what could be more cliché than a police car & lights flashing red white and blue on a friday night? a prius’ highbeams against the wet, reflective fog, or a deer leaping across the road with no regard for the double yellow? at one hundred and twenty-five feet above sea level, the fog line breaks.
if the eskimos have so many words for snow and the hindus have so many words for white, why don’t we californians have more words for fog? at nepenthe, six hundred tourists act out one dialogue on a break from coasting their way down the california one. the iconic big sur establishment’s gift shop alone is worth a visit, and, for a champagne vista, you can’t beat the restaurant’s back deck.
my fingertips are sensitive. my jaw is out of whack from having two lower teeth pulled. The holes where the teeth used to be are gaping and hungry and keep filling up with things that aren’t supposed to stay put in your mouth, like peanut butter and hamburger. i was almost a vegetarian for a while. i am blowing my nose. the worst part of having my wisdom teeth taken out was being numbed up without being put under. they gave me eight separate shots so i wouldn’t feel a thing as i watched the removal process in the mirror of my dentist’s glasses. even though they weren’t fully formed, those molars were big teeth. we are late bloomers in my family.
after having my teeth pulled i was numb for four hours. they wanted to make sure it didn’t hurt and they did a good job. my face didn’t swell at all. i couldn’t tell. i kept bumping into my lower lip with my incisors. dr. latta warned me to be careful of my tongue, that some people, while they are numb, nibble the tip. for once i could feel with the pads of my fingers how soft my lip – and how rough my chin – is, since they weren’t competing with my facial nerves.
the faun with glazed eyes lying paralyzed in the emergency lane just about killed me. it is to sheer backbone, a crimson blemish attended to by a single dogged vulture: reason enough to slow up to the speed limit. driving in this weather, my thoughts obfuscate my vision. preoccupied by the speedometer, i miss the speed limit signs i know by heart.
i am living straddling two places. my parents' house is great but it is time to transition with the season to my nest in the north. santa cruz is a beautiful town. i mean, "beauty is pleasure objectified," and santa cruz is a town obsessed with the pursuit of pleasure. pleasure point is a lovely wave. i am happy to be going back. i will not drive there and that will be fine. i will be bombing hills on my bicycle.