As the train sways heavily the river flows along the rail line. Egrets perch on logs that have fallen across the water. Gray and stoic, it is hard to discern them from the driftwood to which they cling. Massive power lines repeatedly shrink off into the distance eventually becoming the distant smooth-gray emptiness. Construction and decay flow as easily as the countless fields in this valley while the mountains frame the panorama. Occasional factories of interwoven steel tendrils breath out smoke and steam.
The continued rocking lulls one into a stupor and most on board only find doldrums. Tiny black birds spice the sky while the mountains approach, their skin so tan and spotted like the cows that must be riding on them. Somehow, it is so important that everything in sight is bathed by this morning sun while each piece of matter is wed to its shadow. Perhaps because we all forget this indifference of nature, of reality.
Seeing the eucalyptus, standing tall, bounces my mind to Santa Cruz of my childhood and back here again as they build themselves up while they fall apart all over.
There is a funny thing about shoes strung over telephone lines. They always seem to grab my attention. And from this angle the overpass above displays a sign that shows Fairfield Jackson Street as being in the air. It points to nothing, the sky, which we all take for granted but some people are living nearby in a field as the cows in the next; what is a home?
Birds now dart about the cattails, pathless in air and water, either in swarm or solitude. A lone chicken kicks up tiny bits of dirt. Each flock dissects the view flashing between land and wings. The glass buzzes, rattling, as the train regains speed with its creaks and hums. Saturation returns to the land and sends a sense of lucidity as so real yet as a lucid dream. My seeing is merely this land looking in a mirror. A sign says Benicia and the weeds at its feet remain silent. A new factory is here, looking old as the earth around it, with colors of green and ochre gourds. It is directly adjacent to enormous ships resting gravely in the water that now surrounds as the train tiptoes heavily over a bridge.
Martinez holds up a tiny gift, a locomotive corpse, both vibrant and rusting. An entropic display of floaters coats this hodgepodge view of palms, rail cars, ships and distant shore of houses. The train glides for a moment but then shakes and screeches, eventually hissing down to the reverberating hum. The water passively laps a soft hush across the shore and wood docks, continually devouring them without effort, leaving broken columns and rough edges. One dock resembles poorly-shaven facial stubble.
A red helicopter floats along the blue sky. Passing another factory, it screams industrial with brick, rust and steel; steam puffing out. The windows are coated with filth and all material façade is eroding slowly away. The tunnel in the hill sends me back to my self.
Now out, reborn to the dark sea, distant blue-black mountains are faint yet mark a distinct scratch across the base of the sky. Some people are here and there but no one seems to hurry; they just move about as the birds and waves. This place looks like a Peat bog.
Suddenly, San Francisco geometry of towers pops into view while we pass load after load of train cars filled with rusty metal in front of fences and walls cloaked in graffiti. The sign says Spencer’s Grotto and we are in Berkeley. As we near the big city the quality of graffiti improves. Against these pines though, everything is but a flash. Between their branches the distant glimpse of the Golden Gate emerges and dissolves with the fog that coddles it.
And now we are in our bus. The sticker letters on the window are red and backlight by sunlight. It says Emergency Exit and the glue holding them afloat has melted and dripped down the glass a few inches. Cars are going in several directions in complete organized chaos. The bus-air pumps through vents humming and hissing. More squeaky chairs here but no rattling glass to be found. The bridge and city slide in and out of view as the energy in the air thickens. Luckily cirrus clouds echo the scene while the dense fog continues to engulf the Gate. For one brief moment it feels like flying.
