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Driving around, I come to a stop light.  That's what I seem to have been doing most of the day.  Driving along, and sitting at stop lights.  Then, driving some more. This time, I am stopped, waiting for the light to change at MLK and Ashby.  I see the same BART station, the same store, the same 99-seat theater, and the same odd house I've spied a hundred times before.  Then, here come 2 boarders in the crosswalk.  One has waist-length dreads that match his skin.  They are tied back.  The word 'glamorous' comes to mind.  The other probably hopes to play in a band one day.  He'll be the dude with his eyes closed, playing keyboards.  No on ever hears the keyboards.  That will frustrate him, but right now he is telling his friend something really funny. 

Then, I see the billowing orange robe of of a Tibetan monk.  His head looks so clean. He blows by the boarders; the crosswalk plenty wide for the three of them.  They don't even look at him.

A Muslim woman dressed in full hijab must be late because she is running.  In my rear view mirror, I see the bus on approach -- her intended target.  It pulls up, and she disappears inside.  The bus joins the line of cars waiting for the light.  

A woman on a ladder painting the date of the next play on the theater wall doesn't seem aware of the bus, the cars, or the people.  No outlining, all freehand; I couldn't do that.  The show runs May 22nd through Ju...  Light's green. I press the gas.  I roll on.  I feel so ordinary inside this car.  I feel so home.  I feel so Berkeley.

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