Pacificapocalypse

It’s only an hour.

Just keep telling yourself that.

But it’s not really, it’s more. The lights all wrong for the time of day.

On the 0705 express bus this morning, the bridge is still closed so its more crowded than usual, but it’s a relatively hygienic crowd so the overwhelming sensation of too many people in too little space is not the trial it might be.
Head back. AFX and GMS on the headphones. Eyes closed.
As ‘Outside – Kick Ass (violin solo)‘ comes up, the sun on my face starts to flicker from passing highway signs. Shadow. Sun. Shadow. Sun, and a certain hypnotic quality slips over me. This is like Brian Gysin and Wild Bill’s Dreamachine.
And then my mind separates.
My fore brain is a fighter jet low over enemy territory, 500 knots at 100 feet. Everything flashes by strobe light perfect. (Sun. Shadow. Sun. Shadow.) Then it climbs vertically to 40,000 feet and I can see everything laid out below me in perfect detail. Now it’s GMS and ‘The Crow‘ is building up, layer upon layer like the most beautiful train wreck in the world.
My hind brain is stretched out on a giant cushion, simply reveling in the passage of air through my nose,  the low frequency rumble of the tires over the expansion joints in the freeway have set up a perfect accompanying hum. Extra’s from the tent scene with Xerxes in 300 bring me sensations one by one.
The bus is rocking, now slightly canted to the left as it follows the curve of the freeway.
Someone laughs and it seems to Doppler down too quickly.
It’s only an hour.

I hate the time change.

Always messes with my head.