Along San Francisco’s Embarcadero is an old food joint called Red’s Java
House. It’s been there forever. Back in my youth I could get a double
hotdog there for about a buck. So, I went there a lot. I’d walk from my
South-of-Market office down to the waterfront for my hotdog—a long way
for a lunch break. The double dog is now almost $6.00 but it’s been
about thirty years since I first found the place. But, less than six
bucks for a double dog wrapped in a sourdough roll still seems like a
good deal to me.
The wind is howling this morning. It howled last night and for the three
nights before that. Wind signals change. Something is blowing out and
is being replaced by whatever is blowing in. By the time whatever is on
the way actually arrives the wind will have wreaked its havoc. Broken
planting pots, fallen garbage cans, branches and leaves are everywhere.
This wind leaves behind the debris of change as it blows in something
new. And I suspect that something new is the summer season.
It is a grand notion to think of suburbia as being monumental. Normally perceived in daily life, it seems like a monotonous parade of one block after another, one lawn after the next. If one is attracted to the grandiose, suburbia can often be numbing
The city, San Francisco or most any city, is full of small, fleeting treasures. Riches are everywhere—little vignettes of joy, intrigue, and ephemeral pleasure that compel me to click the shutter of my camera. Many are haphazard collections of life’s serendipity. Most affirm my belief that the cosmic powers that run this universe of ours have a very good sense of humor.
The well-worn path is like a college dorm room. Old wall posters become invisible after a couple of years, even the ugliest of them. So too do the homely sights along my daily walks. Telephone poles, street signs—even abandoned tires in the local flood canal—they all melt away with repeated sightings. Mostly this is a good thing. When I was in college, there were some truly butt-ugly posters around. Grateful Dead fans, you know what I mean. And along with that omnipresent Deadhead skull of my youth, my selective vision has made a few power transformers simply disappear from sight. The human mind is a wondrous thing.
Three weeks in Venice is hardly a long time. But, at the start it felt that way. I fooled myself with the illusion was that I'd be there forever—that I was there for good. But, three days later I found myself counting. I was secretly counting the days until the arrival of my sad departure. I shook this diabolical countdown off with a shudder. But, it didn't work. The little clock continued ticking away in my brain and then chimed in again the very next morning.
