Back in California. You sit for a moment, before you grab your skateboard, take a run down your driveway, practice, before you hit that big hill a half mile away. You sit and you think about where you’ve been, all over the country, pictures, looking in, and sometimes trying to figure out ways to disappear, even if for a moment. I might go into a bathroom, maybe, close the cubical door, don’t even lift the toilet seat, just sit there and breathe, looking down. You think about who you’ve met: the owner’s son at the diner shaking or the old lady who thinks you’re your Dad. There was one person who said: “Sometimes you make choices”. That’s all he said. I replied: “Yeah, man, sometimes you do.” Then we just looked at each other, standing there. So as I sit here looking at my board, so happy to be home in my hood, back here with my wife, thinking of all the planes, the bad jokes, the people. I smell that scent that is only California: that convergence of ocean, mountain, desert, and the misfits. I started here, way out in the country, riding skateboards with cowboy boots on. I am my own dichotomy of one area of California and of another. I’m from here and that’s all I ever need to know. I missed you deeply.
Now, the tiny wheels roll, bearings spin, I hop on the deck, I hear the ocean down the street, get some speed, think about Jay Adams, his style, Alva, and I don’t see the sycamore nut on the ground, hit it, go fucking flying, hit the ground hard, eat the ground.
I’m from California, and I’m back to where I belong: back to just being a scrapper, eating asphalt, pissing in the water.