Saturday, April 23, 2022


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.
Mildew world.

A zone with rotten floorboards, and vermin teeming behind the wallpaper.
There are many decent people there showing the flag and keeping the trogs at bay.

Sometimes they realize the enormity of their task.

And sometimes, we do too.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

No comments:

Search This Blog


On the path up to the doorway of my workplace this morning I encountered a small presence, which I have since then concluded must have been ...