hobo in a jetta
2004-11-29, 2:58 p.m.
hobo in a jetta, thats what i called this weekend:the night before, when you have no voice then the dog wont hear you, instead she sees a boy mumbling behind the sliding glass, just as clear as i see her reflecting eyes in the darkened yard. so i dont really know whats wrong, looking back to august when there was this reservoir of hope, a chance for connection ( my obsessive muse) is created in the yellow fields. and when that crumbles, the blueprints are burned, or stolen, but any coherrent explanation for my innocent disposition are extinguished by a silver ford ranger.
since then its been three months of playing the victim, or pointing fingers, im not sure where one ends and the other begins. ive got no plans, and only one phone number. one hundred dollars and a half tank of gas, this is the christopher columbus movie written by Camus, and directed by mel brooks. santa cruz, im coming to meet you tomorrow.
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11/26
the very first thing my relatives talk about on a long ditance phone call -setting aside the flowery greetings we learn to spew before we get to kindergarden- is the weather. i open this book, Of Human Bondage, and i can hear my grandma's voice reading the first sentence for me, "the day was dull and gray." Grandma, interesting you popped up in my head, must be the residue of our past discussions on thanksgiving.
how do i descrive a three hour ride ona freeway that was intentionally designed to bypass any landmark or remotely interesting city. The tallest buildings in San Jose sprouted over the sound walls like weeds crep out of sidewalk cracks. the road was this continual flirtation between slow curves and fast speeds, eighty moves to ninety and the cars around me are maniacally attatched to me. the road is neither concrete nor asphalt, grooved or smooth, bumpy or flat; its just a five lane tentacle stretched over the dirt and the green green. that is highway 280.
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im in a bookstore now, where ive been three times before today. its funny though, when you go somewhere on your own -any familiar place will do- everything can move as slow as you want it to. the aisles expansd forever, collapsing into themselves so that the first and last books become indistinguishable from each other.
under every fourth or fifth book there are slips of paper filled with employee ramblings, or snooty assertions from from some white collar newspaper reviewer. When i look at them all at the same time, my eyes blur and they combine to become a story filled with sliced carrots of emotions, heaped in a pile in my palms. i need to get up...
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right now i cant find a warm place to sit, i am the coffeehouse indigent in the homeless capitol of california. the only difference that i can see is the people living on the street got a one way bus ticket from their former residence (literally, i know some who arrived in such a manner) from their former residence; i drove here of my own volition.
im nots sure what im going to do when its time to sleep, no hotels tonight. i could complete the circle and sleep in my car, my carrier becomes a craddle.
my main worry at this point is that people begin to recognize my face walking down the street for the fourth time now.
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irasshaimase
this is the part of me that needs medication. im making the night hard on myself by staying away from the hotels. and this is giving me a new perspective, as the passive observer who watches all the people bustling on the streets. the drunks are vommited steadily from the bar entrances, mixing in with the under aged girls yelling across the street to the gangster boys.
thanksgiving is years away already, the homeless have pressure cookers and recipes from the Joy of Cooking.