Picture this. I’m in my Oldsmobile 442 , cause why wouldn’t I own one, it’s summer, it’s Sunday, me and my brother Chuck Berry – “No particular place to go.”
I’ve just trimmed my hair down to barely any, and the wind streaming in through the open windows keeps slapping me upside the head – “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”
The Rasberries are pouring out through the 442’s speakers, loud, this pristine sound system, and, giving it all the gas I’ve got, if someone had of told me I’d be hanging with all the cats and kitties down by the Cayucos pier I’d of never believed them.
Monday morning, my car blocked in by my landlord/housemate’s, who’s regularly out and up later than me, I left around 8:30 on a crazy long walk all the way to the downtown library, and back. Probably three miles, possibly four. It was a “dues” thing, like paying dues for forgetting to bring back Mary Oliver’s book of essays for a couple of months.
I got home and I was beat. Unblocked by then, I drove over to Starbucks for a coffee. When I returned I announced I wasn’t going to attempt my Monday afternoon ritual (twice before) of climbing Bishop’s Peak to the wide grassy area below the summit, with it’s couple of welcoming benches. Just too tired.
Maybe three hours hours later, after keto food, I decided to do the much shorter walk up Cerro San Luis to my bench, often passing close by cows – there were six Monday, and I had a sweet staring contest with the closest, her eyes deep, midnight pools. I was going to sit on the very bench pictured with each of these posts, and play Motown records on the phone. Dance a little.
I arrived there, and for reasons I did not and still do not understand, I paused long enough to bow and then kept going and did not stop until I reached the top, a few dozen feet below a solitary silver pole on a pile of scary rocks in the howling wind.
from a mountain bench 