PHL for Doug's 25th
Monday morning's commute to work, all of three thousand miles, didn't actually seem all that different. After having a conversation with a coworker last week about "being rocked to sleep on [a big boat]" I started to think that maybe turbulence was the airborne equivalent. Flying over Missouri, the not-so-subtle to and fro of the 767 lulled me to sleep. I remember waking up only a few times between PHL and SFO to down allergy pills and intake water.
The approach into SFO is one of my favorites: over curious sludge pools on the east side of the South Bay, over bridges and sail boats (on a good day), watching seagulls get bigger and bigger over water closer and closer, sharp rocks lining the SFO shore, markings sliding into view, and the screech of rubber on asphalt.
Humidity, wind blowing leaves and grime in my eyes, long exposures of dark skies, familiar flatness, cracked glass, "the beautiful and the profane," "Owen Japanese," "the buss is waiting," indie rock sit-in, septa train kiosks, and smart parking tokens.
Ronald Ray-Gun, Hermes jump suit, tiny dogs, bad art, orange and black, soft talker, Starr tour, Palm Springs, R5, baby breath, perfect skies.
Surveillance is sometimes curiosity.
--Posted 05/15/01 06:15PM