It’s turning into Spring in Livermore. The nights are finally warm enough for me to sit on my front porch in Livermore and type a few words into my computer. I’ve had a few glasses of bourbon and there is no way this blog post can possibly serve my readership, which means it will never see the light of day. I’m smoking a thankfully rare cigarette and staring out onto the peaceful empty street. Livermore is quiet, and the street is a typically wide, empty Livermore street. In the far distance, I hear traffic on the freeway.
My roses are starting to bloom. My yard is a dirt wasteland, with a single tall cactus planted long ago as its single distinguishing prize. Soon I will sell all this and move away. I’ll take my car, my backpack and a few belongings, and start on a new adventure into a life designed to impress only me. I’ve earned and saved, studied and explored the life of a single man in Livermore. I’ve looked for love and really failed to find what I want.
My life is unspectacular to describe, at least by my lights. I finish my cigarette and think, what a shame to sleep when I have this warm feeling of something. I can’t even describe to my own satisfaction the things of my heart right now. A single car drives by at low speed, looking for a driveway to pull into, careful not to hurt any pedestrians that by unlikely chance might dart into the street. America is so cautious, so safe, so unambitious. There is really nothing to fear, but everyone is optimizing their safety. People feel daring by having a bit of small fun, perhaps yelling their happiness, but quickly shushing themselves.
