Boxing day
I woke up under the bridge: my Christmas present is new lodgings on Portland’s rustic Malibu. The lodgings are more convenient, more congenial and more spacious. I give up easy access to Pier Park, but gain a garden. It offers a great view, but the whole thing might fall into the water.
I asked Southwick to consult the mycological mat under our feet. Southwick’s nightly alien Myco-probes tell him the topsoil under this part of St. John’s is healthy, and wish to thank all the folks who have proper run-off. The myco-Minds under the soil are happy with the extra water, but dislike being referred to as pond-scum.
Wanting to poke around the new digs, I gaze at the lot. It’s a hillside with jack-in-the-box brambles in the spring. Work crews are revamping the tree-weed mix in this strip of St. John’s to get rid of the berry brambles and save the massive trees. They are all sticks and trunk now and reveal the best view in town of the St. John’s Bridge. Note winter’s elegant twigs in the way.
The bridge needs to be seen in the flesh. It is as majestic as a cathedral, as pro-technology as Gothic Deco can express, the simple lines and motifs are as recognizable at the gut level as the cross. The experience of sweeping your eyes along the cables is mesmerizing. It’s one of those things you can only experience at the fountainhead. The underside of the bridge is so beautiful, they call it Cathedral Park. Even the foundations are inspiration for designers. So there.
Enough of the bridge, veiled by brambles, branches, buildings or the lay of the land. Damned burkha. You never can see all of it anyway. Torquemada, you are one seriously twisted guy to put this beauty just out of reach!
Well, FU, Torquemada, This IS the best view so if I can’t get a better one, I love this one: If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.
I walk up into St. John’s. It’s a vacuum of energy at 7AM on the Sunday Morning after Christmas Day. From an emotional perspective, the USA is in total exhaustion. Like the morning after the shock therapy appointment.
I recover by listening to Slurpy Guitar Hawaiian music. I turn the slurp up to max. It is deep tissue massage for emotional re-alignment processing. It’s an acquired taste, though. But I do extole it’s properties as an emotional tonic.
So I’m walking on a near silent Lombard St in the drizzle remembering palm trees and other such things. Lena Machado’s voice curves along with the guitar. Life is good.
A friend of mine mentioned that learning to live with the life that you did NOT expect is key.
Slurpy guitar, sweeping arcs, drizzle and palm tree memories. Supportive friends, new possibilities, and the big rock candy mountain just around the bend, and Life is good, just unexpected.
Not what I planned or expected, but I’m learning to learn to love it. And when I do, I will have learned the lesson of theHanged Man: Tarot 12.