Big Dreams
So, I was in California, in Berkeley, meeting up with Lani for the first time since she had started moving north and west, and I got to Downtown Berkeley on BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) before she had time to walk over from her grandma's place to meet me. So, I stand around and light up a cigarette. A man, tall and thin, wearing a Miles Davis t-shirt, and quickly finishing off the uneaten half of a hot dog, he asked if I had an extra cigarette and I handed him one. He looked at it, studied it, started to tell me all about himself, and put the cigarette in his pocket. He told me, he is a musician. He said that, he could play anything: the marimba, drums, clarinet, sax, he did it all, he could play anything. He told me that he hadn't always looked the way he did standing before me that day. He was quick to point out that, in fact, he had many material possessions, that--in one way or another, he never got specific as far as muse or methodology of the mysterious "they" he referred to--he was relieved of very recently. He said, all of his credit cards, gone, all the cash and the wallet, gone, three different kinds or reptile skin boots, gone, all his clothes, all his furniture, everything, gone. But apparently, "they" had missed the collection of hundreds of vinyl albums that he referenced to incessantly, five minutes later. The whole thing seemed to sting at the man, but he moved on quickly to tell me that he was going to get it all back. The next time he had money, he told me, which was sure to be soon, he was quick to point out, he was going to do it right. When he got his money, this time, he wanted: a spaceship, a golden boat with a diamond at the top of its mast, and a submarine, also made out of gold, and the ship and the submarine were so that he could get to his underwater, solid gold, diamond crusted tower...and I don't think he doubted any of it for a second. He may not have even been lying, at least not to himself, but I didn't believe him. People say a lot of things that tend not to be true, or say they will do things that never end up happening.
I once said, in four years, I am going to Australia, and I got used to saying that. Then I started getting used to saying, it's only another two years before I will have saved enough money and I can quit my job. And by the time I got used to saying that it was only a year before I would be in Australia. Then I graduated school and quit my job and it was less than six months until I would be in Australia. It was definite, Lani and I had just purchased our tickets, we were hunting down travel insurance, we were finding out where to get our youth hostel cards, we were going, but the trip had never felt so far away. It kept getting farther, in my mind, the nearer our departure date drew, the closer I got.
All the way from Jersey, throughout Arizona's endless trails and along the climbing road from Phoenix to Flagstaff, where I caught the train, Southwest Chief, and couldn't sleep as it sped through the night-lit dessert, through "the land of enchantment". I ended up getting two or three hours sleep but then woke with a start at eighty miles an hour. It was not the first time I had woken on a train and been disoriented by the darkness and the sense of motion and a hangover, picked up at a bar up the street from the station, where I waited for the train. It was, though, my first time on a train speeding through the desert. And the desert reached out from all directions to embrace me, the train, its train on its tack, welcoming us with nothing, squeezing with nothing, crushing with nothing, with everything it had. As the day grew from an unseen horizon, it prematurely stopped. The California wildfires put an end to the burgeoning dawn. Only the closest hills, that were, at the same time, sandy and craggy, and covered in scrub foliage, could be seen through the haze that hugged all of lover California. At Los Angeles I switched trains--over to the Coast Starlight--and the haze and smoke lightened, leaving only California's natural fog as the train chugged past surfers, oil rigs, small harbor towns, collapsing dunes with fence posts, originally set in deep holes with poured concrete, eroding out of their sides, and dolphins playing in the surf. I got into the Oakland station, at Jack London Square, late that night, with only six days until Lani and I had to be at the San Francisco Airport for our 8:30 P flight that left the states November 1st and arrived in Sydney, Australia, November 3rd at 8:30 A.
Now, the guy in Berkeley, he and I, we both dream big. It would seem, or, at least, has been my experience, that big dreams are fueled either by inspiration, or desperation. The man in Berkeley was desperate. I was desperate when this trip fell into my lap, by way of Lani, who, if not desperate, was concerned about keeping me in college. I was running from the east coast, my family, leaving my beloved Brooklyn behind to move to Chicago because Brooklyn was too close in proximity to Jersey, where I spent my four high school years. I was desperate and made this trip the all consuming goal of my life. What was I working so hard for? Australia! What was I doing with my life, as far as I could see into the future? Australia! Lani might have been desperate, too, to be anywhere but Jersey, and certainly by the end of the last four years, the planning and preparation period for this trip, she was. She will harp on my following point even more than I do: if you say something, mean it, if you say you are going to do something, do it. She will even take it to the point of, if you are walking by someone you know, don't say, "What's up?" or "What's happening?" or "What's going on?" unless you actually want to hear about it, and if you don't want to hear about it, don't ask, even in passing, because someone like me is going to tell you.
I once said, in four years, I am going to Australia, and I got used to saying that. Then I started getting used to saying, it's only another two years before I will have saved enough money and I can quit my job. And by the time I got used to saying that it was only a year before I would be in Australia. Then I graduated school and quit my job and it was less than six months until I would be in Australia. It was definite, Lani and I had just purchased our tickets, we were hunting down travel insurance, we were finding out where to get our youth hostel cards, we were going, but the trip had never felt so far away. It kept getting farther, in my mind, the nearer our departure date drew, the closer I got.
All the way from Jersey, throughout Arizona's endless trails and along the climbing road from Phoenix to Flagstaff, where I caught the train, Southwest Chief, and couldn't sleep as it sped through the night-lit dessert, through "the land of enchantment". I ended up getting two or three hours sleep but then woke with a start at eighty miles an hour. It was not the first time I had woken on a train and been disoriented by the darkness and the sense of motion and a hangover, picked up at a bar up the street from the station, where I waited for the train. It was, though, my first time on a train speeding through the desert. And the desert reached out from all directions to embrace me, the train, its train on its tack, welcoming us with nothing, squeezing with nothing, crushing with nothing, with everything it had. As the day grew from an unseen horizon, it prematurely stopped. The California wildfires put an end to the burgeoning dawn. Only the closest hills, that were, at the same time, sandy and craggy, and covered in scrub foliage, could be seen through the haze that hugged all of lover California. At Los Angeles I switched trains--over to the Coast Starlight--and the haze and smoke lightened, leaving only California's natural fog as the train chugged past surfers, oil rigs, small harbor towns, collapsing dunes with fence posts, originally set in deep holes with poured concrete, eroding out of their sides, and dolphins playing in the surf. I got into the Oakland station, at Jack London Square, late that night, with only six days until Lani and I had to be at the San Francisco Airport for our 8:30 P flight that left the states November 1st and arrived in Sydney, Australia, November 3rd at 8:30 A.
Now, the guy in Berkeley, he and I, we both dream big. It would seem, or, at least, has been my experience, that big dreams are fueled either by inspiration, or desperation. The man in Berkeley was desperate. I was desperate when this trip fell into my lap, by way of Lani, who, if not desperate, was concerned about keeping me in college. I was running from the east coast, my family, leaving my beloved Brooklyn behind to move to Chicago because Brooklyn was too close in proximity to Jersey, where I spent my four high school years. I was desperate and made this trip the all consuming goal of my life. What was I working so hard for? Australia! What was I doing with my life, as far as I could see into the future? Australia! Lani might have been desperate, too, to be anywhere but Jersey, and certainly by the end of the last four years, the planning and preparation period for this trip, she was. She will harp on my following point even more than I do: if you say something, mean it, if you say you are going to do something, do it. She will even take it to the point of, if you are walking by someone you know, don't say, "What's up?" or "What's happening?" or "What's going on?" unless you actually want to hear about it, and if you don't want to hear about it, don't ask, even in passing, because someone like me is going to tell you.
