notes from the kelp

…listen
…info about the music

Click on the blue music icon above to hear a clip from “Desert Waves”.

The informal daily rhythm of our little enclave in northern Malibu has many charms. Top of the list is not having to dress for anything: sweats, jeans, shorts, sandals, pretty much year round, no matter how cold it is. And sometimes it’s very chilly here. The collective mindset, however, is in a complete, dyslexic denial of reality. We all think and act as though it’s 75 degrees, even when it’s 57.

My vanity prior to heading out to run errands extends only to the top of my head. If the state of my unwashed hair has reached the point where it frightens the cats, a baseball cap over a ponytail is the perfect foil. That, plus the sunglasses almost surgically attached to my nose, and I look damn near the mysterious celebrity I of course wish I were.

The standard triathlon at Point Dume is post office/bank/grocery store. It’s common to see the same people at each one in succession, as though an invisible track was magnetically beckoning us. But earlier this week the only errand that caused me to don my cap was a quick trip to beat the 5pm closing clock for some international orders that had to be mailed out. As I drove up the one mile stretch of Pacific Coast Highway, I was taken by the sight of a dark squall line hovering over the horizon. Storms coming in across the sea are riveting.

Mission accomplished, I pulled out from the post office and was set to head straight home and back to work. But my hands guided the steering wheel to the left instead of the right, and in two minutes I was exiting the car and walking up the sandy path that leads to the exalted tip of Point Dume, with high, watery views in all directions. I just had to be outside to breathe in this ionized drama.

As my body rose up the slope, I couldn’t stop thinking how amazing it was to be filling out customs forms and buying stamps one minute, and be here the next. Ahhhhhh.

…listen
…info about the music

Click on the blue music icon above to hear “Unhinged,” to accompany this mysterious fog crawling up the bluff.

It is dawn and I am, finally, actually tired. Many nights I remain invigorated through the sunrise and actually resent the globe turning, as it does tend to, depriving me of my precious nighttime working hours. But now I am done and ready for deep sleep. This morning there is a thick and luscious fog that wafts up from the sea, licking the shouldn’t-still-be-green-at-this-time-of-year ground, sauntering past the hummingbird feeder, and caressing my roof. The dripping sound off of abundant ficus tree leaves is arrhythmic and wonderful. And maddening. Can I sleep accompanied by a pulse beyond my own?