Green is the color of greed. I wonder if it's the color of greed in other countries.
I've been spending too much time thinking about money. Stocks, airplane tickets, internet sales, and TEUs; everywhere I turn there's money to be made and lost. I could tune it all out I suppose, I have a job that provides more security than most and pays me well enough to buy the things that I need, so why should I be looking for other opportunities ... why should I worry about money? Half of me expects to be at Pokeland for the rest of my life. The other half of me cautions me about such certain expectations. Honestly, if there were Pokeland stock, I'd short it to the ground. Let me tell you about investing: Generally you want to stick with the market leaders, being third largest in our market and with few growth options and hopelessly higher costs than our competitors, I'd say that we're SOL. You also don't want to bet on any company that has a lot of turnover at the top; last week our CFO left ... I think she's had been here about a year. The last thing (and this is a bit of insider information so I never really said it), if Eliot Spitzer was an AG in my area I have a suspicion that our most of our Board (and the guy who appointed them) would be on planes to some country that doesn't have an extradition treaty.
The rumor mill has been working overtime lately. That's not unusual since we all are. Some pessimistic souls are whispering in the shadows. I hear that they might cut staff by a third. I might survive that, I might not ... I might not even want to.
My expectations lately have been lower than they should be. I've had a pretty good run of beating them. There's a girl out there who bet the farm to move the big city with only her dreams. Lately it's been harder than she thought. If I could send a break her way I would. Nothing ever turns out the way you think it will. But then, if it did, there'd never be any good surprises.
Do you remember the scene in Dead Poets Society where Robin Williams stands on his desk and instructs his students, "You see, the world looks very different from up here. You don't believe me? Come see it for yourself. Come on. Come on!"
I had hoped for a clear, sunny day and it was nearly that. Crossing the Bay a cool crosswind tousled my hair as I watched the line of planes on approach to SFO. I imagined my friend was on one of those planes and stepped on the pedal. I hadn't seen J___ since the reunion and his short stay in SF was not one I'd miss lightly. We'd been friends along time.
I guessed wrongly that he'd be at the domestic arrivals, but then I should have assumed that he was at the international terminal, he's that kind of traveler. He had just under tweleve hours to burn before his plane left for Sydney so we headed north to the City. We didn't have a plan for the day, but it was beautiful so we decided to stay outside. Driving up Embarcadero, I pointed out the new ferry building and the farmer's market outside. We found a two hour parking spot and walked along the waterfront looking for food. I like visiting places like this, he said. You mean when it's not crowded? Yes. Have you ever been to Costco on a weekday? I know, I think the same thing, do these people work? We always talked like that, non-sequitor.
Afterward I drove up past Fort Mason, the Golden Gate Bridge coming into view, and took a turn around Presidio. I knew there was a way to get to the Palace of the Legion of Honor but I didn't know what way it was. On a day like that though, you wanted to be lost so that you could wind your way through the trees and swing out onto curves and vistas that few knew. We eventually found it and it was a free day so we went inside.
We walked to the golf course nearby: The trees don't look real. But they are. I know that! I do too. We always talked like that too, obviously. Driving down the great highway I stopped at the left turn light for Fulton. The car next to us paid Clem some pretty compliments and asked me, "So how many girls you get with that?" I laughed as the light turned green. We dipped into the park and circled around the construction for the new De Young, but didn't stop. I drove down Lincoln and crossed Market at Gough. Eventually I found my way to the fourth floor of the Fifth and Mission garage. We wandered around looking for a Swatch store. We found a break dancing competition in progress at Union Square. We headed up to Borders and shared book recommendations. We talked about sitting down at a cafe, but wove our way in and out of shoe stores instead.
Around six we reparked the car and met his friends at Roy's. Three hours passed quickly and with full bellies and light heads we drove back to SFO where a plane was waiting for him. He left and there were no promises of when to get together again. He was bound for Sydney and so was I, in a sense. But our worlds are worlds apart. They managed to intersect for a few hours yesterday and they will again I have no doubt. But I remember now that there are things that you forget, sitting at a desk from nine to five. Seeing the world in a new way doesn't require a new place.
Maybe I'm just making stories out of clouds, coming up with patterns in the randomness: Just a week ago, sitting in a restaurant named after a hat, my dinner companion and I pause, admiring the desserts just brought to us.
"They look too good to eat."
"It's such a shame to have to wreck them."
I pause for a moment and then begin to suggest that perhaps it's the same with all things we consume. All the things that we take in, we have to divide and re-divide first. This is true not only of what we absorb physically, but also what we absorb mentally. These desserts for example, we take in their form, color and texture. We break down the aesthetic and it becomes anticipation in our minds. Even before the fork breaks the surface, I have already deconstructed some of this art. Nothing is ever the same after we've consumed it, every moment is transformed experiencing it. And suddenly I'm talking about savoring this moment like I would savor a piece of chocolate cake.
But I'm always doing that, likening one experience to another, weaving meaning out of chaos. Maybe one thing isn't like the another, and the clouds don't look like puffy white sheep beckoning me to sleep. Maybe all the symbols and analogies aren't there, in the things we see, the things that look alike, or act alike. And then, I think perhaps, the metaphor is me; and I am just food for thought.
They tell me life is a journey and I wonder if they've got it backward. I look forward and I look back at this sometimes tortuous path. I guess I could think of it that way: I, a traveler, wandering my way through life, perhaps a shooting star on a wayward trajectory, perhaps a satellite in orbit around a star. Perhaps. But then I remember long road trips and falling asleep in the car, waking up in a half-dream looking at just made memories rushing past my window and wondering then if I was moving at all, or if the world was moving about me. Perhaps they've got it backward.
More times than not it seems that the world is solid and I am just a vessel. A chalice on good days, a mere cup on bad, constantly filled and emptied of experience. They put a glass in front of me, equal parts water and air and ask me which half I see. All the while I'm wondering if the glass is me. I'm eating metaphors now and spitting them out. I'm trying to turn water into wine, but it's been a long time since anyone pulled that trick off. The experiences passing through me are relatively unchanged, but each leaves its mark, a color to the glass. There is no journey then; there is no path. Only this: an emptiness waiting to be filled, a fullness waiting to be emptied.