red tree rose (personification)

they do become friends after all.

they saw it from pacific coast highway in dana point one afternoon on their way back from the beach, a little shop with funky furniture and large clay pots spilling out onto the sidewalk.  they made that split-second decision you do when you’re driving along not looking for anything in particular, but in no hurry to get home, you know, the decision to extend your perfect day just a little bit longer, a little bit more exploration, just as you did at the beach when you wandered down one of the many arroyos that lead down to the beach (and where you saw two men kissing, their oiled bodies pressed tight together, one man’s deeply tanned hand holding the black-haired head of his lover in a clinch of passion. they didn’t see our sojourners, stopping as they had a few yards away in the deep, quiet sand, embarrassed a little, but still captivated by the glistening bodies and obliviousness–of the sun beating down on them, of the possibility of discovery; the beauty of the day surrounding them in an aura of golden, shimmering sweat and lotion, the sucking sound of two tongues competing with the gentle wash of water against the shore, and the faint hum of the freeway, unseen, but close. it was such an intimate, exquisite moment — the life before the little death that was sure to follow — that you unconsciously began to move closer to them; your lover took your hand and when you looked at him, he touched his lips with his forefinger, shhh, and you turned away and shuffled through the sand, back to the beach, resistant, a little like pulling your dog away from an especially fragrant spot of grass, and he leaned up against you, arm-to-arm, and kissed your shoulder, both of you smiling in collusion with the lovers behind you.)

the driver dug his wallet out from underneath the car seat where he’d hidden it when they’d parked at the beach, and they climbed out of the warmth of the car. they’d driven down the freeway with the windows down and exiting into town at the ‘beach cities’ sign, sunglasses slipping down their sun-kissed noses; one with a green bandanna tied around his head do-rag style, the other in his dago-t, curly, scratchy chest hair spilling out from the straps and arm-holes. they stood in front of the store, pointing at this pot and that one, really no need to speak to each other, but finally deciding on the neo-classical urn and the hunky surfer dude owner helped them put it into the trunk of their car, assuring them of its durability and long life.

a tree rose, just like the one in these photos, well, actually the one in these photos, was planted in the urn. a season of watering, sun, rain, time, passed. and then another, possibly a third, but then the urn started to deteriorate, a chunk of its rim falling off without human assistance (was the tree rose helping it escape? they didn’t know.) eventually though, it had to be replaced, and they brought home an earthen-ware, hand-decorated pot that required both of them to carry down the stairs from the garage to its new home. the hammer was brought out of its tool box and the pot that was falling apart was further encouraged to leave the tree rose behind; they re-potted it using some of the shards of the old pot as drainage in the bottom of the new, and there resides the rose ever since. (happily ever after, they imagine, as they’re inclined to believe in fairy tales and other stories of the supernatural, like lovers kissing on the beach.)

the embarrassment of a perfect day

there are days here on our hilltop, when all of the parts of a day (besides the obvious ones–sun, sea, sky) come together, even if it’s just for the briefest of moments, and if you’re lucky, you’ll be at the point where they all converge (this includes your humor, your physical being, your you) and you may stand there, mouth agape, fumbling with your camera (even if it’s just your eye and the film of your life running through the projector of your mind), wondering at your good fortune to have been there (without the ‘done that’).

there are days, for example, where those moments come closer together than one might feel are appropriate, like winning the lottery or an academy award (whatever seems the most unlikely for you) and they layer one upon the other, someone’s grandiose idea of a cake (i like cake) with butter cream frosting and strawberries (please feel free to substitute your favorite flavors–it could also be a cake filled with pleasant sensations; the touch of your lover, a smile from a stranger, a door being held open for you, a thank you–god knows those are in short supply these days), wherever they come from, however you build it, it’s there just for you.   you may even find yourself blushing from the excess.   <insert your favorite approving platitude here.>

a tree considers its existence

yesterday, there was a tree that reached for the sky, playfully scratching at the underbelly of the clouds.

the sun refused to cooperate, drawing the clouds closer to its face and dropping into the western sea.

the tree shrugged its indifference and turned away as if it had never happened.

the effects of moonlight on sunrise (and your day)

do you commune with nature?

“hey, moon, wassup?”  or “what about those yankees?”

or perhaps you have a more inquisitive nature: “so, moon, do you find competition from the sun irritating?  you’ve been waxing for several nights and suddenly the sun’s all like up in your face, before you’ve even taken your final bow, like some bad actor talking over your laugh.”

alright.  i know. you’re more of the silent type and you stand there and let nature reveal itself to you, more of a listener (always a good trait to have, even when you’re dealing with humans), letting it have its way with you.

here’s what happened to me:  “my god, you should see the moon in the sky with the sunrise over the ocean,” i gushed, the dogs jostling each other on their way to the kitchen for their breakfast, “i wish i’d had my camera, it was magnificent.”  “i’m feeding them, why don’t you grab the camera and go take some photos?” he offered.  (this would have been a cartoon moment; i would have just been a blur of color as i did exactly that, grabbed the camera, dashed out the door and seconds later found myself standing at the top of the driveway, communing, as i do, with nature.)

and as it often is, it was perfect.

impressions of a morning walk with joey and billy; birdsong, bees buzzing, the ocean, a tangerine door, sun and palms

between 5:58 a.m. & 6:12 a.m.

i had to shield my eyes.  there was no cloud cover this morning and the sun was a <trite phrase>.

the heat of the rising sun was palpable.  even the star pine tried to step away from it.

the grass (and its companion, a boulder) took a cool shower hoping to put off as long as possible the ________.

we pause our story for this cute photo of a wild rabbit hanging out by a limousine.  it did not get run over and hopped away into the field on the other side (which you cannot see, but will have to accept my account as true.)

the liquid amber trees commingled with the yuccas while the palms stood guard (on the lookout for any intruders that might disturb this tryst).

<sigh>  exhalation, whispery, soft, memory, and cut.

at the intersection of time & memory

i am standing in the middle of this point in time.  & if you’ve ever been driving in the plains states (let’s say) on roads off the main highways, you will instantly understand what i mean by being in the middle of this point in time.  it is the point where the horizon line is so low & so far away no matter which way you turn that it’s quite possible that time stops.  you can see that the clouds (if there are any) are moving across the sky, but they do not represent the motion of time, they just are.

what has brought me to this point in time?  the abrupt introduction of the present into my memories.   as innocent as it may have been, it’s pushed me off course & i’m unable to gather myself together & drive back into the past (which is where i would like to be right now.)

it has diminished the size of the original memory & has saddened it even further than it was already (if that is possible, which i think it is; like wet cardboard.)  you have your childish memories & let’s say you’ve been away from wherever they may have taken place for many years.  on your return, the first thing you notice, as an adult now, is how small everything seems.   where once it was grand & elegant & XX, it is now small & worn & sized for those under 6 (if even.)

& it’s not only the size that’s has changed, it is also the light.  where it was once sun-bathed, it is now cloudy & dark (sinister in its change of weather.)  & although the sun of the past is the sun of today; the fact remains that i was using the old sun to reveal what little i could remember (not the facts necessarily, but the feelings, the emotions, the intent.)

i feel some remorse.  it’s possible that i may have snapped at this interloper (in writing; terse, impersonal, dismissive,) who has, unbidden, interjected today into my past.   i believe, though, that by writing about it, there is the outside chance that i’ll be able to look at as if i were at a crossroads on a gravel road in the great plains, the snort of cow shit fresh in my nostrils (possibly,) the wind (john cage silence) a pumice to my skin, peeling back the present & revealing the past once again (as it was? maybe not.  but possibly this new view will–we’ve decided to turn to the left at the crossroads, had you not surmised that by now–this new view will bring with it a fresh jolt of memory.)

post dated: 11/14/10

in the intervening moments between writing & waking, nothing has changed.