Shevek (shevek) wrote,

Under the yellow sodium-lit night sky, a million stars of broken glass twinkle along the edges of the freeway. I feel that once, I knew that "Bascom" was a type of fish, or a flower; but now, the lettering in Highway Gothic just means "home". In two days, I will leave Los Gatos, and I will probably never visit it again. My roots are shifting. What will "Bascom" mean then, in ten years time, on the road to Santa Cruz? It will mean a row of clairvoyants, all outdoing one another with gaudy advertising, and two years later, a closed down Chrysler garage. It means the daily pilgrimage to Wholefoods, because there's nowhere else to go, and the interminable wait for the pedestrian light to change.

I'm struggling to explain why I felt an unaccountable familiarity as I drove up I280 today. It felt more like a run to Glastonbury at night - a regular commute - a necessary slice out of my life in part-payment for moving from one place to another - more than an expedition. I think I speak the language of the San Francisco highways now.
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