Cold, crisp air grips my face as I ascend from the tube and embark upon my quest. The Ferry tower tells me the hour, half past five. The Foot will surely befoul this gracious area—Fuck the art crowd,  the damn thing  looks absolutely heinous.  The plaza seems packed for such a cold day.

Ah, The cowardly cubs of commerce have descended for coffee, and veiled discourse regarding possible intercourse later in the afternoon, or perhaps even the evening.  Latte or a Cap to cap a day spent fooling the world that they actually understand the universe around them.  Of course they are cloaked in wool; and also deceit, for our world knows no other way.

A chorus of upturned noses greets my passage on the way to the wide open ocean of opportunity awaiting my arrival. A forced smile creeps slowly across my face as I feign approval of these callow fools who know themselves only by what’s buried deep within their Italian leather wallets.

A chill crawls up my spine, and I tighten my scarf against the cold concrete hurricane whirling within my mind.

Beneath my feet lies an aggregate of stone; each one connected in turn to another by a transitory, unnatural bond. The surface only seen as beneficial when each individual is united with a brother, though each uniquely capable of felling we who walk upon them. Yet together, bound as they are, provide a measure of stability as we move away from our past regrets.  Our epitaph infected by present deluded glory diluted with doubt, that is forever composed in terms of a hazy and uncertain future of nothing but blind and misplaced hope.

Patchouli invades my sense as one loose stone crumbles free before me, "No, the only change I can spare sir is within my heart."  I suddenly stumble upon another—"How kind can these buds be ma’am if they only serve to draw you further away from yourself." A family of bears dance across mustard-stained hope and beg my attention with a jumble of smiles, which are returned along with the coins jingling in my lint-filled pocket.

No these stones will never be bound, for they refuse to accept the damp reeking form that has been cast around them.  Wiggling free from the rest, they have now found themselves; driven by a reflection that too few have the vision to see.

Yes I see history now crying before me: A blueberry bagel that almost fulfilled her destiny; A lime green parley to save the ancient coastal redwood sentries.  A rolling messenger shouts a deafening cry to a rude motorist speeding home for dinner; then proceeds to knock down a grandmother buying flowers for her dying husband.

The cult of the now worships eternally before me, secure in the correctness of their faith.

A fountain sadly pours out her burden to a crowd of children playing near a giant sleeping shepherd.  They can not understand the depth of her problem, because they’ve been told not to listen by parents worried about the safety of the "water".

The sleepy sun greets me as I slowly stroll down the Esplanade, warming more than my face.  He never seems to tire from hearing our selfish cries, yet asks for nothing save the freedom to move to his own path of glory.  I smile and offer him a quiet thanks as a crowded bus screams past coughing and wheezing fatigue into the late autumn day.

The Red and White floats past The Blue and Gold, thumbing it’s nose as a father nearby shields the eyes of his son trying vainly to cast into the wind.  A large Maersk transport saunters through the Gate emerging from the afternoon fog; it’s deck heavy with cracker-jack boxes of prizes from around the world, or at least San Pedro or LA.

Mighty Alcatraz patiently keeps guard of the Bay, protecting the living memory of man’s eternal failing; The beacon waves, the horn calls, yet only the gulls can answer his lonely pleas for attention.

Sweat freezing on their heels, several soles pass by, running for peace or perhaps just a piece, returning after reaching The Marina.  I wonder if they found it, I sure hope they found some sort of protection.

Large decaying skeletons of The City’s maritime past are now filled only with vacant cars, as they grudgingly await their fate to be stuck in the building tension of rush-hour traffic.  There are no fishermen now, only parking attendants silently casting their nets towards bright-eyed tourists swimming desperately to The Wharf.

My God...Berkeley looks beautiful...FROM HERE. No pan-handling punks from Montclaire freshly deposited from Mommy’s pristine Suburban; no weary sophomores looking to score a buck or at least some change for the apres-bong Fat Slice.  No...it is the hills, the Campanile, the new green growth erupting from the furious fire four years ago.  The golden light resting lightly on her shoulders as the cooling cover of fog descends once more upon sleepy Marin.

I can hear them...finally...they call softly from my dreams.  My pace quickens and my smile grows in anticipation at our expected reunion.   Merchants hawk, people talk, and the mimes, well they’ve ALWAYS annoyed me.  Turning the last corner home, the full fury of a rushing pacific force slams right through me.  They are now yelling my name...I implore them to whisper as it’s impolite to talk so loudly.

At least a hundred have gathered--sunning, chatting and barking at will.  I know only half, but am quickly introduced to the rest that have joined us today.  How joyfully they roll about the planking--No anger, no fear, only them being them.  No bluster, no worries either, just enjoying the time that they share together. No Armani, No cell phones, no 2 month-old Beamer; why would they need all that, when they are blessed with each other.  They ask nothing from me, and never have, well maybe an occasional herring each summer.  Today I have none, but instead have brought them my heart.  And I give them the smile, the same these sea lions gave me when I was a child.