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rejectomorphToday is considerably cooler- only in the mid eighties. Northward through the trees I can see a dense bank of white cloud hanging across the gap between the northern Sierra and Mount Lassen, the southernmost peak of the Cascades. Southward, a vague haze thickens toward Sacramento. Directly above, a rich blue sky with a few swirls of cloud, one of which eerily resembles a translucent scorpion. It is as close to perfect as a summer day gets in the mountains.
But I find myself thinking of Santa Monica. Standing on the bluffs of the promenade, all the seared mass of Los Angeles behind me, watching the whirling and swooping strings of kites being flown from the beach below; the afternoon breeze rich with the scent of kelp and that faint hint of oil so characteristic of southland beaches; the distant sound of the surf mingling with the whirr of skates and skateboards and the rumble of traffic on Ocean Boulevard; and all that vast swell of water dwarfing the headlands as it stretches out toward an Asian morning.
When was the last time that I was perfectly satisfied with where I was?
I can't remember.
But I find myself thinking of Santa Monica. Standing on the bluffs of the promenade, all the seared mass of Los Angeles behind me, watching the whirling and swooping strings of kites being flown from the beach below; the afternoon breeze rich with the scent of kelp and that faint hint of oil so characteristic of southland beaches; the distant sound of the surf mingling with the whirr of skates and skateboards and the rumble of traffic on Ocean Boulevard; and all that vast swell of water dwarfing the headlands as it stretches out toward an Asian morning.
When was the last time that I was perfectly satisfied with where I was?
I can't remember.
