Several years ago, on a frigid day, my apartment mate -- who has needed spectacles since childhood -- peered into the distance and asked me if I could see where the bus five blocks away was going. With all the confidence and authority I could muster I declared that it was going to to Blitzpah. It was the fifteen third heading back to Northbeach.
The frigid air interfered with my eye sight.
In the past two years I've concluded that all buses in this country are, in fact, headed to Blitzpah. Because except for a few places, this country is somewhere else.
Which is not a place I wish to go.
And I rather wish that the distance between us were greater.
The "bush" is too damned close. And on occasion it visits the Bay Area, without realizing that it came to America from somewhere else. Somewhere distant, odd, and formless.
A place seemingly without books or edible food.
A great big ghastly wet spot.
A zone with rotten floorboards, and vermin teeming behind the wallpaper.
Sometimes they realize the enormity of their task.
And sometimes, we do too.
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