Bottom Heavy

San Francisco is filled with holes. Sometimes they are black and sometimes they are filled with colors but never does it matter because you cant see anything when you are in one either way. They are everywhere too, you have to watch your step and leave a trail of breadcrumbs wherever you go or else you’ll find yourself stuck because they are easy to fall into and a real bitch to climb out of. Almost everyone I know in SF has found himself or herself, at one point or another, in a hole. Some spend a long time in there, some just check it out and make an exit before things get too dark [they always get dark, even if they are beaming a brilliant light when you first get down there, eventually its just a darkness you cant see or think through], some get down there and never want to come out, they say its warm and comfortable and in their hole they don’t have to worry because they know exactly where they are and this certainty is all they ever needed or wanted.

I’m getting ahead of myself though, rambling philosophically, punctuating reality with fantasy, and not clearly unfolding the true message of this post. Its very easy to do that when you’re talking about the holes in San Francisco, because its easy to believe that they are nothing but a page of imagination in your mind. It doesn’t take much to dismiss them as an excuse for your mistakes, a euphemism for your failure, a scapegoat for your sadness, or another reason why you’re weak. It’s not too uncommon to fool yourself into thinking they are traps, set by some cosmic predator or, more accurately, cosmic jester, in order to trip up and confuse the honest path your were meant to follow in life. But they are not and this is the hardest part to accept: these holes, these obstacles and challenges, brutal as they may be, were created by none other than you yourself. The only thing the universe provides is the shovel, it is you that does all the digging.

I could feel the holes from 38 thousand feet in the sky, cruising altitude. I felt the plane bump and shake as the holes beneath sucked out pockets of gravity under the fuselage. I tried to read my book, I tried to watch the viewing entertainment provided by Jetblue, I tried to skim through a magazine, I tried to type on my laptop, but the holes on the ground, the holes in San Francisco, they wouldn’t let me. The plane dipped and shivered once we were above California, I could feel the holes depth below, I could sense that some were for me, they were black and endless and I could hear music coming from deep inside them. The music was good. They were waiting.

It’s a shame I cant paint a detailed portrait of what these holes look like, but in all honesty, they are different for everyone. Some are filled with drugs like crystal meth or heroin, but they don’t even have to be that severe a chemical, they can be weed or alcohol too. Some, like mine, are filled with music and women, but others are just silent and empty. Some have a comfy couch in them and some don’t, some just have a glass table and a television that never shuts off. Some are like quiet neighborhoods where nothing ever happens, some are the rooftops of skyscrapers and they have no guardrails and the wind brushes with violence. Ive heard of some that are dense with love and smiles and sunlight, you can never leave those, and when you try to, that’s when you realize you’re in a hole. You see what I mean, there is no actual design for these holes, so there is no real way to describe them.

I will tell you about the holes I went into when I was in San Francisco later, when I get my thoughts together and when the words inside me unwrap themselves a bit more, when I can actually unfold my ideas and see what they are as opposed to what I think they should be. Right now my mind is exhausted, my blood is running slow and my stomach and chest feel heavy. I’m in another time zone now, I gotta catch up with my watch.