Sunday afternoon in La Jolla

Wrestle my way out of bed, fumble my way through an old wrinkly tee, and wash the ugly from my face. Turning the corner from the tiled bathroom floor, I catch the following sight:

There's a neat line of japanese yews leading out from the pale french paneled doors. As always, they exhale: deeply, slowly, thoughtfully. Thereby the chorus sweeps through the neighborhood; a brambly arpeggio of oaks and evergreens sitting comfortably in my ear.

There's a knot in the wind and it's rolling restlessly through my halls. I hope it stays forever - I wouldn't mind.

I step outside and the pea gravel tustles through my toes; they are cold, and refreshing. They plaster a grey caulky chalk underneath my feet. The flagstone canvas is stamped with these earthen footprints.

grab the green pillow. curl up on the couch. stare at the sky. Thank God that I'm alive.

Zoning out never felt more like tuning in.