This why we should have an emergency kit; a dream.

It’s coming—the end of civilization. In slow motion we see ships dropping from the sky, big barges, cruise ships, aircraft carriers, dropping on far-off cities, huge bursts of orange coming closer and closer. This is why we should have an emergency kit. In order to escape, we must flee to the fringes of the continent, to the costal edges of human reign.

We are swimming in black water, amid big blocks of floating ice. Casey is lighting the way intermittently with a cell phone. There is movement beneath us. I hear my breathing; loud, raspy panting. We follow the shoreline, where in the flickering light I can see shadowy objects of worship—gaunt Jesus, strung up on the cross, tarnished virgin Marys, looking up into the nothingness, eyeless skulls from worshippers of Santa Muerte—they send shivers all through me. I feel Casey’s body next to mine and search it’s presence for some sense of comfort.

Later there is a big washed up ship tilted on it’s side and a beautiful woman living amongst still corpses with a man whose wealth now means nothing. They sleep behind a curtain. Later the water dries up, and we retrace our steps across the debris-strewn shores of a huge, curving bay.

photo credit: wakalani via photopin cc

This is a snapshot a wish I could have taken:

I.

Your brown shoulders arched above the valley of your smooth neck;  your skin is shimmering with tiny white hairs smoothed like far away wheat. Your chin is resting against my chest and my fingers are in your hair.

II.

Your hand resting against my thigh as we drive through the dark redwoods. My elbow leaned against the center console, and Mishka's face, soft with sleep, propped in the intersection of our arms.

Second First Impressions

Everything here is flat and wide and spread out. The buildings are squat, the streets are wide and black and busy, but there is a wonderful greenness all around. The air smells sweeter and feels cleaner. The napkins at restaurants are wider and more absorbent. There are toilet seat covers and paper in the bathrooms. The streets are devoid of paper scraps; fences and walls are not covered in signs announcing apartments for rent, services provided, and animals for sale. The sidewalks are wide. There are houses with green yards and two or three front steps and colorful doors. The sidewalks are smooth, monotone gray, easy on my shoes. The passersby are thick and heavy; I feel a natural inclination towards dislike when I hear them speak. Somehow my own language has become a stigma. The waitresses are nice, they smile all the time; they try to be helpful. The food is better but more expensive. I gawk at the prices on jelly jars and sigh at my grocery receipts. There are more trashcans. The dogs are all on leashes and there’s no shit on the sidewalks. There are no people lingering in open plazas, sitting in the shade. The youth is hidden away. At 2am, everyone goes home. We drive everywhere—our friends are spread apart, the restaurants and bars are spread apart. There is no late night bustle, no clumps of twenty-somethings drinking forties on steps or in front of bars. I haven’t seen the sunrise yet.

It’s sad how fast the magic fades, the magic of all these little things that once seemed so symbolic, so intangible and achy. I’m thinking about this as I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge, so foggy and solemn, so big. I’m thinking about this as I lay in my big bed and feel very, very alone.