It’s been raining a lot here in California and it makes everything seem a little more mysterious to me. And we say it’s because of the rain and the cold and the thin walls that we sleep in so late, but that isn’t it. No one else will say it but there is a certain kind of luxury in ignoring time the way we do, there is something in the water here. I read GOLD FAME CITRUS the other day and I keep on getting convinced that the water is going to run out and California will shrivel up someday.
We drive up the 101 to the 1 and check the waves of jagged cliffs that rip and peel away, diamond blue waters so cold just their name make me shiver. I sleep with my face pressed between pillows and the winds from the Pacific come up the hills and wrap me up in a cold so deep it doesn’t matter that there is no snow. You tell me about last year. I don’t think about last year anymore.
Sometimes when I wake up I wouldn’t be surprised if none of this happened.
For the first time in seven months, I put my underwear in a drawer.
None of the water in California is actually from California, at least not down here. Aqueducts and damns and funnels and levees and systems pipe it in from places like where we go on the weekends. All those miles and miles of cement. There was an empty driveway on the north fork of the Payette. Do you remember the time we drove to Idaho City for a beer and saw that bobcat and things were good on the way there but bad on the way back because of something I said in the bar. I can’t even remember now what it was that I said.
Today I listened to a video about a woman who was talking about boiling eggs and I was thinking about that essay I wrote in the 12th street house and thinking about that story I wrote and thinking about you.
I don’t eat eggs anymore, but I’m thinking about bringing them back into my life.