The Valley of the Moon Amateur Radio Club was attempting to get in touch with another station from their Point Reyes garage at 11:06am on a Sunday morning. Today. A woman with a boy's unassuming blonde carrot haircut. The park ranger with light chestnut ponytail descending the 30 stories of steps. The dark-haired mom with her little daughter at the Fairfax County burrito stand. Thousands of road cyclists. I strode beneath a wave of backbending cypress trees, like they were leaning away from the cliffs and the sea below. I've seen the Pacific Ocean from millions of angles, heights, weather systems, and it never ceases to expand my version of things. I was driving along, thinking that even if I applied no philosophy to what I did but just kept
doing, that it would still change me profoundly and unrecognizable. But I am a man who thinks a lot. I thought that the creative instinct is what led me here. That the creative instinct is for better or worse a lighthouse and to trust it. That it may be closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays like the signs redundantly kept saying, but to trust it. It doesn't matter who built it.
Below is a boat you are aboard on a gigantic mass of water. From here, through the filter of my phone lens, is a rippled plane, a magnetic frosting, but the truth is that it is penetrable. Down there, the illusion of surface is containing a world even larger than this one up here. I can write simply. It's fine.
