Wind
The camcorder took it all in. Howling like a yoga class full of Golden Gate suicide chanters. Woosh, praying for more hope on the other side. Or the underbelly of the tourist link. Bridging from the vast ocean to the tiny point on which San Francisco meets Sausalito. In my mind, the tape plays over again. I’m 4, riding on top of my Dad’s shoulders. I’m beaming, my chubby little arms draped around his head. He’s cheesing more than a Double Double melt. God is the bun, and I am the patty.
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Smells like pre-teen spirit. Did I pee my pants again? Fresh urine, turning into stale urine. Whoosh. The crowd at the pier is rushing past me slowly today. Santa Monica Sunday. The homeless man with his sunburt neck, overdrawn brow — like a cartoon character, stumbling about the parking lot. In search of change. My hands firm up on my amp handle, as the 30 pounds pulls me down, but not as much as I pull it up. Stomp stomp up the hollow stairs. Screams rain down from the rollercoaster, chink chank goes the arcade. Air hockey pucks bounce around and clank to my left. Vladimir the gypsy fortune teller speaks to me. Lonely as I am. Together we try.
Caw of seagulls, the sun sets as I strum the C Am progressoin to Hallelujah. Warm on my skin, turning to chill. Howling in my mind. Salt-stained finger-tips stickier when I strum that steel guitar string. The music takes me and the crowd on the pier — into the God mind of Leonard Cohen. The parking lot homeless man stumbles by. Looks at my tip hat, and asks for change.
