The Flatulent's Wharf

I have returned to a friend's house in a nice section of San Francisco. I haven't been here in about ten months. October last.

The experience has elicited a number of feelings. It doesn't help that I went back and read all of my posts from October, never a good idea. What an autumnal whirlwind. 

The old sensations here, the ringing of the church bells just outside the window, the view down the hill to the bay. The experiences I was having at the time filled me with so much uncertainty and presumed doom. Now it is all just an unfortunate memory.

Almost as soon as I got here I put on my jogging shorts and told myself that I would jog or vigorously walk the route that I used to run in the chilly mornings here, with my friend. Jesus... what a stupid mistake, but one I hope to try again in the morning if my legs aren't too sore from tonight. My heart was cursing me the entire way back from the Fisherman's Wharf.

The Wharf. What a monstrous shithole. I had never actually been to the very center of it, the calamari's asshole. There is something so revolting about abject American consumption. The smell of fried food, stale beer, vomit and stupidity. I swear it, there are some places where the residue of perpetual stupidity leaves a foul scent. It can not be removed. It must be capitalized on. 

Well, anyway, that's one of them. But I was not there for the purpose of conducting an investigation. I was there to shed some of the animal fats from my circulatory system.

So, I jogged 15 minutes down to the Wharf, timed by my mini-ipod, then turned around and headed back, which was foolish. The return trip was much further uphill, from the wharf up to Nob Hill. The elevation differential must be a mile or more. There are five consecutive blocks that just get steeper and steeper. After two of them my performance was comical. I was gasping and wheezing and likely farting, my mind begging for help, or mercy. A passer-by, a young woman with shaded aviators, actually asked me if I was okay.

I could barely get the word out: No.

I pushed on. There are only so many times that you can be told you're not good enough, even by your own inner-voice, before something changes, something snaps, and you decide to do something about it.

The voice in your head turns on you and starts coaching, encouraging, demanding. 

It becomes the voice of Burgess Meredith:

There is no tomorrow! There is no tomorrow!

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