First Night in the New Digs
The view from our new place overlooks the bay alongside Corte Madera and Larkspur. It's approaching midnight on Friday, and a very few headlights are in horizon motion, heading west on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Like ants poking along the scented path, each one enters the home swallow of flood lights around San Quentin.
Holy hell, here it is: California Special Reserve living, up in the hills, 180-degree view overlooking the bay, deck, hot tub. It brings to life a certain dream I do not readily admit having. This manner of Making It, the California way, is dangerous. Not so bad as admitting you have Flock of Seagulls CDs, but well along the way. Should I get careless, soft: I might show up someday to a mixer, blazer and turtleneck, make small talk over a noteworthy chardonnay, evince ephemeral interest over arguably interesting topics, sharing in some brief communal wonder what's next for Gavin Newsom or what's new at the De Young.
You know what to do if I go there, God. Strike my ass down, on the spot. Complete vengeance. Consign me to the Hell of Elevator Jazz. I will have veered badly off; don't mull it over. Don't get me wrong, I want this view. I love the idea of walking up and down this hill in every day, building knotty goat-leg calves. I love the idea of watching squirrels spurt-run for position, and feel everyone hush to listen to bayside breeze and watch the blue hour. Just don't let me fall in with the Good Life crowd. I'm not here for that, and we both know it.