Complain Complain Complain

Complain Complain Complain

The L.A. freeway, never looked better, a tangled web of white and yellow lines on strips of blacktop and cement, if you put together the used and unused freeway lanes; you could drive to Hawaii, island after island.
Hitting the road never sounded so peaceful, no thoughts of road rash, don’t even care about the angry people in their need for caffeine. Just getting out of here, heading for Nebraska, do some kayaking of the wheat fields as we always said when things get to be too enclosed by the tinsel side of life.
Just watching people has become too boring, their complaints about anything but what is true to life. The snooty lady leaving the store with her multitude of alcohol, the bottles all clattering in the box she is carrying, scoffing at the guy peacefully enjoying his cigarette; he just smiles and says: Mam! All with a smile.
The patrons of the vitamin store, complaining about having to drive a few miles to get their years supply of vitamins, all the whining and carrying on, you’d think the tires on their new Mercedes were bald. The shipping clerk’s thoughts of how stupid it is to ship something a mile away from the store, knowing the customer and the Mercedes will be shined up nice come Friday night.
Seems like around here, people are always trying to conform the one person that seeks the truth of life to their lunacy; conforming the person to the baseless reality of the debutant of the senior prom. Sooner or later, all the bling, scantily dressed women attached to their stud-muffin guys, all the flashy cars with their horn happy drivers; it all becomes old and boring.
It’s time to get west of the sunrise, roll down the windows, hit the 101, escape the rat race maize; it’s time to leave it all behind. We can go sit on a rock, Santa Claus Lane, watch the waves roll in, hit the surf shop, get something to eat; then get moving again. Ah Punkin, I’d sit all day long on one of those big pebbles, just so I could watch the sun, in all its tired glory from lighting our day, as it sets down on that distant horizon. No trite nor shallow time has ever been lived with you beside me, every sunset beautiful, every day a blessing; even in the Lost Angels landscape.
The air in our faces, the only noise the wind on the tracks coming off the surf, the gulls screech, and a child’s laughter. Makes me think of the thoughts I had the many miles south, the debilitation of life would come if stayed there too long. This freedom we now share, your smile so beautifully present, our inquisitive bones rattling, the back-roads requesting our visiting the unseen towns, the forgotten Missions.
Let’s take 154 through the Santa Ynez Mountains to Lake Cachuma, see if the panic lady is still roaming around the rest area, looking and taking notes of the people stopping there; maybe spotting Daniel and Mingo while they save the historic New West. Ah the panic lady, she couldn’t tell the difference between a vodka bottle from a water bottle; or the many uses of a K-Bar as I opened our packages of cookies for the drive.
On the way out, we can cut through Solvang, stopping to visit the Dutch village on our way to Big Sur. Big Sur what a place to get lost, highway 1, scenic peaceful loneliness abounds. Nothing but the locals, scraggly cliffs, seals and sea lions, and the elusive vultures. Turkey vultures, the most ugly example of nature’s beauty, but for a while in our stopping; we will be happy to call them neighbor.
The miles have rolled under our wheels, further and further away from the lofty people left behind, back there, the rarely seen shoe repair shop, no need as shoes never touch the ground there; only the ignored homeless touch the ground. The gangs of the elite, or the gangs of East L.A. roam the street; don’t look at them the man said, it invites trouble. Ah the rough and tough American, just how was I supposed to drive if I don’t look where I am going. If the gangs don’t want to be seen, then crawl back under the rock, don’t try even in a malicious manner to be part and parcel of all that you hate.
Our new and decidedly homely neighbors with fire red faces and black feathers, how they leave us alone in their search for food; they are so neighborly in a forgotten manner. We have become accustomed to man’s torrential intrusions, by people that never get the story right; it’s a pleasant break in our not far enough behind monotony to be sharing our space in time and air with such respectful souls.
Across the Bixby Bridge, down the other side, ah that poor Miata. No, it wasn’t your daddy’s Volvo, but watching our taillights fade off into the distance gave you the chance to remember his old Volvo; and why you shouldn’t tailgate in your little red sports car.
Monterey, lovers point, kelp; and the home of Steinbeck and Dean’s East of Eden. Stuck in the fifties lore with modern appeal. Looking for 156 east, to San Juan Bautista, home of the Saints past and fresh Danish pastry, a walk in the Mission; an Inn for the Lord to stay and relax. Such peace felt, walking the grounds, wiping the raspberry and lemmon jelly from our chins, somehow feeling like we are sharing our Danish pastries with heaven.
The road less traveled, south, across the highway to Fremont Peak to watch the clouds roll into the valley below, the bays gift to the night. The road goes on forever, the turnaround, above the clouds, heavens gate; hand in hand . . . We walk.
Misfits of society’s elite, complainers of drought water their lawns talking to their neighbors, shallow minds that never ask Why, the wallowers of life’s tainted normal; for a while now left behind well below the clouds at our feet. The sun is setting, the cobalt sky above, the stars surrounding the Big Dipper, embracing the solitude, the peace, each other; hand in hand we . . . walk.

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