palm

I saw a beautiful vision this morning while riding the 38 limited Muni bus downtown on Geary Blvd. toward Van Ness. I was listening to Teri Gross' interview of Charlie Kaufman, the screenwriter who created some of my recent favorite films, like Being John Malkovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. While listening to this man make repeated successful and semi futile attempts to express himself verbally (he reminded me of an old Volkswagon Beetle with transmission problems - sputters & coughs), I looked up and suddenly beheld an arrestingly beautiful phenomenon up in the sky. I saw Superman.

Up in the eastern sky above the San Francisco skyline and hovering over the east bay hung a blue gray cloud. Above it was blue sky. Behind this bank of cloud, the sun was rising, illuminating it from behind, so that below I could see a warm glow of soft yellow naples light. The tops of the clouds were brushed with light, making it look like I was beholding a huge blue gray cake with white frosting on top hovering over the entire city. It was arresting and pleasurable and kept my eyes riveted like a 2 year old child's when seeing something for the very first time. The great dark silhouette of a palm tree I sensed was looking at the same great warm morning cake and waving its fronds lightly in recognition. I felt like I might have been the only one on the bus seeing this vision. Everyone silently looked inward, noseward, impatient and groggy, anxious to be free of the crowded masses so they could get to work quickly and hole up in their cubicle until there smoking and coffee break rolls around. Not soon enough, I gather. Son tar livet i stor stan.

I wish I could say how it makes me feel, seeing these beautiful momentary glimpses of eternity. It's certainly pleasurable for my eyes, and even for my mind and "soul." Clearly, to describe my feelings, I find it nearly impossible to avoid religious terminology. Words like soul and spirit always come to mind, whether it be due to my upbringing or something else. Something simply unavoidable. In most cases, those words don't do much at revealing through language the sense of something so sublime and metaphysical. Better to just shut up, write nothing at all. But the impulse to express my experience drives me to make these feeble attempts. It seems to be an impulse that is somehow central to my existence. The effort at least gives my life a half baked sense of "meaning."