The bubbling up process leads to tentative answers only, things can be too complex. It can be a long path and it can become intimidating, there are boundaries. Suppose it weren't so, I don't know what my decision will be. Clamour inhibits expansion and it's not always possible to iron out differences. So we get involved in discussion and seek change in direction. It's a messy series of stages but more and more the bread and butter issues of this small world take up all the room on our plates. Is it a priviledge, disadvantage or luxury? We never heard a voice raised in anger, not insulting or rude. We personally get on well. (collected phrases )

I await a client in the baggage area and remember some times I waited for transport. I wonder how many times I lingered between busses in Redding at 2am many years ago and countless times at busstops in town. A waiting area is a living room for the homeless. A home is a waiting area for the living. I'm abiding here before transport to my last journey or the beginning of a new one beyond all these waiting areas. My client has been delayed and our meeting postponed. I hope we won't have to stay here too long. I stop for a short rest and worry about the weather.

On a Wednesday night the quiet wharf plays host to older diners and local drinkers loyal to their favorite watering hole. A jazz guitarist strums chords at the end of the nearly empty bar. At 830pm the night already winds down from the peak at happy hour.

The lake in the city center is strung with lanterns every night but the path around the water is empty. I once walked here with a friend thirty years ago. We visited her aunt nearby and decided to take a stroll in the moonlight. The moon reflected on the water and spotlighted a shark fin coursing through the inky liquid.

The inky black night surrounds the wharf above and below. The color strength is like a brush loaded with liquid lamp soot or iron gall. Like a brush meeting the paper and drying at the end of the stroke the night fades into dawn.

At first the job was just about driving, arriving and departing, handling baggage and obtaining a signature. Over time I have come to care for the clientele more and I maintain discretion. I often reflect on offering better service by fine tuning such as opening doors and manuevering the bags at the same time, greetings, appropriate topics for smalltalk, and other gestures that show I am mindful of their comfort. I have been complimented on a smooth ride and a couple times for proffessional service. But there is always room for improvement.

The average driver travels 10,000 miles a year. I drive an average of 300 a day six days a week: 84,200 a year. Thats 328,650 over the last 3.5 years. I haven't caused any accidents and I've had one speeding ticket. In this line of work it's 3 strikes you're out for 3 years, either 3 speeding tickets or being at fault in an accident 3 times. I have passed all the random drug tests.

I've stayed in this town longer than any other place. Maybe that is why I like to drive, it's a kind of rambling and ranging with a home base that anchors the straying impulse. The practical fact is that driving pays better and I am at heart a dreamy visionary. Sometimes a journey up the coast feels like a pilgrimage that inspires revery and reflection. Then I wander back and rove in memories of my voyages.

Late at night in the financial distict for a post meeting pick up. The empty and wet streets reflect office and streetlights like a stage set. Chinatown is straight ahead up the hill. The Italian neighborhood is on the right. Inbetween them are one way streets jammed with parking garages and 3 story restaurants. The corner here is quiet. All the office workers have long since taken the ferry or the train home and the local service workers have either walked home or taken a bus. My passenger is alone in the lobby checking his voice mail but he is ready to go.

One of the tallest buildings in the city. Years ago a gunman prowled the stairwells and killed several people. It's the only building in town that has closed the stairs for use except in emergencies. I once was making deliveries here on the freight elevator at 3pm. I emerged from the dock to find my truck had been towed. I walked for blocks with an empty handtruck to the city tow yard. 1030pm the lights are on. Maybe to keep the ghosts content.

On the return trip there was another crash at the bottom of the hill in the narrow and winding section of the road. A car hit the center divide punching a portion of concrete into the opposite lanes. We waited for 20 minutes watching the troopers heaving chunks of cement off the roadway and setting flares.

Last night I drove around a curve and saw a car ahead facing the wrong way and another car stalled in the next lane. I braked but my car wasn't even close to stopping so I had to think fast. I could either crash into the car or try to go between the cars so I took a chance and made it through without hitting anything. This all happened within 3 seconds though it seemed like a conversation was taking place.