throw into his slits-for-eyes, told us he had brainfarted the order. And it felt so unnatural, it left all three of us uncomfortable.
Of course I laughed it off. I couldn't care less that this poor bastard who has to work for tips lost my order. That's not my point. The guy served me the best plate of food I have eaten since Milan. And it cost ten dollars.
The point is, as soon as he took that three quarters of a second to pull his knees down and implore us on our level, I suddenly realised that the push of capitalism, dollar signs in someone's eyes, had gotten into this guy's soul and existed there, worrying about customer service, alongside everything else that our generation has to fret about. This guy was fretting about us. And the only reason was money.
That's not fair. He should be worrying about rent, about when he is next going to get laid, about if he has enough weed to last him to the weekend, about sport, or his girlfriend, or his health, or if his screenplay is ever going to get finished. He should be worried about something he cares about. Not about whether he cost a tourist two minutes of wait time for fantastic food
Someone told him that when you have to apologise to someone and you aren't sure how it will go, the best thing to do is hunker down and talk to them at their eye level. Somewhere in this guy's make-up, either his need for tips to pay his rent, or his bastard boss telling him so, he had altered his natural human state to try and manipulate others to smooth over problems. He didn't want to be blamed for anything. I understand that.
I really liked this guy.
We tipped 25%.
I'm still young enough to exist in counter culture though. The world hasn't beaten me down enough yet, sucked enough brain power out so I am happy with a growing bank account and some tv before bed.
I knew that after lunch, we would head back to the hotel for a nap, and then sometime, about two or three o'clock, we would land on Haight Ashbury. This fact alone was making me feel like a kid at Christmas.
For as long as I knew that we were coming to San Francisco, Haight Ashbury was the number one thing I was excited about. So excited that I demanded it was the first place that we visit.
That wasn't just because I knew we could score weed there. Actually, weed had nothing to do with it at all. The last time I was there, 4 years ago, Haight Ashbury, within ten minutes, became the spiritual home of every bit of childish freedom left in my soul. Because of the shambly buildings with their acid posters of Jimi and Janice and Jerry, and the shambly people, friendly, silly, childish, forgetful, and mostly entirely mad.
This time, when we landed on Lower Haight, about ten blocks from hippie hill, I opened the cab door and immediately something just felt wrong.
For the first time in my life, I saw three black guys sitting on the steps to a building about a half a block away, and I wanted to cross the street. They were crackheads, but still, they meant me no harm I am sure.
But I still crossed the street before I got there.
As soon as I got a block away from them, I told myself that the only reason I crossed was because the sun was thumping down on our Irish skin, and this side of the street was in shade. That was just one of those pretty lies you tell yourself to feel a bit happier about being an asshole.
I felt the fear of someone different and acted. Animalistically, I don't know. But from that point, it didn't really get any better. I don't know why it even matters, except to let you know that the whole thing had me feeling uneasy, and that was the last thing I expected, there of all places.
All the hippie shops were still there. All the bongs and vinyl, tee-shirts and posters. But before, it seemed like a quirky neighbourhood, like camden town squared.
Now the shops, and by extension entire blocks, just seemed like cynical ploys to extort dollars from wallets.
The only remnants of the messages left by great artists were stores, selling shirts with their pictures on them, selling the fact that they once walked around the place, just making a quick buck off of something they had nothing to do with whilst kindly bastardising everything important those same artists had ever said.
But, you know the first time I was there years ago, I took the bus all the way to upper Haight. But this time, when the cab dropped us off, I didn't realise that that was still ten blocks away and I had never been to lower Haight before.
I still had images of the guitar store I had bought Christine from, Amoeba records and finding Led Zeppelin bootlegs I had never seen before, even the punks sitting on the side of the road. Upper Haight was burned into my brain. So I was looking forward to seeing that, and presuming that once we got a few blocks past this new and unfriendly terrain, the feeling of unease would be replaced with fondness and hope.
It wasn't.
Block by block and as I started to recognise things, I ticked off from the list in my brain and everywhere that had inspired dreams, and fondness, and wishes to be there, just seemed dead.
When we finally got to the Mc. Donalds that marks the gap between Haight st. and Hippie hill and the start of Golden Gate park, I actually felt like crying.
Some guy asked me for some spare change. I sat down next to him and his girlfriend and said sure. I handed him a dollar bill and asked him where he could score us some weed.
He said he didn't know, and he really didn't want to talk to us about it.
Before, in that same spot, people would practically have weed stalls set up.
His girlfriend said that there were still loads of people selling in the park, and if we gave her a few bucks she would walk with us and find someone. We agreed.
This girl was nice, and under the dirt that had accumulated from living rough, she was pretty and had a good body too.
She smiled at us, and under her smile I could definitely see intelligence and pain shine through. I don't know how, but something in the twinkle of her eyes told me she was smart, and could be trusted. She wasn't a drug addict at all or any kind of real vagrant, just another soul that had lost her way between school and work.
The park was 200 feet away, the part of the park where people always sell weed is quite open and there is no way that we could get mugged in broad daylight. The daily footfall alone would prevent most crime there, and if she started leading us anywhere dark or strange, we could just walk off, so I felt totally safe.
She was definitely nervous though.
At least until she heard our Irish accents, she thought that we were plain clothes cops. As soon as she ascertained for certain that we weren't, she eased up and started talking.
And she could really chatter, smiling and telling us about how she just had to pay 50 bucks to get her dog out of the pound, and about how three of her friends were busted for selling weed to undercover police.
Despite how friendly she was, by this stage I was just pissed off.
There was nothing to be gained from being there and no sense of fun. But at least if I could score some weed it wouldn't be a wasted trip.
She walked me up a little hill in the park and introduced me to a guy called Eddy, skinny, down-at-heel and leatherclad, possibly homeless, who just looked really tired.
She whispered something in his ear, and he said no, he didn't have any.
I realised after that the reason he said no was the same reason she was nervous. He was certain that I was a cop too.
She realised right away and blurted
"Come on man, its ok, they're from Ireland."
He looked me up and down and smiled.
"Irelanders? You're a long way from home man!"
He threw something on the ground.
It was a bag of weed.
I stepped on it and asked him how much it was, and he said 50 bucks.
I took the crumpled 50 I had set aside in my back pocket and dropped it casually. He stepped on that. Then we both made a play of tying up our laces.
Once that dance was done, I thanked him profusely, introduced myself and said that I hoped I would see him again.
He said that he had two kids, and that even though he hated it, he was here everyday selling weed, and if I wanted to score, he would be there waiting. With this, his eyes got sadder, so we parted.
I met back up with Sarah, we walked straight out of the park and hailed the first cab we saw.
There wasn't any other reason to stay.
I don't really know how or when that spirit that flitted on long after the sixties died finally got put out. I don't know if it is just me and that I had gotten older, or that there were no tourists there, or what it was that ruined the Haight.
One thing i know for sure though, the fierce freedom that birthed there checked out like a homeless man in a dumpster.
x=?
Spent most of today looking for answers. Here are some I want to share, but I havent found the right one. Honest to god. Words let me down now.
"If somebody thinks they're a hedgehog, presumably you just give 'em a mirror and a few pictures of hedgehogs and tell them to sort it out for themselves. "
Douglas Adams
"He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it."
Douglas Adams
"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"
Douglas Adams
"If A equals success, then the formula is: A = X + Y + Z, X is work. Y is play. Z is keep your mouth shut."
Albert Einstein
"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."
Harvey Fierstein
"Literature is mostly about having sex and not much about having children. Life is the other way round."
David Lodge
In my head, I have tried for a million years to write and move on. But this million years got lost, somewhere between head and hand. Feeling the desparation of a man who has gone through and won the race with his passions, I have no idea where to go from here.
Intellectually, I am an open book, but philosophically, that book is burned. And there is no production, for all this pain.
"If somebody thinks they're a hedgehog, presumably you just give 'em a mirror and a few pictures of hedgehogs and tell them to sort it out for themselves. "
Douglas Adams
"He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it."
Douglas Adams
"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"
Douglas Adams
"If A equals success, then the formula is: A = X + Y + Z, X is work. Y is play. Z is keep your mouth shut."
Albert Einstein
"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."
Harvey Fierstein
"Literature is mostly about having sex and not much about having children. Life is the other way round."
David Lodge
In my head, I have tried for a million years to write and move on. But this million years got lost, somewhere between head and hand. Feeling the desparation of a man who has gone through and won the race with his passions, I have no idea where to go from here.
Intellectually, I am an open book, but philosophically, that book is burned. And there is no production, for all this pain.
Why Megatron is more important than God.
Its a crisis of lost words. Its strange, i never thought I would be one of those people who dont have something to say. I cant quite turn the phrase anymore. Im missing the dick and balls of the story. I think Im looking for a white elephant.
http://www.anime-link.com/mysteriousgold/
So instead of worrying what to say, and what not to say, and hyping every decision, and reacting badly to changes, Im gonna learn to move with the times, embrace change as its happening, not when its too late. I must learn to transform who I am into a springboard for who I want to be. And maybe when I hit into this new pool, I will leave myself behind on the spring board.
The planet Cybertron is inhabited by robotic lifeforms called Transformers. The Transformers are split into political or ideological factions, and have been at war with each other for a very long time. Millions of years, in most of the stories. The factions are usually called Autobots (good guys) and Decepticons (bad guys), but not always.
Many Transformers stories involve an evil, all-powerful being called Unicron. Unicron is titanically enormous: he has a humanoid robot form like the Transformers do, but his other form is a planet. A whole planet. And he eats other planets. In some stories there is a dichotomy between Unicron and a being called Primus. In stories where he exists, Primus is the creator-god of the Transformer race, and is the eternal enemy of Unicron.
In nearly every series of Transformers there has been an Optimus Prime (good) and a Megatron (bad). Although characters with these names keep showing up, they are not always the same characters. They usually have similarities, but even the extent of that similarity varies. It trades on our preconceptions. Prime is "good". Megatron is "bad", and this doesnt change. While every aspect of their characters change our conceptions of who is good and who is evil never does. Megatron is occasionally a heroic loser, helpless as a plaything of Unicron, occasionally he stands up to the Gods themselves in a heroic last battle he knows he has no hope of winning. He has within himself the power for great sympathy, he is a fantastic tactical leader. He is a better orator, and his troops are motivated and are all willing to die for him.
I guess what I am trying to say is that Megatron has changed every aspect of his character again and again to become a true gladiator worthy of respect. But despite his transformation (Even his body and voice changed) He will never change our pre-conceived ideas about megatron.
http://www.anime-link.com/mysteriousgold/
So instead of worrying what to say, and what not to say, and hyping every decision, and reacting badly to changes, Im gonna learn to move with the times, embrace change as its happening, not when its too late. I must learn to transform who I am into a springboard for who I want to be. And maybe when I hit into this new pool, I will leave myself behind on the spring board.
The planet Cybertron is inhabited by robotic lifeforms called Transformers. The Transformers are split into political or ideological factions, and have been at war with each other for a very long time. Millions of years, in most of the stories. The factions are usually called Autobots (good guys) and Decepticons (bad guys), but not always.
Many Transformers stories involve an evil, all-powerful being called Unicron. Unicron is titanically enormous: he has a humanoid robot form like the Transformers do, but his other form is a planet. A whole planet. And he eats other planets. In some stories there is a dichotomy between Unicron and a being called Primus. In stories where he exists, Primus is the creator-god of the Transformer race, and is the eternal enemy of Unicron.
In nearly every series of Transformers there has been an Optimus Prime (good) and a Megatron (bad). Although characters with these names keep showing up, they are not always the same characters. They usually have similarities, but even the extent of that similarity varies. It trades on our preconceptions. Prime is "good". Megatron is "bad", and this doesnt change. While every aspect of their characters change our conceptions of who is good and who is evil never does. Megatron is occasionally a heroic loser, helpless as a plaything of Unicron, occasionally he stands up to the Gods themselves in a heroic last battle he knows he has no hope of winning. He has within himself the power for great sympathy, he is a fantastic tactical leader. He is a better orator, and his troops are motivated and are all willing to die for him.
I guess what I am trying to say is that Megatron has changed every aspect of his character again and again to become a true gladiator worthy of respect. But despite his transformation (Even his body and voice changed) He will never change our pre-conceived ideas about megatron.
My helpful comments for O2's web design team.
I am writing to you with the news that I am delighted, ecstatic, over-the-moon, because I no longer ever, ever have to use your horrendous website. Not ever again. And I truly and honestly am delighted by this.
For a good 4 fears of having an o2 mobile phone, and an Email account with you, I have suffered through your website (or is it websty?), for the dubious benefits of free email, and free web-texts, and I am writing to tell you that I will no longer deign to use your web portal. I know you are a large multi-national company, but I have seen vomit on O' Connell street that is designed better than your truly awful website. I have seen homeless people on heroin, reading the old testament upside-down, who would make better web developers than the ones currently flinging crap at each other in some far-off never visited, hopefully locked office at your company. I hate your website so much that you have not only lost my web business, you will also very soon be losing my billpay business, and that of anyone who asks me, purely because of this service. Doubtless you have already stopped reading this mail, because websites are expensive, and dont make you much money, so you probably dont care, but just for the hell of it I am going to give you just a small selection of the problems I have found with your site since my introduction to it.
When registering my first pre-paid phone. It didnt in fact register, or ever give me any free credit. And when I went back, week after week, to register on your stupid bastard of a site, it told me I had already registered. Even when I rang your very helpful (No sarcasm, theyare very helpful) customer care team, and they passed the problem on to the afore-mentioned low-life web development crew, my problem was never solved. Nobody ever got back to me, and your piss-poor web portal went on as normal. I know the problem was never fixed as a friend of the family had the exact problem not two months ago.
I have frequently sat down at work to check my email, and typed in www.o2.ie, or web.o2.ie, or whatever URL actually works for your expletive of a site, and waited for internet explorer's little blue bar to fill up, and time out, because your server had crashed, your website was nowhere to be seen for hours on end, or perhaps I was waiting for one of your web team to photograph their privates, or drink water from the urinal. So much so, that in my college days, I remember one particular night of playing a drinking game of trying to down a pint before your website crashes or times out. I suggest your web development team try the same with bleach.
When I once made the mistake of actually relying on your email service for business reasons, I waited some 7 hours, during which time I rang your customer care team 6 times, who continually informed me that there was no delay and your email server was not in fact down. I sent myself numerous test emails from work. Not one has ever arrived. I only hope that they found a home somewhere.
I have used your free webSMS service, and I will let you in on a secret, that obviously, your web development monkeys dont know. It doesnt F***ing work. It just doesnt f***ing work. I used it for group sms for my local soccer team for a change in training time. We didnt train that week. I dont know how many people actually got that sms, but I know for a fact that it was less than half. If I had attempted a psychic link to the lads to explain why training had to be moved, rather than your web-sms, it would have fared better. I have also frequently logged in to web-sms, had a look at my phone book, and realised that none of the numbers in the phone book are my own, but some-one elses, who is much more creative with nick-names. Hmmm.. Who needs saved phone numbers anyway?
Then I tried to use your online shop to buy a phone. I went on there and had a look, and could not for the life of me find one price. Merely a conundrum of links that brought me all over the place, but not to any phone I wanted and not to one actual price, nor to a simple explanation of how it works. Then I requested an upgrade code from the internet for my bonus upgrade. It didnt f***ing work. This sounding familiar? So I rang your still helpful customer care team, and they got me the upgrade code, and I went on to the O2 Online Shop again, ever hopeful, put in my upgrade code, and it didn't work. Couldnt avail of your online offers, couldnt buy a phone online, couldnt even look at a price. Still.
I have also spent inordinate amounts of time on hold, because apparently I typed in the password for my email account wrong three times so my account got locked out. And some genius on your web design crew decided to lock it out after three wrong log in attempts. So now when your stupid website does not realise that yes, in fact I can remember an 8 digit password and have the mental capacity to type it in, I have to ring one of your still helpful, now long suffering customer care team to unlock it. Frequently the unlock procedure that they use doesnt work, at which point I am too busy foaming at the mouth and punching walls to call in and demand to speak to the defecating monkeys who design your website, in order that I might try to understand the stupidity that goes into such a huge leap forward in the fields of ineptness and uselessness.
Design wise, I despise it. Anyone who has used an Internet browser invented in the last 3 years hates it. Your de-evolved, quite low in the food chain web team uses pop-ups. Every browser I know uses "Pop up Blockers". Guess why? Because everyone, in the whole web-based universe despises POP UPS!!!!! STOP IT!!!!!! Maybe moving the f*** on from Pop-ups after 5 years might be mentioned to someone on your web development team who might actually be able to read and write. In terms of your interface, I would rather spend my evening having my crack waxed than look for a single specific item on your site. It doesnt work. You click on one link, pop-ups fly, links are pissed up on screen randomly, text and information flies at you from all angles. The style changes on every page making it impossible to intuitively use your site.
Perhaps I am incorrect. Perhaps your website is some sort of satirical post-modern joke. It endeavours to amuse your customers with its unbalanced and ludicrous actions. Its design aimed at tricking the user into a false sense of security and then WHAM, practical joke laid. I dont know. But as a serious user of services such as hotmail, gmail, hushmail, and Quios, I have seen the alternatives, both in other communications companies, who actually took the time to find a web design team who had been introduced to a computer before, and other service providers, and I will never use your website again, and it is a large part of the reason as to why my billpay service will be switching as soon as my contract is up.
In conclusion, I would ask you to please, please, release your web team back into the wild, because I am personally opposed to all forms of imprisonment of animals. For more information on the rights of yor web team, please get in contact with PETA, and adjust your companies policy accordingly.
I thank you for your time.
For a good 4 fears of having an o2 mobile phone, and an Email account with you, I have suffered through your website (or is it websty?), for the dubious benefits of free email, and free web-texts, and I am writing to tell you that I will no longer deign to use your web portal. I know you are a large multi-national company, but I have seen vomit on O' Connell street that is designed better than your truly awful website. I have seen homeless people on heroin, reading the old testament upside-down, who would make better web developers than the ones currently flinging crap at each other in some far-off never visited, hopefully locked office at your company. I hate your website so much that you have not only lost my web business, you will also very soon be losing my billpay business, and that of anyone who asks me, purely because of this service. Doubtless you have already stopped reading this mail, because websites are expensive, and dont make you much money, so you probably dont care, but just for the hell of it I am going to give you just a small selection of the problems I have found with your site since my introduction to it.
When registering my first pre-paid phone. It didnt in fact register, or ever give me any free credit. And when I went back, week after week, to register on your stupid bastard of a site, it told me I had already registered. Even when I rang your very helpful (No sarcasm, theyare very helpful) customer care team, and they passed the problem on to the afore-mentioned low-life web development crew, my problem was never solved. Nobody ever got back to me, and your piss-poor web portal went on as normal. I know the problem was never fixed as a friend of the family had the exact problem not two months ago.
I have frequently sat down at work to check my email, and typed in www.o2.ie, or web.o2.ie, or whatever URL actually works for your expletive of a site, and waited for internet explorer's little blue bar to fill up, and time out, because your server had crashed, your website was nowhere to be seen for hours on end, or perhaps I was waiting for one of your web team to photograph their privates, or drink water from the urinal. So much so, that in my college days, I remember one particular night of playing a drinking game of trying to down a pint before your website crashes or times out. I suggest your web development team try the same with bleach.
When I once made the mistake of actually relying on your email service for business reasons, I waited some 7 hours, during which time I rang your customer care team 6 times, who continually informed me that there was no delay and your email server was not in fact down. I sent myself numerous test emails from work. Not one has ever arrived. I only hope that they found a home somewhere.
I have used your free webSMS service, and I will let you in on a secret, that obviously, your web development monkeys dont know. It doesnt F***ing work. It just doesnt f***ing work. I used it for group sms for my local soccer team for a change in training time. We didnt train that week. I dont know how many people actually got that sms, but I know for a fact that it was less than half. If I had attempted a psychic link to the lads to explain why training had to be moved, rather than your web-sms, it would have fared better. I have also frequently logged in to web-sms, had a look at my phone book, and realised that none of the numbers in the phone book are my own, but some-one elses, who is much more creative with nick-names. Hmmm.. Who needs saved phone numbers anyway?
Then I tried to use your online shop to buy a phone. I went on there and had a look, and could not for the life of me find one price. Merely a conundrum of links that brought me all over the place, but not to any phone I wanted and not to one actual price, nor to a simple explanation of how it works. Then I requested an upgrade code from the internet for my bonus upgrade. It didnt f***ing work. This sounding familiar? So I rang your still helpful customer care team, and they got me the upgrade code, and I went on to the O2 Online Shop again, ever hopeful, put in my upgrade code, and it didn't work. Couldnt avail of your online offers, couldnt buy a phone online, couldnt even look at a price. Still.
I have also spent inordinate amounts of time on hold, because apparently I typed in the password for my email account wrong three times so my account got locked out. And some genius on your web design crew decided to lock it out after three wrong log in attempts. So now when your stupid website does not realise that yes, in fact I can remember an 8 digit password and have the mental capacity to type it in, I have to ring one of your still helpful, now long suffering customer care team to unlock it. Frequently the unlock procedure that they use doesnt work, at which point I am too busy foaming at the mouth and punching walls to call in and demand to speak to the defecating monkeys who design your website, in order that I might try to understand the stupidity that goes into such a huge leap forward in the fields of ineptness and uselessness.
Design wise, I despise it. Anyone who has used an Internet browser invented in the last 3 years hates it. Your de-evolved, quite low in the food chain web team uses pop-ups. Every browser I know uses "Pop up Blockers". Guess why? Because everyone, in the whole web-based universe despises POP UPS!!!!! STOP IT!!!!!! Maybe moving the f*** on from Pop-ups after 5 years might be mentioned to someone on your web development team who might actually be able to read and write. In terms of your interface, I would rather spend my evening having my crack waxed than look for a single specific item on your site. It doesnt work. You click on one link, pop-ups fly, links are pissed up on screen randomly, text and information flies at you from all angles. The style changes on every page making it impossible to intuitively use your site.
Perhaps I am incorrect. Perhaps your website is some sort of satirical post-modern joke. It endeavours to amuse your customers with its unbalanced and ludicrous actions. Its design aimed at tricking the user into a false sense of security and then WHAM, practical joke laid. I dont know. But as a serious user of services such as hotmail, gmail, hushmail, and Quios, I have seen the alternatives, both in other communications companies, who actually took the time to find a web design team who had been introduced to a computer before, and other service providers, and I will never use your website again, and it is a large part of the reason as to why my billpay service will be switching as soon as my contract is up.
In conclusion, I would ask you to please, please, release your web team back into the wild, because I am personally opposed to all forms of imprisonment of animals. For more information on the rights of yor web team, please get in contact with PETA, and adjust your companies policy accordingly.
I thank you for your time.
Whats past still present in future.
Things are more like they are now than they have ever been.
Gerald R. Ford
At Christmas, when the gawdy banners shake,
Or easter when winter weather breaks,
Or in the summer as the sun lets fly,
I will love you,I will always try.
When dawn cracks the grey of sleepless nights,
And tired leper eyes face the daylight,
And life seems too far away to run,
I will love you, till hope cracks through the sun.
When sickness crawls through our bodies weak,
And we have no heart or soul to speak,
And ulcers form where love there used to be,
I will see the truth and let what has been be.
And when the warm sun finally dulls,
When winters dark mists fall forever,
I must steadfast walk away,
take one, hear this, there will not be another.
***
This fledgling force of childish love,
This spirit from the sky above,
Holds now to stab, this bond lost.
***
***
And the grey clouds form,
On the now dull sky,
As if they were all that had ever been.
Gerald R. Ford
At Christmas, when the gawdy banners shake,
Or easter when winter weather breaks,
Or in the summer as the sun lets fly,
I will love you,I will always try.
When dawn cracks the grey of sleepless nights,
And tired leper eyes face the daylight,
And life seems too far away to run,
I will love you, till hope cracks through the sun.
When sickness crawls through our bodies weak,
And we have no heart or soul to speak,
And ulcers form where love there used to be,
I will see the truth and let what has been be.
And when the warm sun finally dulls,
When winters dark mists fall forever,
I must steadfast walk away,
take one, hear this, there will not be another.
***
This fledgling force of childish love,
This spirit from the sky above,
Holds now to stab, this bond lost.
***
***
And the grey clouds form,
On the now dull sky,
As if they were all that had ever been.
Dawn cracks and the sky is grey,
The writings clearly on the wall.
As strangers look the other way
I stop and stare and hope and stall.
If I never move again, it will
Force them all to see like me,
How time can simply stand stock still,
How perfect moments could ever be.
No movement then, except a smile,
A statue's nameless ode to love,
A heart that treats me like a child,
A sense of something great above,
That time itself can never save,
I'll take this moment to my grave.
The writings clearly on the wall.
As strangers look the other way
I stop and stare and hope and stall.
If I never move again, it will
Force them all to see like me,
How time can simply stand stock still,
How perfect moments could ever be.
No movement then, except a smile,
A statue's nameless ode to love,
A heart that treats me like a child,
A sense of something great above,
That time itself can never save,
I'll take this moment to my grave.
Virginity
I posted back her flower. A tiny dried iris, crumpled and earthy, slowly rotting away to nothing. She gave it to me years ago. We were 16 when she left it in my bed. She was throwing it away anyway, so I took it.
But later, when that time was over, and we grew up, we realised what love was. And how much we weren't in love.
I really didn't understand how expensive that commodity was.
We broke up. And though we werent in love, I had never hurt more. She was not the one but the only.
The day to day hurt, where I thought I was getting on fine, not thinking about it, and then I'd see a dried flower that reminded me of her, and the wound was opened again fresh, a rending jagged hole, in the root of my stomach, slowly spreading upwards, infecting the lungs, so I couldn't breathe, except in brief painful sobs and moans. And moving on from that immediate pain, where a shadow cast on my soul when I saw her picture, or heard her name in conversation, or just thought of her when there was nothing fresher to feel down about. I became a loner, My head became my home. People meant danger.
Because we were so happy to need each other, we were lost in the unreality of teen addiction. We needed the esteem, the friend, and the hope. Because without hope, you don't survive your teens. So we ignored the face in the mirror for so long, we couldn't face them anymore. Until one day she faced reality, and it was over. She did it for the both of us.
I'm so proud of her for that. I could never face the end. So she faced it for me. And she let me blame her, and blame her, and blame her. She just let it happen, she knew I couldn't move on, she knew my storm wouldnt break. Until, like a wave crashing on a shore, things became brutal. We were tossed out into the world, swung about on the waves, clawing for breath and kicking for grip. Thoughts turned away from love, because just breathing became too important.
But later, when that time was over, and we grew up, we realised what love was. And how much we weren't in love.
I really didn't understand how expensive that commodity was.
We broke up. And though we werent in love, I had never hurt more. She was not the one but the only.
The day to day hurt, where I thought I was getting on fine, not thinking about it, and then I'd see a dried flower that reminded me of her, and the wound was opened again fresh, a rending jagged hole, in the root of my stomach, slowly spreading upwards, infecting the lungs, so I couldn't breathe, except in brief painful sobs and moans. And moving on from that immediate pain, where a shadow cast on my soul when I saw her picture, or heard her name in conversation, or just thought of her when there was nothing fresher to feel down about. I became a loner, My head became my home. People meant danger.
Because we were so happy to need each other, we were lost in the unreality of teen addiction. We needed the esteem, the friend, and the hope. Because without hope, you don't survive your teens. So we ignored the face in the mirror for so long, we couldn't face them anymore. Until one day she faced reality, and it was over. She did it for the both of us.
I'm so proud of her for that. I could never face the end. So she faced it for me. And she let me blame her, and blame her, and blame her. She just let it happen, she knew I couldn't move on, she knew my storm wouldnt break. Until, like a wave crashing on a shore, things became brutal. We were tossed out into the world, swung about on the waves, clawing for breath and kicking for grip. Thoughts turned away from love, because just breathing became too important.
The cold air cuts my eyes.
My vision swirling red,
And I walk through it,
Lost and easily led.
The future lies in ruins,
While I destroy the past,
The war is over, You have won,
It has beaten me at last.
But loss will always save the day,
Kicking me hard where it hurts,
As I lay blinded in the mud,
My mouth the taste of blood and dirt,
Where a broken smile slowly appears,
Because my time is almost done,
Done with coping, despite it all,
Done with dreaming and standing tall.
This boy's race is run.
My vision swirling red,
And I walk through it,
Lost and easily led.
The future lies in ruins,
While I destroy the past,
The war is over, You have won,
It has beaten me at last.
But loss will always save the day,
Kicking me hard where it hurts,
As I lay blinded in the mud,
My mouth the taste of blood and dirt,
Where a broken smile slowly appears,
Because my time is almost done,
Done with coping, despite it all,
Done with dreaming and standing tall.
This boy's race is run.
Lyrics
I watched him as he blew out the candle and then left quietly.
He was there when we arrived, alone at a table for two.
"This used to be our table" he told the waiter, who stared at him and then left. I knew what he meant, he was just too tired to make any sense. I could see it in his eyes. anyone could. He sat alone for two hours, and left his salad and whiskey untouched.
His face hid fresh pain. An unconscious assumption though I couldnt put my finger on why. It was mostly his eyes, which were never in the light. The rings around them were just that bit too big, the black holes he peared from a little too wide with pain. He had died a little today.
I felt consumed by this. I needed to know what his story was. My malaise mirrored in his, and I felt like a fraud. He had a reason for his pain. He had a person to hate, or a love lost to greive, he had something. I sat, eating my steak, with an acute sense of desperate misery, and to it, I could attach no reason, or recognition of a problem, misery, without a point, misdirected, useless. He had a reason, and i hated him for it.
He was there when we arrived, alone at a table for two.
"This used to be our table" he told the waiter, who stared at him and then left. I knew what he meant, he was just too tired to make any sense. I could see it in his eyes. anyone could. He sat alone for two hours, and left his salad and whiskey untouched.
His face hid fresh pain. An unconscious assumption though I couldnt put my finger on why. It was mostly his eyes, which were never in the light. The rings around them were just that bit too big, the black holes he peared from a little too wide with pain. He had died a little today.
I felt consumed by this. I needed to know what his story was. My malaise mirrored in his, and I felt like a fraud. He had a reason for his pain. He had a person to hate, or a love lost to greive, he had something. I sat, eating my steak, with an acute sense of desperate misery, and to it, I could attach no reason, or recognition of a problem, misery, without a point, misdirected, useless. He had a reason, and i hated him for it.
Plan B? We have a Plan B?
I thought of another escape. Panic slithered up my spine as my stomach churned with the poison I had fed it. Everything was mixing too much and I didnt like it.
This firework had just exploded.
I pictured myself driving across south america, and oh yeah I could feel it. Gringo, and the women. And the mota... Or walking through Japan, lumbering across the country as life sped by in a haze of neon. Or maybe break away from here, escape this, to Norway on a bicycle. Eyes paining me. Something else too.
It was raining on me as I typed. I had my eyes closed, concentrating on wherever everything was. No point trusting my eyes, not now. Maybe not ever again. A spatter of rain spiderwebbed across my forehead.
What is this, water torture now? What are they doing?
They're trying to drive me crazy.
I couldn't see them, but I could hear them. They had broken the skylight. I was sure of it. More noise. Maybe they had gotten in. I looked across the room.
Thank god.
Lyle. Holding a bible, with blood dripping down his arm. He was smeared in dirt from the plant which was watching us from the corner of the room, grunting and primal, stuck in his own trip. He was reading the book upside down, squinting occasionally, and catatonically lurching, as if being poked by hot coals.
Panic subsided and I felt safe again. I took a quick swig of whatever was in the bottle nearest to me. I was trying to make out the name, but more sentences formed above and below and it was impossible. Too many symbols from my past, just floating there in space, and this bottle was somehow the key. I drained it dry. I tried to put myself somewhere else. Just for a few hours. Just till this hideous fever subsided and I could get something done. Something...
From those glorious hazy days, slipping further and further away.
2 years. 3 years maybe, since that haze faded. That glorious tingle that felt like we were all at the centre of something, that life would really work out for us, that we were basking in the sunshine, and somehow, it would never set.
It was something to be part of, the growing friends, stories, ideas and dreams. Creating roots, linking them, so they would never die.
It was all coming together over us, and we were just waiting for the world, we could take on anything. We had no fear.
From that great time of free thought, many years after that way of life imploded, and there could be no going back, to now, the reality.
We hadnt changed the world. Our mighty roots died and withered with time. We had gotten so far away from the world, it seemed impossible to start again, to return to families, get a job, work hard for little money and be a part of a society we had spent so long ignoring.
The only laws we broke were drug laws. We didnt want to change the world, we didnt want to change anything, we just thought that we could find a way round.
So many days, since way back then, when panic crept up my spine. It infected my brain, drunk on fear, with nothing else.
But society does not easily suffer dreamers, and so I was, three years after the world stopped making sense. A degree on the wall, a head full of drugs, a half tank of petrol, and an empty feeling like everything I had worked for was destroyed, had never existed.
And I was playing their game again.
Feeling like I won't survive by playing by their rules.
This firework had just exploded.
I pictured myself driving across south america, and oh yeah I could feel it. Gringo, and the women. And the mota... Or walking through Japan, lumbering across the country as life sped by in a haze of neon. Or maybe break away from here, escape this, to Norway on a bicycle. Eyes paining me. Something else too.
It was raining on me as I typed. I had my eyes closed, concentrating on wherever everything was. No point trusting my eyes, not now. Maybe not ever again. A spatter of rain spiderwebbed across my forehead.
What is this, water torture now? What are they doing?
They're trying to drive me crazy.
I couldn't see them, but I could hear them. They had broken the skylight. I was sure of it. More noise. Maybe they had gotten in. I looked across the room.
Thank god.
Lyle. Holding a bible, with blood dripping down his arm. He was smeared in dirt from the plant which was watching us from the corner of the room, grunting and primal, stuck in his own trip. He was reading the book upside down, squinting occasionally, and catatonically lurching, as if being poked by hot coals.
Panic subsided and I felt safe again. I took a quick swig of whatever was in the bottle nearest to me. I was trying to make out the name, but more sentences formed above and below and it was impossible. Too many symbols from my past, just floating there in space, and this bottle was somehow the key. I drained it dry. I tried to put myself somewhere else. Just for a few hours. Just till this hideous fever subsided and I could get something done. Something...
From those glorious hazy days, slipping further and further away.
2 years. 3 years maybe, since that haze faded. That glorious tingle that felt like we were all at the centre of something, that life would really work out for us, that we were basking in the sunshine, and somehow, it would never set.
It was something to be part of, the growing friends, stories, ideas and dreams. Creating roots, linking them, so they would never die.
It was all coming together over us, and we were just waiting for the world, we could take on anything. We had no fear.
From that great time of free thought, many years after that way of life imploded, and there could be no going back, to now, the reality.
We hadnt changed the world. Our mighty roots died and withered with time. We had gotten so far away from the world, it seemed impossible to start again, to return to families, get a job, work hard for little money and be a part of a society we had spent so long ignoring.
The only laws we broke were drug laws. We didnt want to change the world, we didnt want to change anything, we just thought that we could find a way round.
So many days, since way back then, when panic crept up my spine. It infected my brain, drunk on fear, with nothing else.
But society does not easily suffer dreamers, and so I was, three years after the world stopped making sense. A degree on the wall, a head full of drugs, a half tank of petrol, and an empty feeling like everything I had worked for was destroyed, had never existed.
And I was playing their game again.
Feeling like I won't survive by playing by their rules.
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