Man on a bridge

Today, Quincy and I had the displeasure of sitting in traffic for an hour as we headed southbound on 99, then Stone, then Fremont. We stopped at the Lighthouse Roasters cafe in Fremont, then decided to head home. In all, with Grete wining softly in the back seat, it was an slightly dour Monday morning. To be honest, though, Grete's wining is sweet song compared to some of The Company's employees' wining.

The Phinneywood blog informed us that the hold up was a man contemplating ending his life via the sudden stop under the Aurora Bridge. He chose poorly, in the end.

There have been plenty of times in my life where I've considered an abrupt end. Sometime in the 90s I figured out that there are other, more interesting, full escapes from one's life. A Plan B that doesn't involve pearly gates or brimstone or void. Sure, I'll bring all my problems with me wherever I go. But what's to say that I wouldn't also bring them to the afterlife?

Plan B: Borrow, scrounge or steal enough cash to make it a tropical island, where even my crushed spirit's drive would outpace the locals' ambitions. Build bungalow; watch the sun set; become local.

Now, I used to say I'd move to Poland, learn Polish in an intensive state school, and start anew. Do you have any idea how cold it gets there? I have no clue what I was thinking.

For now, though, in a time of small turmoil and weak eddies, I am looking for some small change. Minor change. I moved my Martin guitar (purchased in Bethlehem, PA, outside the Martin factory, when $600 was a million to me) to the den. I've sent some old friends emails. I've started writing again. Hopefully I'll be able to stave off that tropical island. But, at least I know that as bad as it gets, the worst case is pretty 72 and breezy. Get back to work.