Across the briny bay went I on the day you buried your mother, your mother-in-law, your mother-in-surrogate.
Across the briny bay went I in a bus, ultimately to somewhere I had been before. Here we were again at Paulson Press. This time we are comeing across the San Rafael bridge.
I have been driving across bridges in the Bay Area for 44 years and in this time I have never, not once, been across the San Rafael bridge.
Like most bridges across the bay it has its low parts and high parts and they're all a little unique that way but dang, there's this island right in the middle. Red Rock Island is not like some faraway place. Its not like Alcatraz where you see it far away and you just get an impression of the sizeness and cliffness and impossibleness. Red Rock looks like a place where there's a gnarly cove that maybe would save you half the time and kill you the other but maybe you could just hop across.
Now, in the present, I see its available for sale and only USD $5m. Given that my winter retreat was $14m, this seems imminently more reasonable.
Paulson is amazing, the space every printer would want. Large, open, lots of white surfaces. Uncluttered. Everything kind of tucked away.
The printing master is the same as before, still dark and gorgeous. Her work with the tarlatan is amazing, folsing it like a cop's hat and buffing it with the edge of that thing so starchy to be as stiff as a cop's hat. Vic's, next door is still like heaven.
I don't think I had a good idea of what to get last time or what I had been getting into but I had contempalted my options at the chaat house. I was surprised to find a couple kinds of lossi on tap and was quite happy to find a Thums Up to go with my biriyani. The market, my eyes now jaded by the spleandors of KP, was not nearly as amazing as I remember it but so weirdly Bay Area precise. A bit of everything available at the store. You could go back to your small place and make some dishes and come back and get some more things.
Arion Press really is heaven. Its like a lifetime of growing up around exotic, enfetished machinery. Puffing engines at the state fair. Weird pizza parlors. Railroad shops. Blacksmith forges. Arion is this for type, the last living vestage of metal being molten and laid onto press. The halls are like the warehouse at the end of the raiders of the Lost Ark. Untold thousands of dollars lines the wall in semicompleted book form.
Gosh, I should have spent my bonus on that. I would need a vault of its very own just for it. I'd bring it out every few months to breathe and then back into its dark, fireproof container to wait to become an inexplicable object.
I mean, damn, man. It's Richard Brautigan.