Time away, not off, broadens the perspective without fail.
I am constantly reminded.
The world is simplified, not the space and air around me. It is not in the steamed-plump bubble of New York City, within the confines of the 9th floor in midtown, the 3rd in the East Village, the pizzeria, the bookstore, the coffee shop on the corner. It pulses and sways continuous, oblivious to locations, coasts, lives flit, loves lost, movement cannot be contained.
Out west, the rolling expanse of night nearly fogged with clarity. The white lights littered to infinity. I have never seen the stars as this, the chill of June after ten, the navy ocean above.
A place exists, dubbed the “horse heavens”, a vineyard on the red mountain. Back in the city, merely legend, but here, grounded real.
Perennial ice shifts, fat slabs stripe the drive. Old mining towns sprung in crops of painted wood and flat roofing.
Bricked paths, dancing fountains, pricey boutiques, patioed bistros and taverns, all swathed by pastoral, swept green, blue and white.
Blond, implanted women are young from behind, but as they swish direction, their leathered facades divulge decades frying under the western sun.
Peekytoe crab, shaved summer truffles floating in a tarty, creamy, Meyer lemon sauce. The chef smiles and asks my name, and as I respond, he dismisses his approaching sous with a chop of his hand. He thinks he can prey on me because in his world he is a rock star, and in this moment our worlds are one, but I am only interested in his craft, his divine offerings, and so I lick my spoon and turn away in search of the next decanter.
This is summer in a wintered paradise, the new car smell of so much wealth colliding with the refuge of nature. The gorged indulge, feeding ravenously on all around them. The tastes, the freedoms, feet arched and eyes to the endless glare.
This is the world around me for a shortened week, and I am amazed.
I am constantly reminded.
The world is simplified, not the space and air around me. It is not in the steamed-plump bubble of New York City, within the confines of the 9th floor in midtown, the 3rd in the East Village, the pizzeria, the bookstore, the coffee shop on the corner. It pulses and sways continuous, oblivious to locations, coasts, lives flit, loves lost, movement cannot be contained.
Out west, the rolling expanse of night nearly fogged with clarity. The white lights littered to infinity. I have never seen the stars as this, the chill of June after ten, the navy ocean above.
A place exists, dubbed the “horse heavens”, a vineyard on the red mountain. Back in the city, merely legend, but here, grounded real.
Perennial ice shifts, fat slabs stripe the drive. Old mining towns sprung in crops of painted wood and flat roofing.
Bricked paths, dancing fountains, pricey boutiques, patioed bistros and taverns, all swathed by pastoral, swept green, blue and white.
Blond, implanted women are young from behind, but as they swish direction, their leathered facades divulge decades frying under the western sun.
Peekytoe crab, shaved summer truffles floating in a tarty, creamy, Meyer lemon sauce. The chef smiles and asks my name, and as I respond, he dismisses his approaching sous with a chop of his hand. He thinks he can prey on me because in his world he is a rock star, and in this moment our worlds are one, but I am only interested in his craft, his divine offerings, and so I lick my spoon and turn away in search of the next decanter.
This is summer in a wintered paradise, the new car smell of so much wealth colliding with the refuge of nature. The gorged indulge, feeding ravenously on all around them. The tastes, the freedoms, feet arched and eyes to the endless glare.
This is the world around me for a shortened week, and I am amazed.
7 comments:
Sounds pretty.
Mmmm...while we are so happy at finally feeling cute in summer (read: smaller) clothes, that happiness is marred when the appreciation for our toning efforts comes from a grease-ball old man. Yuck!
Yeah, the West can be pretty amazing. I think it's more relaxed because the days are so long, you know? Still, when that summer heat wave comes, it can totally make you thankful for the cool nights of the East Coast...
Sounds like LA. If so, you hit the nail on the head with that description. Love to visit, but I'd almost die before living there.
so were you in LA for a week or so?
I've actually never been to LA--it's like that there too?
I can definitely see the blond women that are "young from behind" there...
I always feared the sun simply because I had no desire to grow and leathery.
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