IS That All There IS…

I feel like I’ve already done everything:

I’ve lived on my own.

For the second time I own the car I’ve always wanted. I’ve traveled and seen some very breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful parts of the world that are viable to see within the limits I find myself in society. I’ve eaten some delicious food. I’ve even managed to fall deeply in love with someone without any conditions or expectations that it perform to metrics of what love should look like. I had to give up on all of that. I’ve already almost died once.

Yet still, I’ve been a published writer. I’ve been lucky that people have thought highly enough of my photography. I’ve off and on acted and performed, even sang on stage for a dollar. At this point, at 43, I’ve done many things I’ve hoped my life to be, so forgive me if I’m already weary, already wondering if this is truly it. Forgive me for wondering if I should even bother taking the medications every morning and every evening. The only reason I do is I remember the pain when I avoided the truth of my body, not wanting to feel that decay. I can only hope my ending is sudden and random, relatively painless or my mind won’t be able to compute the feeling as my soul leaves my body.

I’ve thought variations of this ever since I drove out of Morro Bay about a month ago, Gracie humming up the grade on PCH (is it called PCH in San Luis Obispo County?) out of Cayucos. It returns from being a 4 lane freeway to a scenic two way byway heading towards Cambria and points north, and doesn’t turn into a Freeway again until Carmel.

I wasn’t planning to take the full long trek back, as Grace’s fill up intervals even at 22 miles to the gallon at a constant 70mph might not make that Cambria to Carmel stretch. A 1963 Bonneville 4 door hardtop audibly honked at me heading southbound from across the freeway. I don’t know why my eyes teared up at that moment. Something was beautiful being in respective ‘Yank Tanks’ still rolling in this collapsing society. I punched the throttle a little harder to maintain 65 going uphill, thinking keeping a little speed would allow me to outrun whatever were the multiple sources of grief I was encountering.

I know it had a lot to do with the extensive smiles on faces I got as I rolled around Morro Bay for 3 days. It was the wildness of these days I get nothing but twinkling eyes, smiles and appreciation for being out in this horrible world in this beautiful car. I would occasionally text Josh some of the stories. There’s the one white dude in a crusty FJ Cruiser talking about how his dad did Crown Conversions as I filled up at a Shell station to leave town. He wasn’t older than me but was definitely a child of the 1980’s.

The day before, when I topped off to go to Pismo Dunes, the gas station attendant had a story too. Then the tour guide who still used a VW Bus to give tours around Morro Bay. The desk manager at the hotel was happy to have something in the lot so pretty, their elderly housekeeper taking a moment to peer at Gracie’s white vinyl interior.

It was intense, when I was just looking to take in a beautiful place I had neglected to go for 13 years. When I arrived, and drove out to Morro Rock, I ran into a couple younger than me. The girlfriend was showing her father what her boyfriend was giving up to move in with her in Stockton. There’s also, in the wild land politics and economies of so much of coastal California there’s no viable way for them to ever consider, given their education and employment histories, staying anywhere in San Luis Obispo County.

I hope my smile wasn’t as pained as I said something similar, that I wanted to see a place I’ve always considered dreamy, if not a dream, before I try to give my chances to somewhere else. Somewhere a lot further away than Stockton. Philadelphia has so much more to offer than Stockton.

I know I might have been wincing through my words because I had to acknowledge that this pending move is a solo decision. At the end of the day, the only impacts I’ll have is my landlord will have to find another tenant. I’ll have to switch my drivers license to Pennsylvania, and most likely have to give up on having a state issued ID that outwardly confirms my queerness.

I’ve already mostly faded from existing to those I thought it would matter most if I attempted to stay. If my departure is causing wounds, no one is taking off the bandages to have me look and perhaps dab a little witch hazel on the hurt to cleanse the break. I sincerely doubt that I’m leaving any holes in hearts other than those that have long been broken beyond repair.

I sit and wonder if my own is.

I crested on Pacific Coast Highway and the Pacific opened to my left. I started to cry more, the light being that peculiar midday light of these central sections of California in November. The Sun is lower in the sky, even if its was nearly noon, my desire to not be stuck in Bay Area traffic upon my return pushing me to complete the 4 hour drive back with quickness and little effort as possible.

Moon river, wider than a mile

I’m crossing you in style someday

Oh, dream maker, you old heartbreaker

Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way…

Jerry Butler’s 1961 hit record version, actually the biggest hit version of the 1960’s, started wafting from the bluetooth speaker I leave behind the backseat. I’m still on the fence of taking out the old AM radio to put in a modern Bluetooth unit that looks like the old AM radio. The bluetooth faintly in the back seat comes close enough to the tinny treble reverb of the old AC Delco speakers anyways.

Two drifters off to see the world

There’s such a lot of world to see

We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waiting, ’round the bend

My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me…

The eastern Pacific is so much larger, and probably a lot more of a dynamic body of water than the fictional river Mancini wrote for Audrey Hepburn to originally warble about in Breakfast At Tiffany’s. It’s a lot colder than I associate a beloved river to be as well. My heart still breaks. There was a bit of a break where a VW Dune Buggy was. As the second verse played I abruptly pulled over, knowing I wanted to finish off the roll in my camera before I descended back in the Salinas Valley, closer to the realities I’m trying to modify, if not full on escape.

It’s been a year since Daizy challenged me to acknowledge my heartbreak. I have to say, it’s been a longer than year process of grieving what, if I want to even lie to myself that there’s a future, what do I have to leave behind? I’ve never naturalized myself to the outside world, nor have defined myself internally as a ‘Californian.’ I’ve never really fully claimed where I was born (Redwood City) where I was raised (East Palo Alto) or any of the places I’ve lived for 43 and a half years.

I realize there’s nothing to claim because nowhere, and no one has really ever claimed me. So much of who I am has been because I’ve never been allowed to settle, even if I would love the peace and comfort of settling somewhere where I’d get a chance to be adored and stick around for a little while. I didn’t necessarily choose to be as transient as my life has appeared to look to others. I’ve been abandoned more times than I care to count, therefore I have to keep moving.

The Pacific is beautiful, but at least here, it’s one fucking cold body of water. Even in the baking 75 degree warmth not exactly uncommon to this part of the Pacific Coast mid – Autumn, the region was smothered in fog the day before. It wasn’t lost on me that the tears started to flow on what would have been my parents 46th wedding anniversary. I wasn’t surprised I cursed myself unwittingly to be deeply in my emotions, feeling feral and alone, just me and my beloved car on the day my parents tied the knot that would be untied 14 years later.

It was finalized after 3 years of inane fighting over what was property, the houses, the bank accounts, the cars, me, 29 years ago. I was never intended, wittingly or not, to ever be more than property. It’s a grim reality to still be in the trauma of your ancestors being bartered. My childhood consisted of having my parents do the same thing to me. Maybe that’s a defining reason why I’m more devoted to my cars rather than relationships with more fleshy companions.

I snapped repeated frames as the string section crests on Jerry’s Riley C. Hampton arranged version of the standard. I know if I stayed I didn’t know how long I would have frozen. I would have probably clicked repeat 5 or so times. I didn’t want to have the kindness of strangers ask me what had me in tears. I had pulled next to another parked classic car. We’re all inquisitive about why any of us would choose to be different in such conformist times. I had had the heater on for the cooler puttering around Morro Bay before hitting the highway, so a blast of hot air come through the vents as I fired Gracie back up.

Tears did not stop flowing as the tug of not wanting to leave didn’t disperse as I turned at the junction of California Highway 46. I’ve been impressed with Gracie’s grunt at pulling up long mountain highway grades. A cement mixing truck in front of me slowed my ability to outrun my emotions trying to keep a steady 55 mph up the 2,000 foot grade. I was happy that the Powerglide actually drops into high under full throttle conditions right in the meat of the torque curve of a RH code Turbo Aire Six. If it didn’t, I’d be embarrassed at an attempt to keep up with modern mountain conquering performance. I’d be a fucking Falcon.

Perhaps impressed, the cement truck yielded to my determination near the summit. I floor it as tears streamed down my neck, delusional that I was outrunning my emotions. I’m trying to put distance between me and this very cold, very beguiling body of water. I can acknowledge the way I have cursed this land and the people that have been ruined for me. I hate that I still wish that there’s still one other drifter on my heart that I wish was in that perfectly preserved passenger seat, turquoise seatbelts that match his eyes.

Is this all that there is?

My god I hope not.