night of 3/20/12

J-- and I are back on the SF peninsula. We can't find where we're going because what was once El Camino has been chopped up into different names for each township. Like "Independence Avenue." We're unfolding a big map to figure it out.

I'm at the bazaar, held in a series of massive interconnected warehouses. Dad has sent me to find a "pineapple spark plug" for the car, so-called due to a split, splayed protuberance resembling a pineapple's leaves. There's an auto parts stall but I'm afraid to talk to the purveyor.

Now I can fly. Soaring home down near the 280, the scenic route. It's getting dark; harder and harder to see. Holding my arm before my face as I fly, in case I run into the indistinct branches, weaving between the dim forms of trees. I look down in the last light and see a doe and her young child. I overfly for a better look. The doe leaps, time slows, her nose at the arc's top rises to just before my face, I drop my arm down, both of us still, regarding each other.