Conclusion number one: much of my ranting is probably PMS. Conclusion number two: ocean is good for me. Nail polish is not. I've been having that Star dream again lately, the one where I wake up with the surf crashing in my ears, the smell of salt and fog horns still so present. To my surprise, being by the ocean only exacerbates that longing, not at all dulling any of the desire to back on the island. California beaches only seem to mock the cold spiritualism and strength of the island-you have to work to be struck blind by its rocky intensity. Here you more like fall into the coastline, not at all conscious that at this very moment your life is changing. Beaches here at times strike me as lifeless and vapid, the complete opposite of the careful cajoling and release that I'm craving. I wish I knew what it is that I'm holding back, keeping separate to pour forth while perched on East Rock watching the sunrise...I haven't a clue.
Bitje schastliva u spokojna mne nyzhna cvoboda. To be happy I need freedom. This trip this weekend brought back so many memories, it threw me for a while. In a lot of ways I felt just like all the times I'd run, fleeing Kostelec, to the cushy cosmopolitan mecca of Prague. I got that same lurking dread on the return trip, that same retroactive euphoria by being in the city, under my own power. San Francisco is less mine than Prague ever was, but in that moment I was right back there. Even hauling ass to some far off bus station smelling like piss, crowding onto the rattling antique of a bus, and settling happy into the cocoon of a trip absurdly long in time but not in distance. I had that same notion of resigning myself to the rank and file of days, the same resentment of normalcy that always strikes me after traveling. It always seems to take from me a bit of my rhinoceros skin, I need a few days to bounce back to my impervious optimistic let everything run off self.
I've also decided the next place that I live will be warm and sunny. Croatia, or say, Bulgaria. I think my years of cold and wet are numbered-once shown the light I'll fight before being forced back to cold and dark. This week here in Monterey is supposed to break records. Highs are right around 70 degrees. Yeah, I'm not laughing. Enough is enough.
Where does this restlessness come from? How can one be both happy staring out at the travails of a comorant for hours, half hid by fog, and yet, feet scalding by extended contact with earth? Can I really be present in the moment, while peering beyond the horizon out of the corner of my eyes? What kind of sight is that really then, perpetual motion nowhere quick and everywhere slowly. This is why I both crave and fear inactivity. Reflection lifts the best of me to the surface, dissuades me of all possible second bests, which undoubtedly puts me open the road again. I sense this is a battle I'll continue to face, but the rectifying of both parts both eludes and baffles me.
But no more nailpolish. Most definitely not my scene.
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