Scraping it away

Portland. Took the train here, a 17 hour trip turned into 22. Ice on the tracks over the mountains, checking the train to be certain it worked like it should despite the freezing weather, letting other trains pass while we waited on a side-track, expanses of white fields & forests making the perfect winter scenes. I loved every moment. Let me take it all in.

Here is not much different than there for me, as I lay in bed writing & almost protected from the cold by a thin comforter. If you saw me you wouldn’t see anything different, but it’s everything inside & outside this skin where you will find the magick I needed. I need.
I pause, listen. No sirens, no shouts. I open the blinds on th ewindow, just enough so I can see outside to the yard, the neighbors yard, further to other houses. No movement. Nothing to disturb the perfection – not even footprints in the snow. There is a serenity here that I haven’t experienced in years, but I fear I will have to head back to San Francisco before it is able to take hold on me. At least I was able to scrape a bit of the city away, the grime on my soul dropped somewhere from the train & gratifyingly lost in the seas of snow-covered pines. It’s only a bandage on a much deeper darkness though, a smiley-face sticker over a gas gauge. Still, I’ll take what I can get, and for now, this is heaven.

The temptation to move here is palpable, but I know that deeper its just needing to move anywhere else just to get away. I’ve been in San Francisco longer this time than anywhere since I was a child, and for years now wanderlust has been eating at me, eating me away. I realize that the things I want to have San Francisco hold onto me for aren’t there anymore – not enough to give good reason at least. I need to get away, but I don’t need to figure out how right now.

I sit in a room in a home just outside the city and look out at the enormous backyeard that Ruby could play in, the backyard where I could roll around on the grass with her, the yard where I could set up an archery target that wasn’t only 10 feet away. The yard where I could grow food, plant trees, flowers, and set up a desk to look out onto when I write.

My house is somewhere. Maybe it’s right down the block, just waiting for everything to work out, waiting for me.

Tomorrow afternoon I return to San Francisco, back to the sirens, shouts, the crowds of people, the perpetual mayhem of my neighborhood.

But back to a warm room that is mine, has a roof, water, kitchen with maybe a little bit of food left in it – and it has Ruby.

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