intentions of youthful hope

san francisco, ca. Jan 7-13.

When I first stepped off the plane and into the open air I felt the cold breeze and the warm sun of california. here I am. My brother Ricky came in a bit to get me and then off to his apartment and immediately his roommate Nolan pops home, gets in the shower and we're off to the city to watch a football game. San Francisco is a small and strange city. The bar we were in had some after-work executives, street people, hipsters and me and the two military boys.

The next day I woke up alone, and ventured into the city the same way. I felt the artificial woosh of the electric train and it seemed like home. I had forgotten to bring a book so I popped in a store and bought Jack Kerouac's On the Road. Great choice. I went over to SF Moma and was there too early so I find a close cafe and a warm cup of fluid and delved into the story. Ostensibly, Kerouac is taking the same courageous and youthful trip that I am currently on. There is something about the wide spaces of the west that fills up the intentions of youthful hope, and I am beginning to find that here. I am deep into the story and someone comes to share my table and interrupts my thoughts, so I head over to the museum. I was struck particularly by the Rothko that hangs in SF Moma, the indigo and orange reminding me of the gluttony of sky that exists above california. I then head into a movie, Sweeney Todd, which I liked and then loved the second time I saw it. Something about the brutality and humor in growing old and bitter struck me, plus the songs were catchy. I finished out the day with a trip to a yuppie neighborhood for taco tuesday's with Rick and a few of his buddies, and I found out that Obama lost New Hampshire to Clinton narrowly. I then tried to make polite conversation with strangers, but felt a distracting sick regret for the rest of the night.

I spent a couple more days in San Francisco distracting myself, spending some quality hours with my older brother, and convincing Alex to come out. He agreed, eventually, and I went to get him in Ricky's car. He lives about two hours from the bay area in a little town in the foothills of the Sierra's called Sonora. We went straight to Berkeley and saw There Will Be Blood. This film is not for the faint of heart, but one of the most brilliant and extraordinary that I have seen in recent memory. We spent the entire next day watching films and eating and strolling, I rushed back to go to a party with my brother's Coast Guard friends. I made a few new friends, drank some wine, but eventually the night degenerated into a frat party somehow and I found myself playing flippy cup and getting sick from drinking the beer. So silly.

The next day Alex and I bummed around the city until Ricky woke up and then we shipped out for the mountains. We got to Alex's house late, went directly to sleep, and got up bright and early to hit the slopes. I haven't skied since I was 9 or so, but it came right back. The sun was bright and warm and the snow was soft and fresh. The conifers stood as an army in the bright white blanket, and I was sitting on a chair tethered to a rope getting pulled up a mountain. Flying down the mountain, the wind beat my face and my legs shook for fear of falling but I was thrilled. My brother Ricky, Alex, me and Alex's Uncle Osty shared smiles and laughs and cheers all around. I slept soundly.