Journal-like thoughts as Winter ends

 

 Perhaps it is weariness that has pushed me toward a period of austerity. Or to be more precise, semi-austerity. It's hard to stop a speeding bullet train on a moment's notice. There's enough momentum still in me that the shift from decadence to merely opulence has taken weeks. Months of hard complicated living has created a road block where the path to a more simplified lifestyle begins. Cold Turkey may work for others but I don't have the constitution for abrupt changes in my trajectory. It is not easy to pass up a porterhouse from Sly's for a bowl of raman or a bean burrito. And while cold water is both delicious and necessary, I find a bottle of 2005 Corton Les Chaumes, without a doubt, provides a zest to a dull afternoon that is mind expanding. But I have been gradually steering a course in the direction of less distractions. However the prolonged interlude of gluttony and borderline dipsomania has resulted in an increased sensation of restlessness and slight mind-fog. Also my wanderlust has become more chronic.
  That is not to say that the last half year has not been fun. Beside the fact that work though the holidays was draining, the days in between of parties and wine tastings, concerts and travels, visitors and house guests has been rewarding and certainly worth the while. I wouldn't trade any of it away. But it's time to slow up a bit. I know when I crave peace and solitude it's a sign that I had better alter my pace before I spiral into a tailspin. I'm not quite ready to stare down a yawning abyss just yet.
  My progress is plagued by the realization that it's entirely possible, despite what Einstien said, that the universe is conspiring against me. Even though the evidence leans massively toward a cosmos that is utterly indifferent to my longings and desires. So I vow a day of cleansing, walking and study. After an eight mile beach saunter I make a bowl of spinach mushroom miso and drink several bottles of vitamin water. I read in the sunshine Peter Atkins and then switch to Jane Hirshfield.
  Then later in the afternoon comes the rub. Good old Walt, a man with a learned palate, shows up with a bottle of 92 Grgich Hills Cabernet. I reason that a bottle like this won't come my way again and I'm left with no alternative but to drink a full glass. I savor it for over and hour and certainly prevented myself from a night of regret if I had passed up Walt's generosity. It's entirely possible that I need a dose of expert advice, say from Epicurus or Emerson, if I'm going to succeed in my attempt at simplifying my winter days. Although I suspect that Epicurus would have approved of my single glass of red wine and applauded my restraint in not pouring a second. So I scent the winds of progress.
  The clarity of mind that comes from more walking and less whiskey, more reading and writing as well as a short sabbatical from work, increases my ability to see beauty. There is much more to notice when I keep the brain fog at bay. My powers of concentration can at times be very fragile. Especially after a few weeks of high performance living. While some sort of balance is probably too much to ask, the wonders of the world have been more apparent as I've decreased my dependence on Glenfarclas and Hudson Rye.
  Although a dozen Kumamoto oysters and a small unfiltered cup of saki provided just enough inspiration the other night to allow for some productive writing and thinking. But I still had to face down my natural desires for a more substantial experience by turning down another chilled bottle. It was not an easy decision with my usual inclination to be sated rather than getting up from the table wanting a bit more. Lately I have not been known for my restraint. But for once I prevailed and after a night walk along Shoreline Park enjoying a touch of quiet as the fog blew in I grasped the solitude that has been in such short supply lately.
   When I don't push away the plate soon enough the senses become dull. Acedia can be a constant condition. Snyder said to be lean. The torpor that can follow several days of rich meals and endless decanters weakens the heart and diminishes my ability to notice what is beautiful and fleeting. It can take longer to restore clarity of thought than it did to live through the original binge. When I wake up and contemplate pouring a bottle of Stagecoach down the sink and I start desiring a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of ginger ale I know I've been in too deep for too long. Or course I don't resort to flushing the whiskey, I'm not quite that pathetic, but I do put it out of sight for a few days. When I start noticing dragonflies and night blooming jasmine I know my languor is beginning to fade.
  Balance has always been tricky for me. Grasping for that odd razors edge where I have the right amount of socializing offset by time spent on my own has been no easy task. I often wonder with total incomprehension how conflicting my loves, wants and desires are. How is it possible to be so scattered in what delights me? I enjoy both uni and nitrous, Bordeaux and coconut water, Melville and Chesbro, abalone and In-N-Out, The Grateful Dead and Bach, BTO and Yo Yo Ma, a lonely trail on Greylock and a crowded tavern in Boston. Sometimes all of life seems to have binary qualities. Even in acquaintanceships I have a diverse collection; busboys and bankers, hunters and vegans, nine year olds and ninety year olds, cops and pot dealers, waitresses and nurses, millionaires and homeless Dave, politicians and musicians.  I could go on and on.
There is simply so much out there that it's impossible to fill myself up.

  I may have to give up my long long habit of reading the morning news. So little of it is good. It's possible it's always been this bad and I'm just becoming more sensitive and raw. It's getting harder and harder to have to see the overwhelming despair of the world. There are too many ills, too much suffering, endless evil and insurmountable terrors that I can do nothing toward alleviating. I have a hard enough time worrying about the people close to me that I cherish and love. Why should I add to my feelings of uselessness by opening the paper or switching on the computer?
  After ten minutes with the news of the world I need a strong dose of art or poetry or music to straighten out my heart. I have to sit outside and read Einstien or Lawrence Krauss for a while which helps put my predicament into better perspective. I go back to being an insignificant spec whirling through space for a laughably short duration of time compared to the universe's vast and incomprehensible (to my mind) age and cloudy purpose.
  A two hour walk helps me regain my composure and I realize that the small contributions I make in caring for the people my heart is closest to is going to have to be enough for now.
  I watch Pelicans and whales, the surf rolls in and the islands are crisp and clear in the morning air. Joggers run by me with smiles on their faces, moms are pushing babies, old men shuffle with their canes and walkers and they all seem oblivious to the world's catastrophes. Perhaps they are not, but it seems that way to me. I overhear conversations about dogs and parties, travels and food. So I decide to leave the petty politics and endless wars for someone else to worry about for a while. When I get home I delete the useless letter to the editor I wrote that for a moment made me think I could change the mind of the pope. I conclude that he's too far gone and return to reading (Carlo Rovelli) about the workings of space and my heart slows to a semi-normal condition and I feel less like crying than I did when I scanned the LA Times. The sour taste of the news has faded to a tolerable level and I feel that I may be fit for human company and interaction later in the afternoon now that the paper is safely in the recycling pail.

   A temporary weakening of my wanderlust.

  I'm wide awake at three in the morning after only two hours sleep. I know I should try to get at least three more hours, my alarm is set for six o'clock, but I don't feel the least bit tired. I lie in bed for fifteen more minutes and ask myself what would Jim Harrison do? Or Hunter S. Thompson? Or Neil Peart? So I get up and shower and load my gear into the jeep. I'm on the road before four and notice that my chronic and constant sensation of wanderlust had been briefly overcome. I understand this is only temporary.
  The moon hangs low above the ocean casting a glow that looks like a wide silvery river flowing through a black desert. I crank up the music and I am treated to a random set of road songs; Black Throated Wind, Willin', Traveling Star and Hejira all play before I pass by San Luis Obispo. I'm full of energy and excited to be moving so early. I'll be at Sea Ranch hours earlier than expected. I get gas in King City and text Pak to expect me for lunch.
  I resist the temptation to stop in San Francisco for a quick beer. It's a bit too early and I'm anxious to see the kids. They'll be plenty of beer at the house. The city glows white in the crisp late morning air. The view over my shoulder as I cross the Golden Gate is gorgeous.
  In no time I'm making the turn at Jenner and am overwhelmed by the majestic sweep of the north coast. I slow the jeep and take in the view. The wind blows hard and cool, the sea is a blanket of whitecaps.
  At mile marker 57.82 I make a left and find the grey house with its front deck and ocean views. I was right about the beer too. Pak hands me a cold one before I'm even in the door.
  The days at Sea Ranch each year have always taken on a unique rhythm. This trip is no exception. I've missed the morning walk to the cliffs but after a snack we all wander back over to the tide pools.  The tide is high and the swells are huge and all we can do is stand on the rocks in the wind and watch the heavy surf. My light jacket is useless against the steady gales.
  Joanna, Johnny and I take a trip to the market and grab a couple dozen oysters and a pound of mussels. An afternoon ritual here has always included standing in the kitchen drinking champagne while savoring the fresh briny oysters. This particular kitchen has a large center work area we hover around and Pak makes several different dipping sauces. We take turns shucking. Pak steams the mussels with wine, garlic and basil. We toast our incredible luck.
 We take another short walk before dinner and later we eat and watch the sun set through the wall of windows that face the sea.
  The next three days are pretty much the same. I'm up early and take a walk with Ellie. We walk along the cliffs and scan the rocks for seals. Dozens are napping in the cove closest to our house. We see osprey hunting the deep pools and the clownish (like me) oystercatchers with their bright orange bills picking at mussels. Even the low tide is high this week due to storms to the north.
   Pak makes breakfast and we lounge around on the deck reading and telling stories. We walk some more and then drive south to view the seal rookery and look for whales. The sky is clear but a fog bank is visible a few miles off shore. The wind is relentless.
  Then it's back to the market for more oysters, clams and crab. Also a quick stop at the Gualala Hotel for a short whiskey, after all, I am on vacation.
  Johnny, Pak and I spend a half hour at the bar. We talk about our friendship that is now twenty-nine years old. Our adventures are uncountable. Certainly too many to remember over the course of a single drink. But we have come a long way since those shaky days of being confused and broke and floundering for direction. I do remember Pak and I maxing out my credit card on simple cheap dinners and vodka at the now demolished Cattleman's Saloon. Johnny had the best job then and floated us many drinks. "Someday we will look back at this and laugh." Pak said. And he was right. And lucky us, we've been laughing for a long time now.
  Again we stand around the big workstation in the center of the kitchen. My oyster shucking skills improve quickly. Joanna shares the task as Pak prepares the crab and steams the clams. We sip some old Santa Barbara County Pinots.
 After our snack I step outside and wander to the cliffs. My thoughts have slowed and I'm managing to clear my mind of the detritus that has built up since the start of the new year. It's easier to see the surrounding beauty when my brain is void of the meaningless distractions that are all too common and sometimes are confused with what's truly important. I sit on a rock outcropping and gaze out at sea. The wind howls and the random patterns of the whitecaps sculpt the seascape into a gorgeous and unrepeatable design. I breath easy and the air turns colder. The coastline has its own rugged beauty, wilder than even Big Sur.
I walk back on a path that is a tunnel through the gnarled branches of old stunted pines. I emerge on a side road near the house and see smoke rising from the chimney.
  Later when dinner is finished I walk out into the night. There is almost no ambient light up here. My eyes adjust and the Milky Way becomes visible. There is no moon yet and Jupiter is the brightest object in the sky. With my star guide I try to locate the Andromeda Galaxy but I can't. This early in the evening it's still too low in the sky. But it's out there hurling towards us at a mind-numbing speed someday to collide with the Milky Way and give the universe a spectacular explosion of light and energy. It will be a display of savage and awesome power. But we won't be here to see it, we'll be gone, long gone. Not only us but the earth and sun as well. I have to be content just to know that it's going to happen unwitnessed. There is so much in our world that is both beautiful and unseen. Hidden or obscure beauty that is fleeting abounds. When I catch it I'm grateful. Like this night staring deep into the cosmos. I think of Carl Sagan's claim that we are the universe contemplating itself. If that doesn't add meaning to life I don't know what does.
  I stay out in the cold for a while standing in the meadow between the house and the ocean. I shiver alone and wonder if sharing a few moments like this is ever really possible. Who, I ask myself, would appreciate my predisposition to grasp these glimpses of solitude? I think I know who I would like to be here....   But.....  My heart will forever be a mystery to me.
   On the last night after everyone fades I go out to the hot tub and soak for a while. I leave all the lights off so again I can star gaze. I don't even turn on the jets. I soak up the silence as well. My glass is full. And again I ponder sharing times like this. Am I getting soft in my old age? Maybe so. While I don't feel lonely, somewhere in the back of my mind is the thought of company that would certainly compound the already unique experience and add an element that seems to be missing. Or maybe not...  It could just be I'm one sip of wine past my capacity.
   In the morning we linger longer than we planned. It seems ludicrous that we probably won't be back up here for a year. And then we can't quite say goodbye even though we'll all be together in Yosemite in July. It seems so far away. So after driving past the lodge and the fields of Spring wildflowers on my left and the even wilder blue and white of the ocean on my right we meet at the food truck in Guerneville. We have a final hug and then I'm on my own for the seven hour haul back to Santa Barbara.
  I am tired and wind-burned, but relaxed. I stop in San Francisco and walk around for a half hour or so. I resist stopping in to a tavern for a beer although I can't really come up with a good reason why I shouldn't. Again I contemplate with a mixture of amusement and slight worry the dilemma of the decrease of my legendary ability to go for the extra libation. Or perhaps it is just good sense seeing I've been trying lately to cultivate that more sober and austere path.
  The miles pass and the iPod offers random grace notes; Jerry, Metheny, Warren, Garbarek. That sort of stuff. It's dark by the time I get to Paso but I feel like I can drive all night. I should take a left on the 41 and I could be in Wawona before midnight. It's almost a terror to be bound by work these days. The thought of a true sabbatical is more appealing than ever. I continue instead, with a slight stab of melancholia, on my southbound journey with the consolation of knowing that Lovejoy's Pickle Room will still be open when I get home and a cold beer and a jar of Middleton will ease my stiff muscles.
  However the idea of a leave of absence from work is growing. I am road hungry for highways I've never explored. It's been a long time since I've stretched more than ten days together without work. Perhaps I can get a month toward the end of summer where my only distractions are stopping for gas and finding a place to sleep.
  It is midnight when I get home. I open the windows in my bedroom and listen to the ocean. The surf is high and the night is cool. I lie down but stay awake for a long time, tired as I am. Too many ideas and my mind takes its time slowing down. Something is going to be next, but what? I decide not even to unpack. Much much later my dreams are of empty back roads miles from nowhere. Destination flexible.