I miss Santa Cruz. I miss the serenity. I miss the look of traffic with no new cars present. I miss the free bread, and milf-o'clock at Kelly's French Bakery. I miss Marley and the Saffa. The Hippy. The Monster. The 903. The Lane and West Cliff (and East Cliff too, I guess). I guess? Is life so nonchalant? I guess? Yeah, I guess. So the metro bus in my face keeps reminding me. That's Washington and Pacific for you, I guess.
I miss the serenity. The calm on the morning sea, the brisk sunlight and that morning breeze. Those mornings after nights hard slept, with that yoke of reality weighing on the shoulders and mind, breathing heavy and anxious. Those soft morning winds always had a way of pushing that yoke up and over, past the shoulders. Past the mind and the breath, off-shore and out to sea, to the edge of the bay with the rest of an ominously low and puffy marine layer. And when I looked around and at where I was sitting, it was a bit queer, like a little patch of sunny coast that had escaped the morose grasp of cloud cover consuming California's shoreline that winter day. I looked towards the lighthouse, which was visible in the distance, but the massive fog front had swallowed the pier behind it. That day I truly understood the blind devotion of ancient sun worship. It calms the mind and turns the skin into something living once again.
Enchanting, that little cove town. Enchant me again, LA. Push away this haze in the day, rest my soul and find me on my feet, always marching on, past NorCal living towards the future and not looking back. Just remembering fondly, eyeing that sunset over the Pacific, and with high clouds and a light breeze so the horizon's not muddied by our burning, blazing existence down south. Then the sky lights up like an acid trip and everything before you becomes a perfect silhouette.
