I Remember the First Time I Drove Through Indiana**

My favorite day this week could have been the day we followed the GPS and exited right off the freeway which took us to Gary, Indiana, a place I've only heard about in a song. It isn't much of a town, but it brings to mind the song, which is from a movie that makes me think of a city in Iowa, which reminds me of my family (specifically my grandparents) and I'm most certain they're two of the greatest people that ever lived. I snapped a photo of this sign that says, "The People of Gary Welcome You" at the stoplight, but as you can see, it didn't turn out so well. Sorry, Mom.

It could have been the night we ate at Lulu's Dim Sum and Then Sum. The name alone is reason for happiness. Their Pad Thai, same story.

Or the night I sat in a crowded house and listened to some dudes sing Led Zeppelin while I ate Cadburry Mini Eggs (three at a time) next to a boy in scarf the same shade as his eyes. When I upturned my cup (which I thought was empty) and spilled on the wood floors, I looked around to see if anyone noticed. He smiled a smile worth one million dollars.* Then he helped me locate the napkins.

My favorite day this week could have been the day we discovered an extra package of Thin Mints.

Or the day I arrived home to find a map of New York City in a yellow envelope with a secret message.

But my favorite day this week was the day I sat in the basement in the early evening and listened to a small piece of writing about anchovies. Yes, anchovies. The piece on anchovies was followed by a small recitation of "The Song of Cool Things" which led to a discussion on writing and then love, which is how I feel about the person who brought up the anchovies, which started the whole discussion in the first place.

Indiana was pretty cool though. I mean, just look at that picture.
Talk about happenin'.

*Also worth one million dollars: knowing my friend was plotting a reason to walk across the room and talk to the same dude with the million dollar smile.

**Lyrics to another really great song about Indiana by a band from Colorado.

On a Tropical Beach Somewhere

Remember when we drove up and down while a storm washed in and we listened to Wreckless Eric endlessly on repeat? Can we do that again in oh, say, eight days?*

Until then, all the chairs are finally occupied at the round table, we've got a new container of ho cho, and unlimited stories.

*Tell TW to gas up the Beemer.

hearts have colors, don't we all know?

We stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers and waited for an encore. People pulled out iPhones and cameras to capture a rare arrangement on film. I reached for my back pocket to follow suit, but returned my arm to its folded position across my chest. In this world of everything at our fingertips, there is something beautiful about impermanence. Something almost transcendental in fleeting moments. Knowing that the few hundred of us in that spot were the only people who would witness the way she decided to edit on-the-spot, lengthening some notes here and there was, in the moment, magnificent. She added an extra verse we'd never heard before and raised certain notes up an octave. I wanted it all to sink in. I'd leave the YouTube posting to those who felt it necessary. We clapped and whistled and then it was over. The crowd scattered, shoulders leaving shoulders, breaking out into the cold night.

i'm always in this twilight

I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you.

|florence and the machine|

Yesterday

At the tip top of a winding canyon, outside a cabin with very narrow stairs and a wraparound porch, we sat alongside a fire pit watching the coals turn from orange to white to black. Abbey Road tracks spun round and round next to the player piano.

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right

He made me tell the story about the time I had to climb a tree on a blind date. I wanted him to tell me about the room with the yellow wallpaper, his sister's secret pizza dough recipe, and life in the city with bridges. I wanted to know if he has a favorite. I wanted to ask him if he remembered the time he ordered me sugar free lemonade and then let me eat his sweet potato fries. I wanted to tell him that the gate down the road looked perfect for swinging our legs over. That we could hear the river from there and see the big dipper between the pine trees.

But the coals were turning colors, slowly fading out like a dying sun. Cold air was floating in from the forest behind us and I had to go home and learn about instantaneous velocity. So we drove down the hill to the gate, opened the windows to hear the river, and headed home. The faint smell of campfire trailed us like a shadow.

the song of summer

Riding on the coattails of summer, I'm hanging on to every last bit of the season as a breeze blows through the open windows. Seems as though the rest of the world is doing the same: Folks asking to sit on restaurant patios for a late supper. Couples strolling down neighborhood streets under lamp post light. Kids on bikes and scooters, their feet turning over extra fast, knowing they'll be on foot as soon as school starts next week. At Sunday dinner, when given the option of bowl or cone for ice cream, Pat, Griff and I all opted for cones. There's something about an ice cream cone that says summer. (I don't doubt Grandpa would agree.) I ordered a lemonade at lunch today in somewhat of a summer homage. It won't taste as good in a few weeks. Then, on my way home from work, I saw a handsome 30-something dude long boarding his way down 6200 South in a suit and tie, the opposite way of traffic, ipod and all. I wanted to champion him for his endless summer efforts (and bravery).

Like the last glowing embers in a campfire, or the tireless firefly in a mason jar, the light of summer is slowly fading. With that realization we walked to dinner tonight and dined on wood-fired pizza with summer veggies and heirloom tomato caprese salad. We took the long way home, our steps a bit slower. Tomorrow night there's one more cookout up the canyon. The nights are already cooler and there's that feeling of to every thing turn turn turn...

I Went up to the Mountain

Yesterday afternoon we decided to get out of the heat.

Thirty minutes later we were surrounded by this -- just

one of the things I love about where we live.

*song by Patty Griffin

mercury falling

Wednesday night after a summer rainstorm,
the mountains just shy of Park City
were ablaze with the orange light
of the setting sun.

Spilling what seemed to be
some sort of prehistoric lava,
purple mountains majesty changed
into deep shades of obsidian.

. . .

Fill my eyes
O Lithium sunset.

deep greens and blues are the colors I choose

In the evening sun we drove until the pavement stopped and the dirt road began. From there we wound around within the bowl the surrounding mountains created, while the car kicked up clouds of dust too thick to see the sheep in the fields.

We ate fresh tomato, basil and mozzarella sandwiches out on the big porch (with screens on three sides) and talked until the evergreens turned dark blue and came tumbling down the mountain in long, sharp shadows.

After a while, the moon rose and pulled a blanket over our conversation. All became quiet and still. We packed the silver truck full of what was left and drove past bleating sheep and the babbling brook down in the pasture. Night owls are in good company. The sound of gravel was quiet backdrop to our collective narrative. Soon tires gripped pavement and started to hum along the highway.

If you're lucky enough to be in the mountains, he said, you're lucky enough.

{image}

Endless Summer

Back from a week of sand and surf. It was, in a word, Heavenly.* As promised, I'm working on a slide show. Thanks to D for the new lenses. And thanks to all surfers who participated. Especially Cole. You're my fave. For like ever.

Oh, California

Thought I’d never reach the water

Had to cross the desert and the great divide
Drinking only golden promises
With white lines in my eyes

Oh, California
It’s the one big love that you cannot end
Oh, California
It’s not like before but we can still pretend

Oh, California
I can see you now from the top of that hill
Oh, California
Though many have gone I have the memories still
Oh, California
I can hear the sound of the mission bell
Oh, California
We’re one stone’s throw from heaven

|lyrics by Colin Hay, photo by me|

*Holla to an injured wave rider. May your wounds heal soon. Thanks for teaching me in the wise ways of the Surfer Dude.

Swallowed Whole

Remember that time we stood here and watched the glowing orange sun, so big and round, get swallowed in the sea? Then I thought of this song:

And I could write a song
A hundred miles long
Well, that's where I belong
And you belong with me

The streets you're walking on
A thousand houses long
Well, that's where I belong
And you belong with me

You belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea
Yeah, you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea.

stepping stones

We walk down the path where the gravel meets the wooden planks of the bridge, and then we divide. I head for the riverbank. My orange shoes carry me over the rocks until I am farther and farther away. Leaves rustle and the rush of the river provides percussion to the song in my head -- the one with lyrics about time, which roll over and over, eternally on repeat. It seems fitting that my heart wishes to sing about time, something that in this moment seems to be dying; in the early evening light, in the crisp air of fall, and in the leaves that hold their breath before they have to let go of the branches they've called home.

I hop from one rock to another. I step closer, pausing at the sight of leaves that have fallen to their watery grave. They lie stagnant in a small pool, separated from the larger part of the whole by several large rocks. Rest in peace, the rocks say as they shoulder-to-shoulder themselves, protecting the fallen ones from the rush of the river. Other leaves look down from branches above knowing that at any moment, they too will be plucked from their beds to join the throng, assembling in the pool below for Fall's Memorial. Bare branches bend in the breeze and create a sort of hollow hallowed sound; a recognition of their sacrifice for the Season and respect for the service carried on below.

The river courses on, passing trees with tired leaves and branches stripped of their color, naked except for those brave souls, the procrastinators who wait until the last minute before they fearlessly tally-ho into the water, not wanting to surrender to Time or to the Season. I turn to face the river. Wind dances across my cheeks. I curl my hair around my ears. I breathe in and let go, stepping back along the rocks, one orange step at a time, until I reach the bridge. The lyrics about time still run through my head as I step back up onto the dirt road.

standing still

I decided last night that 23 isn't my favorite number anymore.

I spent much of yesterday and today pensive and pondering. I wish someone had a round trip ticket to certain destinations inside my head. To reveries and reflections. And, the great big Land of Wonder. Some seasoned tourist could land, ready to site-see and give their best interpretation on the origin and history of my latest thoughts. There are people who occupy my mind at times, so to speak, whether they want a free trip or not. There just there, lingering, with no anticipated time of departure.

The YTS has been powwowing-it in the name of Love as of late. We've spent hours, each adding our two cents to the discourse. We've sat fireside, chair-side, bedside and car ride, reading great lines from novels, past journal entries and emails, compiling our own Book of Love, stemming from our own experiences.

What are we to do with those to whom we've given fragments of ourselves? Our very soul? People who've made off with bits and pieces of us and left with us odds and ends of themselves? These people who are so much more than the word "memory?" They linger inside us; some sort of beautiful mess. Songs we'll forever know. Lyrics that won't leave our head. So we beat on, telling ourselves not to think about them, when all that really does is make it worse. With every turn, a memory, and with those memories, your heart begins to sting. Heartache. Actual heart ache. And, just when the stinging dies down, something surfaces - a line in a movie or a book, the same tattered baseball cap covering a head in a sea of people, or a tucked-away a post-it, with that signature scribbly-scrawl, becomes un-tucked, leaving you undone. You're caught living a life you can't leave behind.

There comes a time to empty the box of reveries and let the pictures fade. To delete the play lists. To cancel all flights and itineraries. And to finally stop living out of the suitcases of recollections. What you can't keep is a hard thing to lose.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday (my) ocean
Will find its shore.

{Nick Drake}