One week post vacation time and I get a text from a Seattle that is in Yuma pasing through on his way to the east coast, now one state to the right of the west. I tell Seattle a visit is still warrented but time taken off work for the event and the visitation of mewithoutYou is now no less then nine days post-dated and work and school obligations have abounded and made Phoenix, potentially, that much less entertaining. No words were returned, but I figure it is all well, that perhaps Puget Sound owes this Angelino a no-call no-show, after the debacle of last Spring.
All of this contemplated in the early morning in the shadow of a fall sunrise — the fall here not recognized by anyone not a native as fall itself but merely as a cooling off from the heat of the months past. Falls elsewhere are more pronounced. Some friends and I once spent a fall weekend walking the misty streets of Peoria, Illinois, and looking out on Chicago from atop the Sears Tower. That was the fall I loved the most. But the fall of the west is not unpleasent, and can be most enjoyed sipping soy chai and smoking a clove at the Starbucks just up off of Main, twice blocks north of the Pier. Of course, this is new-school fall of the west, Java Jungle holds the hearts of the old-schoolers who always stayed north of Newport.
But now all things well and settled for another season of holidays, a morning visit to my east coast lover who is already mentally drained from the fevor of holiday-season retail, as Beck and The Doors play on the speakers above us. The Doors have always been special to us, playing in just those right moments. Back on the interstate system for a drive to work, and we’ll continue on, and make our mark and make our difference, and we shall be recognized as the dividing factor someday in the books of history.
