I started writing today at a little bit after 7 AM. I was in the Dana Point habitat conservation area and will write, now, directly from my notebook so I am not sure if it is in first person or what person.
There is a slate grey wall of fog and tumbleweeds like I remember from 1977 when we first moved here. I hear a fog horn. I see a buoy and boats. It is chillier here than my dress looks. We don't match. I don't care.
A train whistle sounds as two women (more appropriately dressed than me) amble up and peer into the windows at the interpretive center. They are runners. One of them sounds British. Carol Carter floats into my mind. "We'll figure it out" says an American voice. I wonder what is to figure. I scope out WritingCamp locations. That is what I am to figure. Anything else sort of drops away.
They built a spot here for sitting which I use to sit and write. It is perfect for that love writing amist the shrubs and bunnies and birds. They are restoring the habitat which, for today, is still grey and not quite awakened. I scan for spots to sit and write and perhaps get a photo of myself sitting and writing. As so often happens, I wish I had a remote control so I could get comfortable and then set the timer. (Some day.) There amidst the black eyed susans I attempt to take a photo but only my knees are victorious.
I hear a bird or a rodent, very staccato rat a tat tat and a sea lion calls. People talk along the path. A sole runner moves. A man tells the trail story to three friends who listen, attentively. They discuss knee surgery. Perhaps two generations, both women with sensible ponytails refusing to give their different shades of brown over to grey. The elder man continues to offer head land narrative.
A muscular woman in pink tank top puffs and pants as she jogs uphill, her devotion to running apparent by the triangular patch of sweat on the small of her backl. I want to move forward but find I enjoy it too much when people fall out of my direct line of view and I have the momentary delusion that it is only I, the fog horn, and the sea lion enjoying this sanctuary this early on this final Sunday morning in July.
Still more voices come and then don't. I hear car doors open, and close. I wish the staccato rodent voice would speak again and only another runner's feet respond but her, I find myself admiring. Silver toned long hair, pulled back, burnished skin. Quite lovely. Maybe a year from now I will be brave enough to look like that.
There is a slate grey wall of fog and tumbleweeds like I remember from 1977 when we first moved here. I hear a fog horn. I see a buoy and boats. It is chillier here than my dress looks. We don't match. I don't care.
A train whistle sounds as two women (more appropriately dressed than me) amble up and peer into the windows at the interpretive center. They are runners. One of them sounds British. Carol Carter floats into my mind. "We'll figure it out" says an American voice. I wonder what is to figure. I scope out WritingCamp locations. That is what I am to figure. Anything else sort of drops away.
They built a spot here for sitting which I use to sit and write. It is perfect for that love writing amist the shrubs and bunnies and birds. They are restoring the habitat which, for today, is still grey and not quite awakened. I scan for spots to sit and write and perhaps get a photo of myself sitting and writing. As so often happens, I wish I had a remote control so I could get comfortable and then set the timer. (Some day.) There amidst the black eyed susans I attempt to take a photo but only my knees are victorious.
I hear a bird or a rodent, very staccato rat a tat tat and a sea lion calls. People talk along the path. A sole runner moves. A man tells the trail story to three friends who listen, attentively. They discuss knee surgery. Perhaps two generations, both women with sensible ponytails refusing to give their different shades of brown over to grey. The elder man continues to offer head land narrative.
A muscular woman in pink tank top puffs and pants as she jogs uphill, her devotion to running apparent by the triangular patch of sweat on the small of her backl. I want to move forward but find I enjoy it too much when people fall out of my direct line of view and I have the momentary delusion that it is only I, the fog horn, and the sea lion enjoying this sanctuary this early on this final Sunday morning in July.
Still more voices come and then don't. I hear car doors open, and close. I wish the staccato rodent voice would speak again and only another runner's feet respond but her, I find myself admiring. Silver toned long hair, pulled back, burnished skin. Quite lovely. Maybe a year from now I will be brave enough to look like that.
