We like to get new cars when the mileage gets to two hundred thousand but it looks that plan has been put on hold. Clients can see the dash lights from the back seat and they often remark about the odometer reading. One of the latest cars to be sold had eight hundred sixty four thousand miles. That's a little high. I enjoyed hearing the guffaws when I told them. "How much? Thats unheard of! " they balked. The other cars only had four to six hundred thousand miles.

Dawn on the bay. I don't recall a year when it has been this cold every night so early in winter. It could snow on the hills tonight. There isn't snow every year but last year there was more than usual, from Seattle to Monterey. I was turned around at the summit one morning because the falling snow iced up. We drove up the coast in beautiful weather.

After closing time the store windows glow and shine with reflected lights. The refraction of the glass and crystals sends tiny spectrums onto the sidewalk. The display mirrors the night sky. It's a presentation of promises like offering a child their very own star except these stars and galaxies come with a price tag. It's the thought that counts.

Lights glow brightly and windows offer their ample wares. Slick streets shimmer with a golden aura. The village shines like a festival. It's 4:30am and no one is around. Shopkeepers sleep with visions of margins in their heads. The seal and sanction of the divine descent into the lower subconscient planes hovers high and wide above the aspiring and ardent souls slumbering in terrestrial rest. Only thirteen more shopping days until Christmas.

A storm surge blows bits of tree cover through the forest. Dark massive clouds above the coast line drive inland like laden trains. Sprays of raindrops pelt my face . The fragrance of damp earth permeates the atmosphere. Sunrise was peaceful but the air is now potent with warnings. I have several trips to make on the mountain roads and for the moment I can breath.

Dawn light rises over the bay and expands across the wide sky, begins as crimson and ends in ochre, then fades in familiar hues of daylight. People pull over to watch and take pictures. In Vedic India the dawn was called Ushas, the beautiful one, she holds the sure promise of a rising sun and symbolizes the emergence of higher conciousness. Instead of watching the media I look at a sunrise for the news.

I drove a lady to the airport this morning. As we drove away from the hotel I could hear her crying quietly. When we arrived she requested a wheelchair and I waited by the door to help her. She had a large purse and was having a hard time getting out of the car. I offered to hold her bag. She protected it with her hands and said it was her sons remains. I said I would be very careful and she reluctantly handed it to me, it weighed about five pounds. I held her sons ashes with both hands as she slowly exited the car and slipped into the wheelchair. She asked for the bag and I carefully placed it in her lap. She turned to the skycap and told him it was her sons remains. I thanked her and wished her a lovely journey.

There is always an angel in the sculpture garden of the dead looking over the ornate landscape. It's just another night in the cycle of time. The only sound comes from the bustling road beyond a wrought iron fence. The living rush by pursuing warmth and food, pleasure and importance. Usually the gate here is locked but tonight it is wide open.

I have dreams when someone passes. I see them walking in twilight along a path between steep hills. Two women appear and lead them up the slope. The hillside is pitched too much for me to follow. I wonder what is on top of the mountain.

Across the street from brightly decorated homes a large and wide cemetery lies quietly reflecting the glow from streetlamps and holiday lights. Deep rows of ornate gravestones line the long avenues of soft thick grass like a model of a small city. This neighborhood chooses to let the weekends and festivities pass by unnoticed. There are no windows in the tombs.

Marcia is out of the hospital and is recovering in a facility closer to home. I sent a card, then later saw the moon above the wharf like the first time and enjoyed the view over the wide tableau of the village and bay. The light saturated waves pulsed playfully across the sand. These days the nights are clear and the air feels crisp and cold as I ride my bike along the cliffs.

At the old folks home they go all out for the holidays every year and the neighbors next door join in as well. Turning into the street for the first time can be a blinding experience. I guess it gives them something to look forward to, to talk about, and makes them feel alive. If I could afford a grave I'd like it to look like Santas Village. These old folks can't afford their own home in California just like 76% of the population. I wonder what the percentage is for people who can afford a burial plot. If I knew the date I could budget and plan ahead.

I'm just visiting, I'm not from here. They saved a ten by twenty foot space of prime California real estate to welcome me and make me feel safe and valued. I've seen many of these places around town and out of town as well. A little bigger than a grave, but smaller than a house. After I'm cremated this is where I want my ashes. For the free epitaph.

Last week friend of mine was hit head on while being driven home after a cruise in Hawaii. Both drivers were killed. Marcia will be in hospital for a week then some time in a convalescence facility. She had just retired from a long government career a couple weeks ago. It's too much to process, it can't be placed into a rational context. We make plans, hit the road, and sometimes the roads have other plans for us. She was hit by a loaded gravel truck a few months ago and escaped unscratched. She has plans to start her new house in Northern Neck Virginia near Heathville (by a large pond where she can go canoeing) but circumstances are detouring her temporarily to Maine where she can recover at her sons home. Her friend Hyomi left a little teddy bear in her hospital bed. She has held it for days.

Around the backwoods I came aboard a camp meeting but was barking up the wrong tree. When they bounced me they handed me a blue envelope that looked bogus, a bluff. The boss showed me the big stick and a cop said cut it out. Cheese it I said and took the buggy. At the creek I was down to corn and crackers but no booze. Dead broke and a deadhead, no dough, I expect it was a fizzle. Now it's fall, my dress is fierce, I need gas. A gangster gladhanded me and gave me some glad rags. I guess a guy goes from gutter snipe to hayseed and buries the hatchet. I quit the hobo rails and took a hike to improve myself. I'm homely, no hootch, but not a hoodlum. Johnny-on-the-spot or joyriding, I don't knock it. Let's go, I'm a light fingered loafer low on the long green but nimble with lumber. I made a pile, I was the main guy, I was making a bee-line but now I'm mending fences. I had pull, then I got pinched. Now I'm a picayune punk trying to pull a leg. It's quite a blizzard I reckon, right smart. I'm a rube who hit rock bottom right away. A scab that salts the mine is a scalawag. I rattled the shack and skedaddled like a scofflaw, small potatoes. But I didn't squeal. Pull up stakes squatter, you might strike oil. I'm a tenderfoot in my own fate. On the trolley I check my ticker but pass the tavern by, it's all up in the air. Vamoose, whoop it up, or wilt, I'm a wind bag and a wire puller. (from the Dictionary of Americanisms)

When I was a kid I traveled to Mexico several times. My mom was born and raised in Mexico City. Outside of the City we met many beautiful people in small towns in rolling hills under Mexican skies that were filled with the kind of clumpy painterly clouds only seen in Mexico. Horses grazed on grassy slopes and donkeys helped carry firewood. Basic needs were met but towns were dark at night except for a few dim streetlights or low lights trying to shine from small windows in thickly plastered buildings. When we crossed the border we experienced real culture shock: acres of paved and empty lots brightly lit to the horizon, roads lined with vacant sidewalks and intense streetlights every twenty feet, closed stores and unoccupied parking garages bright as summer, the abandoned movie set of the American landscape depleted of people.

My home is a retreat from the roads and the fast pace of society. I surround myself with nostalgic images and warm tones of natural objects. I try to keep the tv off. Instead I read poets and historical novels. I have a collection of vases I use for flowers and I have music on occasionally. Eyes and ears are connected instantaneously to the center of conciousness and are avenues that convey either stress or beauty to the soul.

Persimmons showed up at market. I bought two and kept them indoors for a week then put them outside a couple days ago. It rained hard all day yesterday the first time this year but the fruit stayed firm and glossy. Earlier today I squeezed them and one was finally ripe enough. I sliced it open and scooped out coral colored pulp onto a slab of toast. Mildly sweet, edible now and will age perfectly like a small vineyard wine. First come apricots in July, then figs in September, and now near winter persimmons. They remind me how sweet the spring was when it finally stopped raining.

The rains have arrived and already roads are becoming a demolition derby. I've had a few near misses but in ten years driving I haven't had a major accident. A couple cars have hit my vehicle from behind and luckily no one was hurt.
It's as if some people have no sense of risk or fear. I see several accidents a day and I watch the trooper incident site. In places tow trucks just park and wait. One second someone is driving home from work and two seconds later their life has changed dramatically. Then all the fast drivers slow way down as they pass the scene of the accident so they can glimpse something, their heads turned to the side and not looking ahead. They speed up again because they think all the troopers are behind them. Slick roads entice them closer to the next life altering possibility.

If I run down the aisle of the aircraft will I arrive any faster? I was feeling today that I was at the right place in time and space while I was driving and that everything was exactly as it should be. Sometimes when I pass through a wide landscape I feel that there is a higher direction at work and all the little things and creatures are just small parts of a very intricate multi-dimensional tapestry.

My connection is radio. As a kid in the 60s I found cool stations coming out of Berkeley. Everyone had transistor radios with ear pieces, the forerunner. When I lived in the woods in northern California I had a battery radio and when I lived in town I listened to radio because I didn't have tv. In the earthquake of 89' I lived in a cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains, no tv. That night I lit candles and listened to radio. On 9-11 I was making early morning deliveries. Listening to radio I understood we were under attack. At each stop I heard people talking about it. I heard the news helicopter say they had been ordered to land, all airspace had to clear. Driving under wide skies I felt vulnerable. I thought this is how people felt after they heard about Pearl harbor on radio. Our local station has a live show for visiting musicians. Every weekend they broadcast live music like stations did all the time in the early 20thc. There is a jazz station over the hill that plays long sessions between 2 and 6 am. I use it as a soundtrack for the pre dawn landscape.

Time for breakfast. I have already done two runs before dawn. Motorists amid their commute dramas are gripping steering wheels and tapping brakes. I have three airport trips later today. Driving a hundred twenty miles round trip isn't a big production to me, it's the job. I turn on speed control and cruise down the highway in one lane. Rushing cars pass me on both sides. I drive the same pace as sunrise.

My commute is a short bike ride along the cliffs of the bay and through the village. The wharf is small but very busy with fisherman and boating. At night lights reflect on waves and moonlight makes them glow. Now and then I stop by the fence on cliffs edge and listen to surf.

A friend once said few people would equate service with freedom and I agree. It's not a valued vocation. Though some clients are comfortable with drivers others are more distant. Several request me. I'm not here to entertain them or even converse with them. They are tired from traveling so I help them with their luggage. I can focus on driving. The rains started yesterday and there have been a lot of accidents already. I drive safely and drop the client at their residence sometimes after a sixty to ninety mile trip. Then I'm free to turn up the music, sometimes piano jazz from the late fifties.

The fully lit station stands thoroughly empty. Trains glide in, pause, but there is no activity. No one gets on, no one gets off here. The few people that pass through are like extras in short dramatic parts of their own lives. A staff of people working here keeps the platform clean and the light bulbs on. They drive to work because they live east and west of the station. The commuters ride trains north and south.

Trains and roads cross each other along the peninsula like a weaving. Ribbons and bullets of light shoot across the landscape. Someone is reading about a journey. Perhaps a return to a place that has changed. Something other than the daily landscape that changes very little. They might see someone and have a thirty second imaginary lifetime together. Then back to reading and the train moves on again.

Before dawn roads are calm. Seems like there are more cars every morning. After I wake up I can feel the mood of dreams and it carries over into the landscape of the early hours. Sometimes I think I will encounter someone from the night before. But now the atmosphere is more like the middle of the day when cars are rushing around. The pre dawn isn't as cool as it used to be.

I could interpret dreams, but it's been a long time. I don't recognize the places or people. I've explored many hallways and roads, and moved from familiar places into new and crowded rooms. Roads undergo heavy construction, I think I'm awake and have no place to live, the car won't go or I'm on foot and my feet won't move. Early mornings the landscape is dreamlike but I am awake. The calm house watches me depart for the days journeys. I arrive at the residential pickup, a person arrives at the destination, dawn arrives.

A well established gentleman, well employed, seeks private quarters, small and quiet, one cat, non smoker, non drinker, long term, excellent references. Early riser, often working, drives roads by memory, familiar landscapes, boundaries of unfamiliar dreams, good listener, very discretionary. Meditates irregularly, reads women poets, needs the minimum of light, prefers warmth, sensitive to sounds, especially remembered sound.

They guard their privacy . The residence remains a refuge from airports and roads. They leave me outside like the last piece of the weary landscape. Rarely does anyone ask me for help inside the residence and many times I find the luggage waiting for me on the doorstep. I say thank you and drive away hoping I gave them good service and a smooth ride.

Early morning, responding to impressions of light, breathing cool air. Touching the wheel, watching for road markings, dots, lines, reflected artificial light. Passing wide areas of sleeping people seeing light in dreams or lost in lightless deep sleep. Wondering about perception and observation. Who or what does the seeing? Are my eyes pin holes in a wide curtain full of pin holes. Are dreams behind that curtain and is light in dreams real. Is sunlight a dream. Then hearing. Are birds reciting oral history.

I have had a couple of jobs in the last eight years that start as early as 4am. I got used to it but was always in a sleep deprived trance. Sometimes I get home late and can sleep only 5 hours or less. When I drive it's like watching a movie of driving, as though the camera was placed next to the driver. What will happen next? That car just changed lanes, what does that mean? I listen to radio mainly for traffic news and music. I can't listen to the war news anymore. The roads are enough of a psychic battleground

Every day is different and I never know where I will be going, it's not up to me. I know what my first stop will be but after that it is all up to the clients and dispatch. I turn myself over to them. There can be changes because of arrival delays, weather, accidents, mistakes. Some clients are regulars and others are first timers so their residence is a new destination. I once had a delivery job in the city. I loaded the last stop first and the first three stops last. All the stops in the middle were divided left and right in the truck. I mapped out all the stops before I left and then attempted the first or second drop. I let the route take me, rather than carving it in stone and trying to make it work. I always got everything delivered.

Travelers. Engineers. Executives. Software trainers. Students. Costume designers. Teachers. Farmers. Mom, dad, and two kids. Four friends going on a trip together. Writers. Merchants. Pilots. Musicians. Arriving early, waiting in line, calling home, checking voice mail, touching base, checking in, reading, drinking coffee. Airport rituals. Delayed, fuel gauge broken, waiting for crew, waiting for parts, waiting for a substitute plane. Waiting on the runway, waiting in the aisle, waiting in baggage, waiting by the curb, waiting in traffic. Where is the thrill in flying anymore? I don't fly in my dreams anymore. I drive.

When I'm not chauffering I like riding a bike and walking. While I was out getting milk last night it occurred to me that my journeys have sometimes been geographicals motivated by some need. I often
wonder if I take the roads or do the roads take me? All roads are possible but sometimes they are inevitable. Maybe the roads choose us and we aren't really paying attention. That's the way things go we say, twists and turns, karma, good or bad luck. Roads are stage sets waiting for action to begin. Lights, camera, action. Two women had an argument about a car near my house. One jumped on the hood, the other drove the car, and the woman on the hood fell off and died. Nobody heard it. It all happened under bright street lights.

I drive for a car service. The clientele is half business, half leisure. They are similar in that every one is on the cell phone to family or close friend. They're in the back having a conversation in the dark with someone who isn't there like talking to a neighbor over the fence at night. I turn the rear view mirror up so we don't have direct eye contact and keep the radio on low volume. I become a part of the landscape like a streetlight that seems to see and hear everything but is perfectly discretionary.

Alice knows her territory around the house. She doesn't stray far. She often invites me outside and is pleased when she sees me going to the mailbox.

night scene

my new phone has 2 camera options, day and night. the night scene function
gets more interesting images. I have been trying it out around the house like
my cat Alice who doesn't stray far but always finds absorbing events in the
ordinary places and things.