I think that Ben drove that morning, it wasn't very cold but the coffee helped warm my spirits and stir the kinks out my brain from the previous night. He drives slow, careful and thoughtful of everyone around, meticulous and purposeful; we aren't in any hurry nor do we have a schedule to keep, so for now we get there when we get there. I like sitting in the passenger seat transfixed on the sights, the sleepy beach town passing me by as we rubber neck all the usual spots.
It was the first time I have been to this trail, in fact I usually don't surf in these parts too often, but on a whim it seemed like a good idea, besides, he is always up for an adventure and I can hardly get anyone else to follow along.
There were only a couple of images that captured my memory of that day, but the feel of the trip which it embodied clings to the whole of my existence and I keep it in the treasure trove of memories. I remember the sheer amount of rabbits occupying the trail, munching on forage, hopping in and out of sight as we slid up the trail. Our path was partially hidden by coyote bush that hung low into the old farm road that had since been abandoned years before and now was guiding us to a large expansive field. The fog surrounded us but didn't sit to the ground, it was taking up the view of the tawny brown hills, a cool grey blanket that cut out the sight of the horizon where the trail was leading, what was beyond was kept secret.
As we wound through the open field you could feel animals playing a silent dance of predator and prey, hawk to field mice, fox to rabbit; the creatures of the nighttime were bedding down for a day of sleep while we were beginning ours. A large Eucalyptus tree hunched down beside the trail, its branches hanging sadly, waiting for the wind to sway and dance its boughs when the time comes. As our path shrunk from two wide to single file, the sloping hillside gave way to a gully and the heavy hand of moisture in the air gave way to a keyhole sliver of ocean. And so we walked further.
The second image that I remember so vividly was the fence that we ducked under, boards and wetsuits in hand tucked under cinched sweatshirts. I bent low to miss getting tangled in the loosely hung rusting barbed wire. The fence-line drew its course from the last wooden post at the edge of the bluff straight to the east up the hill and into the gray, disappearing in the fog. The thin wire commanded possession, but the slow and destructive appetite of water does not heed to anything, if the ocean weren't so hungry the fence would continue on forever. I usually don't condone trespassing, but I am willing to look the other way in the face of a goal, ours being a newly explored spot and amazing waves, both of which lie on the other side of the fence.
It was the first wave of the set, it was an indicator of what was in store, the sheer force and power of the break only revealed itself when I paddled a few strokes, brought my board under feet and was faced by a dump truck sized wall of crystal clear water bearing down on me. I did not make the drop, nor did I come close to making the section of perfectly almond shaped tube structure laid out before me; instead the mass swallowed me whole. It was unrelenting, it was powerful, and to add insult to injury, it was very shallow water. I slowly came to the surface; that was no ordinary wave, that is a mutant.
We surfed until our arms would no longer carry us into the waves; I was exhausted, I was spent, I was tired, cold and hungry and there was no way that you could wipe the smile off of my face as we walked the trail back.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Exactly 27 minutes...on most days
Chrome slender and jagged, shiny keys pierce the ignition slot, wrench the black oblong black plastic clockwise, crank three times, kick-over, engine sounds good, slam the heater on, flip two controllers on the gray dashboard, one all the way left, the other all the way right. Cold morning these days, the air will bite back, March usually necessitates a jacket. Defrost mode, high speed fans hurling air past the fogged-over windshield, hopefully this indoor dreary weather will break soon or I won’t be able to see. Holster sunglasses in the center console, red and orange fired fringed clouds to the east, I don’t need my shades. Right hand grips at the shiny gearshift and articulates in an "L" pattern, search for reverse, "aha, I've found you", time to roll. Windows still too glazed over to see, shoot out the driveway, find first gear, de-clutch and whirl away down the street. Zip past the neighbor with two loaded orange trees, bows bent to the ground with sunshine ripe bright fruit, I should make orange juice sometime, another day perhaps. Race past the rose colored house, the one with the unkempt yard and tacky religious signs posted out front, everyone is entitled to their opinions I guess, for better or worse. Slow down, watch for the cross-gutter dip, speed up only to blink for the stop sign. Right turn past the park, past the bum with his van parked on the side of street, the one who watches t.v. at every conceivable hour on a postage stamp sized portable set, I guess I have no room to judge, I don't even own a t.v. I was convinced he was some sort of pedophile for a while, I come to find out he is a paraplegic who waits for un-judgemental people unlike myself to take him for walks through the park. I have felt terrible since; books and their covers, you never know.
Grind through three yellow lights, left, right, straight, stuck at the fourth, damn, behind schedule. Left turn lane only, go green arrow delight, race car track embanked, slam into fourth, onto the freeway, mash on the pedal, gotta make it on before that semi. Look left twice over the shoulder glance high speed lance. Billboard signs whizz past, Edward Abbey whispering in my left ear, telling me how I should deal with such ugly eyesores; for now they'll just be a sore spot in my drive to be dealt with later, one day. Blinker right off the freeway, the pause sign aware that I am there, but not for long. Down the swooping hill with the blinking yellow sign yelling at me, telling me how fast I am travelling and it's nowhere near the posted limit, maybe I'll be forgiven in another life, but for now I need to be somewhere. Bank left, slow right, another day, deja vu, another day, bank left, slow right. Aww the beach, I can see it now, ingest the air, palatable salt water, seaweed, seagulls overhead, rolling breakers. Down to the left, on the beach are a half dozen fire pits still smoking from the previous night, a calm haze and a few glowing embers remind me of the fun that was had. Boats rock themselves in sleep within the wide open bay, the air is silent and still, there will be no sailing today. Sneak past the gate guard with a loud thud of a speed bump, we're all zombies in the morning.
Grip the wheel slightly; begin the 6.7 mile countdown, a juxtaposition of nature's palette and man's will. Juke and dodge in swooping motions to follow the hillsides jutting out onto rue colored grasslands, while the chaparral and coyote bush salt and pepper the wayward north slopes. Each gully and creek are littered with coastal live oak as they meander their way west, only to meet their maker in the ocean below. With each consecutive arroyo bounding turn after turn, coastal bluffs unfurl themselves and the sandstone and kelp covered rocks peak through each valley. It is truly serene. Mile 6.5 and two towers on the horizon appear, immovable objects, foreign, alien in these pristine surroundings. This is where I bide my time, five days a week.
Grind through three yellow lights, left, right, straight, stuck at the fourth, damn, behind schedule. Left turn lane only, go green arrow delight, race car track embanked, slam into fourth, onto the freeway, mash on the pedal, gotta make it on before that semi. Look left twice over the shoulder glance high speed lance. Billboard signs whizz past, Edward Abbey whispering in my left ear, telling me how I should deal with such ugly eyesores; for now they'll just be a sore spot in my drive to be dealt with later, one day. Blinker right off the freeway, the pause sign aware that I am there, but not for long. Down the swooping hill with the blinking yellow sign yelling at me, telling me how fast I am travelling and it's nowhere near the posted limit, maybe I'll be forgiven in another life, but for now I need to be somewhere. Bank left, slow right, another day, deja vu, another day, bank left, slow right. Aww the beach, I can see it now, ingest the air, palatable salt water, seaweed, seagulls overhead, rolling breakers. Down to the left, on the beach are a half dozen fire pits still smoking from the previous night, a calm haze and a few glowing embers remind me of the fun that was had. Boats rock themselves in sleep within the wide open bay, the air is silent and still, there will be no sailing today. Sneak past the gate guard with a loud thud of a speed bump, we're all zombies in the morning.
Grip the wheel slightly; begin the 6.7 mile countdown, a juxtaposition of nature's palette and man's will. Juke and dodge in swooping motions to follow the hillsides jutting out onto rue colored grasslands, while the chaparral and coyote bush salt and pepper the wayward north slopes. Each gully and creek are littered with coastal live oak as they meander their way west, only to meet their maker in the ocean below. With each consecutive arroyo bounding turn after turn, coastal bluffs unfurl themselves and the sandstone and kelp covered rocks peak through each valley. It is truly serene. Mile 6.5 and two towers on the horizon appear, immovable objects, foreign, alien in these pristine surroundings. This is where I bide my time, five days a week.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Just one...
Wake up, eyes barely able to open, glaring sun seeping through the window shades, sneaking by each slat, roasting and rousting beet red eyeballs cowering behind eyelids. Fully clothed, shoes on, face-up, present location, a couch, somewhere. Confusion, head pounding, a neanderthal beating on a drum situated two inches off-center from each side of your temple at a marching band tempo. An orchestra of pain wrought throughout your senses. Body checklist: headache, check; the smell of gin, stale beer and traces of Mexican food, check; death-breath, check; thin layer of film encasing every dental anomaly, check; blood shot eyes, absolutely; tortuous stomach knots and mid-region unhappiness, check. Exactly twelve minutes to materialize yourself at your place of employment; general well being, un-check. A Wednesday morning hangover, how did this happen?
Just one beer you told yourself and just one beer you were promised, the beginning of any monumental evening, the infantile stages of a rock-star night and the writing on the wall for a hazy morning, a story only too familiar for some of us. An innocuous evening out, it started with a burger and fries, or maybe down at the pizza joint for a slice of pie, taco Tuesday lying in wait always got me. I can't stay out late, I gotta work in the morning. Wow! They have that on draught, I could have just one with dinner and so it begins. Juxtaposition jumping jacks of choices playing hopscotch with my mind; which one should I have, they all sound great I guess one of each will have to do. Three hours later; politics, the internet, social science experiments, climate change, sex, drugs, rolling and rocking and unadulterated people watching. The seed has been planted, fuel, soil, and the sky above to grow, let the night sow.
Just one beer you told yourself and just one beer you were promised, the beginning of any monumental evening, the infantile stages of a rock-star night and the writing on the wall for a hazy morning, a story only too familiar for some of us. An innocuous evening out, it started with a burger and fries, or maybe down at the pizza joint for a slice of pie, taco Tuesday lying in wait always got me. I can't stay out late, I gotta work in the morning. Wow! They have that on draught, I could have just one with dinner and so it begins. Juxtaposition jumping jacks of choices playing hopscotch with my mind; which one should I have, they all sound great I guess one of each will have to do. Three hours later; politics, the internet, social science experiments, climate change, sex, drugs, rolling and rocking and unadulterated people watching. The seed has been planted, fuel, soil, and the sky above to grow, let the night sow.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Does the gray matter: Synapse
Hinges, what we need is hinges; then the pallid skull bone wont need to balance precariously by the sensitive skin if we had hinges. Poke... prod....sure looks like it'll work, I can't tell, bring out the diagnostic equipment. Gray matter hemi, V6, dual carbeurated frontal lobe, flowmaster hippocampus, medulla headers under the hood but no spark to speak of. You could say it was a "sleeper" in more ways than one. What do you I owe ya? Squeeze the last remnants of sleep from the cylindrical tube, top it up with fluids, slam the hood.
Coffee! Someone bring me coffee!
Coffee! Someone bring me coffee!
An Ode to Old Man Davies
Bad customer service is easy to come by. We are fed lackadaisical lolly-gagging where mediocrity is the mantra of serving the masses. They must be doing this to piss us off...
Seize your problem by the 1-800 push button punching bag hotline, dial in an error to rectify despair. Wade through the hip deep menu pit, so many options but nothing applies to me, all I want is a human can't you see. They must be doing that to piss me off...
Tempt the temper tantrum seas, "Your called will be answered in the order it’s taken, stay on hold, if you please” The queue for you seems ten miles long while listening to the soulful saxophone of a Kenny G song. An eternity of bad elevator music sets the scene, pull out your hair but don’t despair, account numbers, security questions, a clear answer must be near. They must be doing that to piss me off...
You overbilled me, my conscious kills me to deal with such battle and strife “Sure you can transfer me, what else was I going to do with my life?" and then, click, bang, what a hang, the dial tone just shot poor me. That's it, they did it, they pissed me off...
I've changed my service, I've switched my plan, I'll never buy that thing again. Too late, I am pissed, and now I'm off...
Seize your problem by the 1-800 push button punching bag hotline, dial in an error to rectify despair. Wade through the hip deep menu pit, so many options but nothing applies to me, all I want is a human can't you see. They must be doing that to piss me off...
Tempt the temper tantrum seas, "Your called will be answered in the order it’s taken, stay on hold, if you please” The queue for you seems ten miles long while listening to the soulful saxophone of a Kenny G song. An eternity of bad elevator music sets the scene, pull out your hair but don’t despair, account numbers, security questions, a clear answer must be near. They must be doing that to piss me off...
You overbilled me, my conscious kills me to deal with such battle and strife “Sure you can transfer me, what else was I going to do with my life?" and then, click, bang, what a hang, the dial tone just shot poor me. That's it, they did it, they pissed me off...
I've changed my service, I've switched my plan, I'll never buy that thing again. Too late, I am pissed, and now I'm off...
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Television Zombie
Prime time mass stupefy, inside versus outside, two worlds divide.
Inside, television zombies hide, creatures of self indulgence imbibe, ravenous for four more hours a day. Slop it up, tromp tromp tromp to the cattle feed time slot, slurp commercials from the trough, graze upon the daze casting out from the flat panel. Gray matter putty, liquid soup goop in a cavity where once was a solid foundation of imagination. Television zombie society, this is your life, slipping away in thirty minute increments, don't worry, you can buy one later for just ten million installments of your soul. Call now in the next ten minutes and we'll throw in these sticky fly trap crusty couch cushions to snatch up the next unsuspecting victim. Cable box mind control, plasma screen orgasmic oligarchy, huddling masses of the mouth breathers, blue lit stare stupidified, greasy finger lick microwave popcorn bliss, spoon fed all thought, caught in a perpetual glassy eyed haze maze. Pull the plug to survive, step outside.
It's cold, brisk, the tiny prickly pear icicles on your skin inform, yes I am alive. Feel the grip of the earth, walk down the street, the sidewalk moves past your feet, glide down the block, around to the corner market, that's right, the outdoor market. Layers of round rainbow assorted objects; apples grace the shelf in stacked pyramid form, crimson red, interwoven with stripes of green, wax paper smooth, crisp, alive. Oranges, sun-fired sun-fueled citrus delights, packed to the ceiling, ready to give passerby's soul healing. This is an outdoor market, alive with fruits, vegetables, people, sounds, sights, feelings; a world alive, moving with sweet smells of winter. Grip the world with the souls of your shoes, further, burrow through the neighborhood, past the barking dog, "the blue lights didn't get you, did they?" Walk by, gaze into the sky, Orion's belt backlit by the glow of zombie masses huddled close in solitary confinement hand hold. Soak up the night sky, stay outside.
Inside, television zombies hide, creatures of self indulgence imbibe, ravenous for four more hours a day. Slop it up, tromp tromp tromp to the cattle feed time slot, slurp commercials from the trough, graze upon the daze casting out from the flat panel. Gray matter putty, liquid soup goop in a cavity where once was a solid foundation of imagination. Television zombie society, this is your life, slipping away in thirty minute increments, don't worry, you can buy one later for just ten million installments of your soul. Call now in the next ten minutes and we'll throw in these sticky fly trap crusty couch cushions to snatch up the next unsuspecting victim. Cable box mind control, plasma screen orgasmic oligarchy, huddling masses of the mouth breathers, blue lit stare stupidified, greasy finger lick microwave popcorn bliss, spoon fed all thought, caught in a perpetual glassy eyed haze maze. Pull the plug to survive, step outside.
It's cold, brisk, the tiny prickly pear icicles on your skin inform, yes I am alive. Feel the grip of the earth, walk down the street, the sidewalk moves past your feet, glide down the block, around to the corner market, that's right, the outdoor market. Layers of round rainbow assorted objects; apples grace the shelf in stacked pyramid form, crimson red, interwoven with stripes of green, wax paper smooth, crisp, alive. Oranges, sun-fired sun-fueled citrus delights, packed to the ceiling, ready to give passerby's soul healing. This is an outdoor market, alive with fruits, vegetables, people, sounds, sights, feelings; a world alive, moving with sweet smells of winter. Grip the world with the souls of your shoes, further, burrow through the neighborhood, past the barking dog, "the blue lights didn't get you, did they?" Walk by, gaze into the sky, Orion's belt backlit by the glow of zombie masses huddled close in solitary confinement hand hold. Soak up the night sky, stay outside.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Epic Luncheon
Post apocalyptic battle for the rights to copy machine plunders; scenery set, war field of the workplace zoo. To arms!
Herald one and all from the cafeteria confines. Close-quarter cubicle partition war planning party. This is your war. To arms!
Army commando wing-tipped wingman, pinstripe power-suit fighter pilot. Pasty faced programmer kung-fu kill you. Renegade Rambo, java script jedi kick. Casual Friday dress-down-danger-duo carrying baud rate bandoleers studded with double-click grenades. Paint your face briefcase warrior. To arms!
Wield your shiny mad max machetes. Procure six sigma sabers, slice company visions and values, just-in-time head butts beat down productivity. Synergist anarchists attend diversity training boot camp. ISO 9000 nun chucks, ergonomic axe chop insurmountable odds. To arms! The enemy?...Your ambition.
Herald one and all from the cafeteria confines. Close-quarter cubicle partition war planning party. This is your war. To arms!
Army commando wing-tipped wingman, pinstripe power-suit fighter pilot. Pasty faced programmer kung-fu kill you. Renegade Rambo, java script jedi kick. Casual Friday dress-down-danger-duo carrying baud rate bandoleers studded with double-click grenades. Paint your face briefcase warrior. To arms!
Wield your shiny mad max machetes. Procure six sigma sabers, slice company visions and values, just-in-time head butts beat down productivity. Synergist anarchists attend diversity training boot camp. ISO 9000 nun chucks, ergonomic axe chop insurmountable odds. To arms! The enemy?...Your ambition.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Steel March
Weaving, yelling, cursing, honking, death grip on the wheel, and the road with a death grip on you....
Sip. Ahh! The juice of life; an iota of silence.
....Construction, jackhammer concrete into submission, submit to commit to not take this route ever again. Damn the 101!...
Sip. Ahh! Deep breath. Oh look, the waves are so beautiful; a blink of zen.
....Baby on board. Daddy's little Princess, he bought it, I got it. Beef, it's my other form of transportation. Coexist with your favorite veteran. Peace, it's what's for dinner. Horn broken, watch for flamethrower........Left lane tire draggers drag down the will and swill the hope of getting there on time. "SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT!"....
Sip. Ahh! The juice of life. Slight sigh, shift in your seat. "I wonder how koala bears have sex with a bifurcated penis?" Perplexed wonderment.
....Blood boiling, tick-tick-tick, 8:55, drive to stay alive. Offensive driving, running-back tackle, hole shot squeeze; blinker left, fake right, tip toe into the turn lane, touchdown! One more on the rearview scorecard....
Sip. Ahh! Deep breath, relax. Rich green rolling hills; a glimpse of serenity.
....Commute camo fatigues, immaculately un-oxidized uniform of white, black, silver or taupe. Air entrained military boot marching machine, windshield helmet high-speed-wiper-blade-blink. Armed with steel pointy antenna and a grill to kill. High-beam rocket launcher with long range capability. Commuter platoon assemble! On-ramp army drill at o-eight-hundred! War commence....
Sip...subtle shift, a pavement rift..."God Dammit!"... Frantic....quick, anywhere, napkins....suit and tie won't dry, late again.
Sip. Ahh! The juice of life; an iota of silence.
....Construction, jackhammer concrete into submission, submit to commit to not take this route ever again. Damn the 101!...
Sip. Ahh! Deep breath. Oh look, the waves are so beautiful; a blink of zen.
....Baby on board. Daddy's little Princess, he bought it, I got it. Beef, it's my other form of transportation. Coexist with your favorite veteran. Peace, it's what's for dinner. Horn broken, watch for flamethrower........Left lane tire draggers drag down the will and swill the hope of getting there on time. "SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT!"....
Sip. Ahh! The juice of life. Slight sigh, shift in your seat. "I wonder how koala bears have sex with a bifurcated penis?" Perplexed wonderment.
....Blood boiling, tick-tick-tick, 8:55, drive to stay alive. Offensive driving, running-back tackle, hole shot squeeze; blinker left, fake right, tip toe into the turn lane, touchdown! One more on the rearview scorecard....
Sip. Ahh! Deep breath, relax. Rich green rolling hills; a glimpse of serenity.
....Commute camo fatigues, immaculately un-oxidized uniform of white, black, silver or taupe. Air entrained military boot marching machine, windshield helmet high-speed-wiper-blade-blink. Armed with steel pointy antenna and a grill to kill. High-beam rocket launcher with long range capability. Commuter platoon assemble! On-ramp army drill at o-eight-hundred! War commence....
Sip...subtle shift, a pavement rift..."God Dammit!"... Frantic....quick, anywhere, napkins....suit and tie won't dry, late again.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Bliss
Two hundred pounds of steal, swift curvilinear metallic dropped; an anvil. CRUNCH! Sleep almost severed!.....
Again...
Ten pounds, arcing lines of air, a fleeting path through the atmosphere, sledge hammer, pure sledge, iron, pig iron, the heaviest iron, heavier than gravity, bearing down like a white knuckle viking. SLAM! Tenuous tendrils of sleep hanging on, barely hanging on....
Once more....
Five pounds, a paisley red earthen geometric cube, blotted with tiny subterranean subterfuge craters, heaved through the air; target? The complete obliteration of sleep. A brick, baked by the sun and flying directly towards your sunny day. CRASH! The final straw, awaken! Two pound eyelids, they sure make'em heavy these days. Life is upon you, stare at the ceiling...blink...rude awakening...blink again...
"Fuck! I really to need to change my alarm"......swat the button.......9 more minutes of bliss.
Again...
Ten pounds, arcing lines of air, a fleeting path through the atmosphere, sledge hammer, pure sledge, iron, pig iron, the heaviest iron, heavier than gravity, bearing down like a white knuckle viking. SLAM! Tenuous tendrils of sleep hanging on, barely hanging on....
Once more....
Five pounds, a paisley red earthen geometric cube, blotted with tiny subterranean subterfuge craters, heaved through the air; target? The complete obliteration of sleep. A brick, baked by the sun and flying directly towards your sunny day. CRASH! The final straw, awaken! Two pound eyelids, they sure make'em heavy these days. Life is upon you, stare at the ceiling...blink...rude awakening...blink again...
"Fuck! I really to need to change my alarm"......swat the button.......9 more minutes of bliss.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Ode to the Iconic Gin and Tonic
Drowning in sarcasm,
steeped in juniper,
jet fuel jig for the jolly, gin and tonic, you are my folly.
steeped in juniper,
jet fuel jig for the jolly, gin and tonic, you are my folly.
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