Contained Chaos

My mind, right? Or my writing? Well, the latter could use some help in the containment department but, de todos modos, I have realized that the framing of something, true containment, is actually something I really do like. But, But But But, that which is contained needs to have chaos, chutzpah, life, personality, room for imagination to the point that it seems to exceed the bounds of the frame, which is where I think the inspiration for these photos came from . . .

'Tis Later

I said pictures later, so here we go. I went out to capture bits and pieces of what I love on camera, failed miserably, but who can capture the essence of a moment in words or on camera?


The colors were magnificent as the sun melted into a soft neon pink: melting baker's chocolate in butter as the colors spread across the ocean, rippling and running up the sand. It moved with a swift calmness and grace, not lingering with the applause as it begged for an encore, no matter the waves of standing ovations, but bowing out in humble radiance.

Pictures Later

Today . . . today, today, today. This week. Hmm.

First ah-ha moment. Moreover, first, I-told-you-so moment. I went with a friend out for coffee and conversation. We headed out to Westside Coffee, which led us to West Cliff Drive, where we found a bench and sat and chatted and oohed and ahhed over the ocean and the sky. The sky was filled with varying clouds, cracking open occassionally to stream light down onto a silvery, choppy ocean that would glow golden with the peaking sun. The rain from which we received respite that day had lit the cliff tops and slopes electric shades of green and cleaned the air--we could see the towers at Moss Landing and the hills rising up behind Salinas and Castroville. We interrupted ourselves and eachother with oohs and moments of necessary basking and blathering as the sun broke through over our bench and commentaries on the beauty and oh look! a dolphin! and we ran further out onto the cliff to stand and point and become ever so much more excited each time the dolphin or its playmates resurfaced. Driving away from West Cliff, there ahead rose the Santa Cruz mountains, dripping, absolutely dripping with deep green trees. Not slopes, not inclines, but mountains. Not Shasta or the Sierra Nevada Range, but mountains. And then descending into the valley, down Graham Hill Road, with trees leaning, light streaming, a road cut in between descending hills . . . I was not wrong to feel helpless in attempting to convey a piece of this to my classmates in CAS 101, it is not comparable to anything anywhere I have ever seen, I was not idealizing it, painting it rosy in my mind to stab my heart. No. It is that beautiful, indescribable, irreplaceable.

Second ah-ha. The sky. Today was an all day in San Jose day. San Joe-zee. (I'm kidding if you, reader deary, don't speak Spanish or are not native to this area--'tis San Ho-say.) And a long while at the car dealership, where I plopped down on a strip of grass, layed on my back, and stared at the sky. Wow. Yup, wow.

It is not that the sky is a place of infrequent visual perusal, but rather that its importance just registered. It was so still. It was blue and puffed with clouds but still. Later, it acquired cloud streaks of a drying brush and feathered clouds and soon a river of watermarked clouds flowed through the center of my field of vision, behind the original sedentary clouds. The sky is like the ocean. It is always there, but it is always different. It is changeable, unreliable in form, but reliable in existance. It would be heart breaking, it is heart breaking, to see it polluted and unhealthy. And I rely on its existance. The sky does not replace the ocean for me; the ocean has branded a lodging for itself upon my heart where only it will ever fit. So I live with its absence in Grand Rapids. But in Grand Rapids, the sky took hold in a way it never had. Here the sky is big. Here it can blend with the ocean, expand into the ocean, be sawed by trees or mountains. Here it is dark at night, lit by its own stars. In Grand Rapids the stars are not so available, but the sky moves. The clouds are more and more variable. The sunrises and sunsets have a dynamism unlike those here--for while they set along flat horizons and softer, rounder, smaller trees, they set with an expansiveness that shrinks one down to the reality of one's smallness the way the ocean can. They set in a dancing, painted sky of immense proportions. The sky, the sky is necessary.

Third ah-ha. Driving back from San Jose, over 17 by myself in the van. KRTY playing, as I swung up and down the curves through the mountains, George Strait's "I Saw God Today." Maybe it is a cheesy song. Maybe I am "cute-sy" as a roommate stated this semester.
"Just walked down the street to the coffee shop, I had to take a break, I'd been by her side for 18 hours straight. Saw a flower growing in the middle of the side walk, pushing up through the concrete, like it was planted right there for me to see. The flashing lights, the honking horns all seemed to fade away, in the shadow of that hospital, at 5:08, I saw God today. I've been to Church, I've read the book, I know he's here but I don't look near as often as I should. His fingerprints are everywhere, I just slowed down to stop and stare, opened my eyes and man I swear, I saw God today."
I haven't read the book, I won't comment any further on my unorthodox status of haves and have not's and do's and do not's, but I will say this much: those moments of finding a flower in the sidewalk are the most overwhelming moments of ah-ha. How else would the sky be noted in San Jose and Grand Rapids and be found to be so compelling?

The Beauty of Brine

Oh beautiful day in Californ-i-a!!! Yes it was hot! hot! hot! as in 107º in the valley and more or less the same in various locales throughout the county, but it is summer! And gimpy here, has a selfish post to share why it is more beautiful than the average roasting day . . .

I went swimming in the ocean! Yes, Twin Lakes Beach, right next to the harbor. I crutched out the wheel chair path from Crow’s Nest, and then crutched through the sand to the water where I plopped down on a rock and fought less than gracefully against my wetsuit (but I did win) and with the help of my dad, crutched into the ocean, dropped between waves, crawled, and swam like hell out of the surf zone and into the swells. Kicking is still a no-no, so I fought the urge to tread or throw in the occasional breast stroke while redirecting toward the buoy and swam to buoy one, then two, and almost three. 

I know, I know, “almost” sounds pathetic, and not far from there was my preferred goal, the cliff, but this is where things got exciting. Between buoy two and three something smooth and grey came into view between myself and my destination, which was still off a ways. Seal, right? That is my first instinct too but mamacita here is always up on the latest gossip (not really), such as a shark citing in Monterey Bay?! What? The goggles went up and floated, waiting for a second glimpse of grey sea critter. Finally, a seal came up, far enough away that I could sigh . . . and see a fin! One fin, two fins, three, four—oh my goodness, look at all these dolphins! No sharkies playing around here, no sir-e. Amazing. I was swimming with dolphins, in Monterey Bay. The only reason I turned around was Mr. Seal—seals are huge, and have teeth; three yards was a little too close for comfort. But it was perfect. Sea weed, dolphins, seals, salty water, my favorite view of the harbor lighthouse, even a smooth return to land via body surfing; I could not have wished for more. How is it that the ocean never ceases to give and yet, never looses itself?

Bottoms Up

Goodbye August, hello summer—but of course, goodbye California. These are the summers that I remember from years ago: fog, fog, fog, and then, halfway through August, sunshine and warmth into mid-September, ever so unfortunately overlapping the beginning of school. Maybe this summer was abnormally foggy, not sure, but there is a sadness to this final showing of the sun as the tardy bell sounds. It is a pity that school starts so early, it is not kind to teachers or students or families or businesses, especially not in this county. Of course, the child that skulked off to junior high this morning despises this heat, this true summer weather; he despises school also, but these temperatures drive him inside, where we have trapped the cool night air for midday relief.

On days like this, eighty degrees by nine and climbing, my best friend and I used to go to the creach. We would creek walk down Bean, picking blackberries and disguising ourselves with rock paint. At the merging of Bean with Zayante we would have polar bear contests, arguing over who stayed under longer. We would roll on the rocky and sandy shore, calling ourselves corndogs, then go dancing and shrieking and giggling under the weight of Ferndale Falls. Growing bored with our surroundings, or more likely annoyed at the prospect of sharing our creach with some recently arriving and long staying strangers, we would depart up the steep isle split by the creeks and race to the boat docks. If we were lucky, we would succeed in commandeering a canoe (or rather, convincing a hot and tired lifeguard to be rid of us quickly and painlessly) and paddle beyond the turn around bridge, until we lodged in shallow water near the old docks (or so we called them) where we would hunt crawdads (our kindness not fear was the only reason we never had anything to show for our efforts, of course) and sit in the water pouring over the concrete slabs. If we met a less than compliant lifeguard, we dragged our feet away, muttering about the irascibility of the situation, about twenty yards up Zayante to the bay on the brink of the water. We would stand on its sister’s stump and swing out, legs kicking wildly, letting go at the highest point, plunging into the middle of creek—who needs a dumb canoe anyway? I remember daring each other to go without board shorts; although it was momentous that we were wearing two-pieces (that showed an inch of belly), going without shorts was scandalous in our 11-year-old minds. She had, as usual, the longest, most badass sounding dare, and unable to top her, I made her agree to do it with me. We used to race to the big cement retaining wall too, swimming across the creek in front of rowboats and canoes—she always won. We loved the water without fear. There was respect, of course, one does not swim in the creek during winter, but we loved it from before memory and we both still love creeks and rivers. 

Treasures: Rodeo Gulch

I live in paradise (sorry to brag). People may not frolic naked (I count that as a blessing, actually) and we may lack fruit trees outside the window; perhaps the temperatures we have in the summer are not always paradisiacal and the fumes from fires encouraged by drought do not please aesthetic sensibility, but Northern California is quite the country and Santa Cruz county is bursting with many of the wonders of nature. If it is mountains one desires, and ours are too small, we are just several windy roads away from the Sierra Nevada range (and Tahoe!! and Yosemite!!). Redwoods? Check. Madrones? Ah yaz. Pines? Yup. Firs? Really . . . yes. Lighthouses? Harbors? Grassland? Farms? Sweeping views? Uh-huh.

Driving home from my summer school class in Aptos today, I decided to take a scenic route, or a severe detour, up Rodeo Gulch. I had not been up that road since last summer and knew it was a fairly peaceful road, and oh, absolutely gorgeous. Apparently I had forgotten how gorgeous. To ye Santa Cruz County dwellers, take a detour someday, sooner than later; it is not a sight to have missed. Take it slow. To ye other Northern Cali friends, stop by, I’ll give you a tour. Anyone and everyone else, come visit for some time, there is so much to see. Bring your bike and walking shoes, these things are better taken in gradually, not flown by. Do not drive the speed limit; 35 mph is too fast to see much of anything.

Rodeo Gulch meanders off of Soquel Drive (busy mania central) and rolls through small, open fields past trees and wildflowers. It is a sparsely populated area of old Soquel, rather undisturbed. The road climbs up switchbacks to the ridge from which one can see the waves of trees tumbling out to mingle with the distant blue of the ocean, bleeding moisture into the dallying departure of fog. From leaving the oak framed vista (and leaving out 99.9 percent of the description before and after the named point) and climbing several turns, the road drops a hairpin and many bouncing curves to a choice: Laurel Glen or Mountain View. Laurel Glen eventually dumps off onto Soquel San Jose Road, which, although a beautiful route, is out of the way. But Mountain View is fabulous also. The trees, the ferns, the stream, oh, everything, everything is awe striking. There is that rich, dark soil on the steep hillside dancing with redwoods and peaking through the yellow grass on the opposing gentle slope. All the descriptions I could muster for the remainder of Mountain View and Branciforte would sound strikingly similar: dark soil, redwoods, mountains painted with green, always green, trees in the near distance with a gently rolling meadow, yellow with grass that will become brown, then green, then watercolor, every year, in the foreground, spotted with oaks, firs, and redwood groves. But it is not all the same. Any film would fail to capture the angles and lighting, and it is not the incompetency of the artists (I did recognize the big tree forests and the clip from Tikal in Star Wars: Return of the Jedi), but nature in its moment portrayed on a screen or on special paper is not, will never be, the same as standing in the spot and realizing, my eyes, all my combined senses, are overwhelmed, in love, and selfishly insatiable.

Folks—it is beautiful. I know that word is overused. And what is crazy is this is, for the main part, new growth. The whole darn place was clear-cut. Gone. That was a bit of a reminder for me: I need to prune myself, or let myself be pruned, to make a millionth a step toward growth. Yes, clear-cutting is extreme, try selective cutting. Just as it is good to let the forest burn periodically, I need to get burned. Otherwise dead, useless bits crop up along the forest floor, little silly things I am unwilling to properly deal with—fears, grudges, dreams deferred—and then when the fire comes through, it is not simply a healthy cleaning, but a devastating burn.