August 18, 2021:
I have no recollection of moving to San Francisco.
I vividly remember the train. My anguish, and the cracks in my perception of reality.
I must have made another trip, with my possessions. A recording studio's worth of heavy devices; a library's worth of heavier books. These were certainly not in my backpack, on the train.
Perhaps an earlier drive, in my '65 VW bus, filled with possessions? Before I sold it, and my coin collection, and my childhood books on military subjects.
Maybe later, in a rented van?
The point is how fragmented the memories are from this entire time. Filled with grief, loss, loneliness, addiction. A lifetime of mistakes crowded into two or three interminable years. Symbolized by gray snaking smoke, and the cracks in my perception of reality.