08.14.06 - 6:58 p.m.

A letter to Zannie, who's in Mendocino processing weed.

Dear Holy Smoker,

I broke from my driving regimen today to collect myself for another rollicking week of being a guest. Revisiting certain old spots in Seb really messed with me. My worldliness left and I became the same person that had stood there years ago. I was suddenly like a single layer of some Sonoma County artist-wannabe's finicky watercolor painting of a vineyard. Each of those layers individually look like shit. I hope you know what I mean.

A few minutes later, though, I got it together, and understood that the unease is only a sign of how much I've outgrown this bland scene. I'm no longer in denial about the death of this loved one. It's dead, and that's it.

I feel like I upset (the ghost of) Sebastopol's perspective just by stepping inside the city limits. I feel HUGE walking from the parking lot to the door. I feel like a skeleton with the presence of a whole nother country (you know, Canada). I feel like Canada's own Egyptian mummy here! And my out-of-place expectations are as real as a space helmet. I watch my feet move beneath me, down there in Sebastopol, while my head is so elsewhere that it's like the interior of my helmet is lined with some dense Emi Honda art, and most of my attention is directed to looking at it, not watching where I'm going, and also not letting it make me sneeze. But these expansive feelings make me feel small, too. I'm small enough to be flung around by deep feelings.

I'm glad you knew not to come here and do this, this time. I think the stragglers will be tucked into Berk-land/Oak-ley or SF with the others in time for next time, so THIS IS IT. I'm having a good time, but it's impossible to actually keep living life among all these reunions, knowing the truth about the old city that the current one was built atop. (I think that anything that isn't yours is more likely to seem fake.)

I hope you're not meek, and I'll see you in a week.

Oh, and thanks a lot for making off with my lunettes de soleil. Sunny California's blinding me like the streets really are paved with gold.

Love,

jess.

see< >saw

i whisper hello to everything