O California

Travel Log: California Central Coast
Dates: 05.01.15 - 05.04.15 
Towns: San Luis Obispo, Solvang, Santa Barbara
Favorite Eats: Finch & Fork (Santa Barbara), Juice Ranch (Santa Barbara)
Favorite Revisit: The Book Loft (Solvang)
Favorite Beach: Avila Beach (SLO; traveler's tip--Farmers Market on Friday Nights)
Favorite Beach Runner-up: Shell Beach (SLO)
Favorite Surprise Guest: Dolphin in the Santa Barbara harbor

California's central coast captured my heart yet again.
Thought I'd share my memories through these filtered visuals.  
Special gracias to mi compadre for a wonder-filled weekend. <3

Lovers & Strangers

Easter Sunday 2014.  After attending service, I indulged my wandering spirit with a walk through the west end of Golden Gate Park.  Much to my surprise and joy, I found a blossoming tulip garden (the Queen Wilhelmina) nestled beside a windmill--a windmill that I would stare at curiously from my past trips down the Great Highway.

There were plenty of lovers and strangers in each other's arms that day.  The sun was almost too perfect for their little frail bodies to handle.  I took out my Moleskine to document my observations.  The sight was almost too perfect for my little frail body to handle.

Next to Each Other

I spotted this couple on a walk through the Palace of Fine Arts a few Mondays ago.  These two were even more inspiring than the surrounding architecture.  The husband was reading the newspaper, the wife was working on a crossword puzzle (or so I surmised).  It was as if they were in their own little world and the hands of time decided to stop long enough for them to enjoy the passing afternoon.  It was just him and her.  No one else.  They didn't look up once at the people walking by their bench.  They sat under the bountiful shade of those tall trees, content and assured of the very thing that so many of us seek: a romantic love that lasts a lifetime.  I found the corners of my mouth curling upward into a smile as I watched them.  In the moments that followed, I discovered how much of my own existence ached for a newspaper-reading partner.  Someone to sit by me from now until our departure into forever.  

I hope a few decades down the road, I will be that seventy-year-old woman sitting next to her husband in the park on a quiet Monday afternoon, working on the daily crossword puzzle and only looking up to catch him slowly turning the pages of his newspaper.

Man & Sea

There is a constant of which humans are unaware: the delight of solitude, of aloneness, of a condition that many mistaken for social ineptness.  Its beauty is in everything, in what is seen and in what is unseen.  Parallel to the seas and skies, man traverses this earth daily, whether it be in a crowd of ten or solely on his own.  For it is an easy goal to find one's worth in the company of lovers and strangers, but a challenge to find one's worth independent of such.  To know who you and I are as plainly as we come--without the engagement of external relationships--well, that is a feat in and of itself.

This City in Which I Live

Old military fortifications, vegetation, water, fog, concrete . . . Golden Gate Overlook in The Presidio, what a beaut.

Here & Gone, Part II: Torrey Pines

Inside the lodge, I encountered some rather beautiful wildlife . . .  well, sort of.

(There was a recent time in my life when I considered acquiring a couple of pet snakes . . . I suppose the above photo serves as an indicator that the idea has not quite left my mind.)

Get in a good hike wherever you go.  Your body will welcome it.  Torrey Pines, San Diego.  Week of 03-31-2014.

Bateman

Friday.  Did the routine eight-mile walk.  Returned to the abode, slipped into some black jeans and boots, grabbed the Moleskine and trekked out to the Conservatory again.  Chose to sit on the grass this time.  Took off my shoes and felt the strands of green leaves tickle slightly my bare feet.  Penned the rough draft of a new short story.  Pinned up my hair and the sun blazed against my neck.  I welcomed it though--every last bit of it.  Topped off the evening watching one of my favorite films, You've Got Mail, with an encore presentation of a real theatrical doozy, American Psycho.  While Christian Bale a.k.a. Patrick Bateman a.k.a. American Psycho fantasized about murders and executions, and 80s Wall Street yuppies sized up their male counterparts by the paper density of their business cards, I had myself the sweetest strawberries.  Because I'm strange like that.

Three Days Lived

The last three days were well lived.  I spent the entire night on Friday catching up with a compadre whom I love exponentially.  We had a candlelit dinner at Beretta on Valencia [Street], then proceeded to drive to the opposite end of the city for some dessert.  Stories were shared, tears were shed, and laughter was had.  The night was honest, raw, emotional . . . indelible.  (I highly recommend Beretta's Crab Dungeness Arancini antipasto and Margherita Burrata pizza topped with anchovies.)

Saturday was spent hiking Mount Tamalpais with someone new.  I cannot explain the joy of reveling in the handsomeness of looming tall redwoods . . . such moments are not to be taken for granted.  On our drive down the mountain en route back to the city, I welcomed the quick wind running her hands through my hair; I reflected.  I let my thoughts trail the cliffs like spilled ink on paper.  We returned to the Marina and had a late lunch at Dragon Well. 

Woke up this Sunday morning and knew it was time I headed back to church.  I made my way over to Cornerstone in the Mission.  As always, it was a blessing to hear Pastor Terry speak.  His commitment and conviction to live a selfless life, to serve God and others completely, come from a genuine heart; there is not one ounce of pretense in his speech or in his actions.  And to be honest, it has been a while since I stepped into the Lord's house.  I won't list any excuses for why I have been away.  Simply put though, life is hard enough as it is without me attempting to duke it out on my own.  I want the arms that carried me in the past be the arms that carry me now.  It is true: His strength and love know no bounds.

Since it was too beautiful of a day not to make the most of it, I visited the Marketplace at the Ferry Building after service.  It was the perfect amount of hustle and bustle.  Dropped by Sur La Table where I picked up a few La Parfait jars; I figured they would come in handy for upcoming picnicking excursions (envisioning vanilla yogurt parfaits with fresh fruit and pumpkin flax granola).  I also stopped by Acme Bread where I picked up a couple of baked goods: a cinnamon currant (because I am a true cinnamon junkie--I have cinnamon-scented pine cones in my car after all) and a sweet loaf.  Retreated to a bench across from the waters and wrote a bit.  

I had me a grand ol' time this weekend.

Grassland Blue

A young girl, who saw me sitting cross-legged and barefoot on a tree stump and  scribbling away in my Moleskine, came over and inquired, "Are you writing a journal?"  I smiled and replied, "Writing poetry."  "Oh," and she sauntered away.  She returned shortly and proceeded to ask, "Are you in high school?"  I advised her I wasn't.  "College?"  "I actually graduated."  "Working?"  (Girlfriend definitely is a precocious one.)  I gave her a brief synopsis of my current state of affairs.  I then asked her, "Do you enjoy poetry?"  She started to say no, but decided to tell me about a time she read a poem that she didn't understand.  We spoke a bit about writing.  Before we parted ways, I said to her, "If you have an interest in writing, nurture it."

She ran back to her after-school group.

First day of spring . . . was pretty darn perfect.

And I had my first Blue Bottle Coffee fix (New Orleans Iced Coffee).

 

Winter Chroma

It was seventy-two degrees in San Francisco yesterday--on the last day of winter.  Perfect excuse for me to take my writing to the Pacific coast once more.  I had the pleasure of walking barefoot on hot sandy shores and basking in the mid-afternoon sun.  Moments such as these, I find myself reflecting on how I ought to appreciate my current freedom.  After all, how many people can actually say they spent their day at the beach writing poetry on a Wednesday in March?

Perspective

No man knows till he has suffered from the night

how sweet and dear to his heart and eye 

the morning can be.

How blessed are some people, whose lives have no

fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing

that comes nightly, and brings nothing 

but sweet dreams.

-Bram Stoker

The Forge Ahead

I woke up this morning, took a look around at my work space, and instantly felt the sun pouring into my spirit.  I ended up declaring it a writing kind of day and spent some time at Fort Funston doing what I do best.

I combed the shore from one end to the other.  I got close to the waves and stood still to watch them make their way toward me.  I thought about the weight of the water, how heavy it must be and how peaceful it could be.  I played with the dogs of a few strangers.  Apparently they liked me.  They must have liked me if they were so inclined to lean their soaking wet and muddied fur bodies against my bare legs.  (I liked them, too.)  I even took off my shoes and felt the sand underneath my feet and in between my toes.  Everything was picture perfect for a Thursday afternoon.  

Except it wasn't.  

I was present, but there was a part of me that wasn't.  All I have felt for the last six days is a gaping hole in my stomach that is sucking moments of my life into oblivion.  I have been trying to fill this void with everything I can, with whomever I can, but to no avail.  It is as if I am performing on a never-ending stage.  The lights turn on every morning and I am pushed to act as if everything is fine, as if I am some heroine in a damn play.  Yes, everything is fine if you're not counting my invisible bruises, my under-the-skin wounds, and my existential absences in everyday life.  

I am tired.  My demons are too many and my angels are too few.  I just want to fall unto sleep.  The best kind of sleep where people, places, and sounds do not have the ability to wake me before I am ready.  

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Visuals of a Restless Weekend

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Visual of what I wore . . .