LEAVING CALIFORNIA

“On the plane,
We were mainly sound and light . . .”

--William H. Joel, Jr, “Scandinavian Skies"

I

The persistence of memory comes to me
Through these familiar hills I will never get used to.
Shall I describe them? In which season? Green and undulating
With dark green hippos riding them?
Fawn with green paisleys? Light blue and covered
With burned-out Panzers? I can never fully describe
This place I cannot leave.
Concentrate on the wonders to come: at 33,000 feet
You can just make out the curvature of the earth.
The unforgiven deserts give way
To the Eastern precipice of the Rockies
To the patchwork cornucopia of the Midwest
To the tightly green hills of the East.
It can be, should be, must be
Enough. For the next five hours
It’ll be all I’ve got.

If there is a secret to the Altamont pass, you and I should know it:
Objects in California are closer than they appear. People flock here
Because they feel like they could stretch out a hand, break the surly
bonds,
Touch the face of God. They are wrong.
The surly bonds are their own: the congress and commerce of community,
The weight of water.

They’re wrong. I’m wrong.
We’re all wrong. I thought it was best my way:
Veni, vidi, vici. We’ve been working it out for centuries,
But nobody every completely figures out California.
We worship the wrong Gods and sacrifice lambs for the sheer hell of it.

At least I hope so. I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t get it.

II

Coming here has brought me a sense of freedom: we break ranks
Like trainees, barge through boundaries like circus clowns.
It’s the only way to be comfortable here. That way we know
will not march
With the tanks.

The other end of the trip is a different story: into the ranks
With the commuters, straight into the lanes next to the car rental shuttles
And the limos.

Why can’t I keep California
In my heart forever? Why do I have to keep reaching for the memory,
The scent, the sights, the sounds, behind my eyes,
The surf and the hills and the relentless beauty?

I wander through the airport
Spotting the other touristas in the crowd, the ones
With haunted eyes, souls brimming
With wonder and beauty and sorrow. We tug towards each other,
Share sad and knowing smiles
And the sad, final wisdom:
The persistence of memory is regret.

This is when I’m torn.
Ripped and rendered and torn to pieces
Trying to conjure California in the thin air
From sights
And sounds so dear I dare not speak.
Hoping against hope to bolster the memories
To fashion from them an alter at which I might pray
To a God I might beseech
Dear lord, let me keep this beautiful place
In my heart and my mind and my soul
Forever and ever,
Amen.

The persistence of memory
Is regret.
I should worry? I’ll be back.

I’ll work that out later. Meanwhile, I’m strapped in with the tourists,
With the Barbarosa Blues,
On my plane back East.