The way it does in bad films. James Murphy, thank you. You're always so quaint and true. Time keeps trudging along in Santa Cruz sometimes and as the weather warms again and I feel a year older with all adieu, there's a sense of a stormy undertow lingering. But that's nothing a bit of sunshine and solitude amidst the rush and bustle of that forlorn college life. It's a bunch on the lonely side of the Knoll, nothing sinister, just nothing of any particular interest or desire for in so many words. And so there are more.
I suppose this place has a certain significance to everyone who comes here, and I hope it's more or less not where precisely we are, but what we are just so privy to see from here. Especially on a day so clear with a sky so frosted by high clouds and streaked by plane traces.
It's hypothetically a lower sun in the winter thus affording us such a silhouette of Monterey across the bay and the fine, fine haze dusting the horizon line. The sun is not inhibited in the slightest and it had rained previously for a couple days straight. Everything that could be is positively vibrant, exceptionally at that, and perhaps only so because of these certain set of circumstances. It makes it all worth it really. The shitty jobs, the self-imposed sufferable living quarters, the financial constraints, and of course the numerous buckshot holes in my foot linked directly to the striking number of times I've managed to shoot myself there in so many ways. Worth it.
For that clinging to the plan, however haphazard and striving to achieve a goal. One that in my care seems to be continually diminishing in prospect. But to come out ahead, at least just not in debt, would be solace enough for me. To know how far one can absolutely stretch himself, that distance into the crevasse, down tighter and tighter until one can barely breathe.
But you focus, you find that slow and steady breath, wherever it may be, and latch to something comfortable. Something elemental as the sun and how beautiful it makes everything. It's just Mama Nature doing her thang. Her ability to take your breathe away and then give it right back; one let's her breathe for him. And the muscles relax. Your diaphragm reaches low and fills the lungs full. The release is soulfully cleansing. And the storm clouds subside into memories far past.
