notes from the kelp

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On their way…

Paperwork for three, count ’em, three near-simultaneous escrows has been flying back and forth the past few days. Everyone is on board and funded. Us, for the home we’re about to purchase on San Juan Island; our friends and neighbors who are buying our house, and the person who is buying their house. Even Balanchine might not have been able to choreograph such a tenuous dance. This weekend we threw our second (in what threatened to become a quarterly tradition) going-away party, and it was a blast: so many fabulous, loving people in our home (again!). My brain has recovered enough from the sting of December’s disappointment to actually trust and believe that Monday morning, Charles, Smudge, Moses and I will be driving up Pacific Coast Highway with the vision of Los Angeles’ desperately dry hills in our rear view mirror.

One reaches a certain age where the romance of packing endless boxes loses its sheen, and for the first time in our lives we’ve scheduled the movers to do the packing for us. I see this as a sure sign of adulthood, or laziness, but I have no shame. Nonetheless, ever the Capricorn control freak, I spent this evening packing all the “little” things, so that the movers can just deal with the big things like the frightening contents of the closet in my studio.

I never think of myself as having much stuff, since other than additions for my studio, I don’t acquire a lot of store-bought material goods. But last night I went through the house and collected every rock, shell and other natural accouterment with which I’ve gradually adorned my life over a number of years and beach walks. As I rinsed each one and laid it out on the kitchen counter to dry, I was amazed by just how many things I indeed have. Each piece is special, otherwise I wouldn’t lug it up to the island. But it’s funny how only yesterday it had all blended into the decor, and now that I stare at the collection in its dislocated state, it seems almost overwhelming. Pictured above, a few stragglers. Had you seen the kitchen yesterday you would have laughed (where IS the counter?). The contents of these boxes is highly geological and biological in nature. Logically.

George Carlin had a brilliant bit about “stuff” in his routine years ago, and it rings true every time any of us pack up our lives to move a block or a country away: no matter where you go, you gotta have your “stuff.” I was struck and amused tonight by what my “stuff” really is. I’m going to another seaside home. I’ll be spending huge amounts of time investigating my new surroundings and bringing home artifacts of discovery. The rocks and shells from the Haro Strait will be wonderfully different. And yet in various places of our new home, these new additions will meld with my past: recorded in rocks and shells that migrated north with me, testament to my own geology of personal evolution.

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At the abyss, indeed.

After so many years here, if I’ve just got a couple of weeks left to call Paradise Cove home I sure intend to make the best of them. Even though I’ll be coming back to L.A. every three months or so, there’s definitely a very different feel when a place is “yours” than when you’re visiting just like everyone else. It will be odd to be a guest on a beach that has meant so much to me and that I feel I know intimately, but from the way the northern shoreline hugs my toes, I know that the new location will fill me with equal joy. When you see the photos from these fresh shores, the fit will be evident.

Today in the Cove was very windy, and the patterns that blew across the sea pushed birds and sailboats against their will. The collective dust from a too-dry year swirled in clouds off the pavement. Each gust filled the air with light brown and silt. The arid brush here should be far greener, and warns of the fragility of our oxymoronic desert life by the sea.

I sat on a favorite bench and stared out to this expanse, revisiting every inch of the coastline in front of me and 14 years of personal history contained within. Boyfriends. New chamber works. Restaurants. Rentals and landlords. Film scoring. Mountain hikes. Volunteer work. Health, mental and physical. Friendships. Each category’s memories self-divided into a “good” and “not so good” balance sheet, leaving me overflowing with emotions. I tried to make sense of the path my life has taken from a Manhattan street 45.4 years ago to this bench today. I couldn’t. And that was okay.

I’ve done my best not to be pushed against my will by the strong winds that have blown through my life. I’ve made plenty of mistakes and whenever I’ve been bright enough to recognize them, I’ve changed course. Taking responsibility for one’s happiness is no different than composing: we choose each note, one after the other, and hope for a beautiful result. If we ever got it just right, it would be a disappointment because there would be no reason to continue, no further search. It’s the imperfections that keep us striving for the next phrase and motif. Composing one’s life means to work diligently on a symphony that can always be improved and as such, will always remain unfinished. I view that as a terrific, ongoing opportunity, and something that inspires lots of forward motion. In this case, forward is due north.

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A dream vista I never imagined when I wrote this tune.

A peek of what I’ll soon call home, and what anyone reading this blog will become drenched in over time: the San Juan Islands. I bet you can grasp why they beckon, even through a tiny airplane window.

Our offer on a beautiful house and property has been accepted, contingent of course on the sale of our current home, which continues to glide smoothly through the escrow process. We also found a great boat that looks like it will be ours after a haul-out assures us it’s as sea-worthy as it feels. Many more photos on all of this to follow, with musical accompaniment, naturally.

How cool to have this blog with which to share images and thoughts about this adventure with everyone! Of course, part of my agenda is to convince others that with a little creativity and a lot of reliable internet connection, we can all live a bit on the edge of things if we choose. For some like me, the edge is really the center. Ahhhhh.

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Trading the freeways for the ferries.

Well, it’s happened.
(Again).
We’re in escrow!
In less than a month, I will be seeing a lot of the above waters.
And with any luck, not needing that life preserver….

More on this story as it develops. We go up to San Juan Island next week for a few days, to discover the next place we’ll call home.quicktime preview moviequicktime movies pornmovies porn ratesample interracial movies sexsapphic movies exclusivesapphic movies juicesapphic women moviesmovie poster saw Map

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Music for the stars; the main title for a TV doc I did years ago, “Behind the Scenes at People Magazine”.

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Not quite rock music.

Take a raw rock (never cook these, they lose their nutrients), then lightly flavor it with a subtle addition of minced sea anemone and chopped barnacles. Add just a hint of mussel juice, then wrap in a delicate eel grass (do not use bull kelp, you will find it too tough and chewy). Serve with your favorite cold sake. Yum!

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The closest to circus music I come.

So I ask, how long does it take to sell a really cute place at the beach in Malibu?
Longer than I thought, apparently. Prepared to move at the drop of a hat (you may recall the saga described in my blog post of Dec. 17), with boxes at the ready just screaming to be stuffed with the physical proof of our lives, we, and they, remain…. unpacked.

Soon, though. Things are picking up now that the season has turned toward the sun. Funny thing– the ocean and sky are clearer and more beautiful in the winter months, and I almost feel apologetic for the grey-white haze that obscures the ocean’s horizon most days now. As prospective buyers visit, one after another hears my docent-like intonations of, “on clear days you can see Catalina from this window,” and, “when it’s not so hazy, from the hot tub you’re looking straight across the Santa Monica Bay toward Palos Verdes!”. In these partial white-out conditions, one can only hope people have a little imagination.

The oddest, most Malibu/Hollywood-esque aspect to this process has been just who some of the prospective buyers are. Easily two thirds of our many contestants are looking at our three bedroom place as a second, sometimes even third home. Whoa. There’s a lot of wealth out there, regardless of what the economy is doing right now. But more amusingly, several of our visitors– and we never know ahead of time who a realtor is bringing– have turned out to be Really Famous People. The scorecard has included a famous actress, a famous rock star from a major 80’s group, and, at nine o’clock this morning as I opened the door in my unsuspecting, bleary-eyed stupor, a very famous athlete– at his peak, the greatest and best known in his field. There’s something both bizarre and funny about giving the house tour, walking into my master bathroom with one of these celebrities and pointing out the virtues of the new hot water heater or the large storage closet. But yes, it’s true, the famous and wealthy have plumbing needs, just like the rest of us.

Oh, and did I mention that this is a doublewide mobilehome, and that some of these places in Paradise Cove (not ours) go for two and a half million dollars??
Welcome to Malibu!

There is most certainly a level of absurdity that I will fondly miss when we move…. it’s amazing I don’t compose circus music. But living here so many years, I think it plays constantly in my head!

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Slightly. Organized. Sound.

..and I turned around, my back to the sea, and noticed that someone had decorated and organized the cliffside…

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No color correction. It really IS this blue.

The Point Dume Headlands. A magical spot, walking distance from Paradise Cove at low tide, or a spontaneous side trip when the car has a mind of its own heading back from the post office a mile up the road.

Charles and I try to break up our work afternoons during the week with a stroll amidst nature’s joy and sanity, and yesterday it was Destination: Whale Watch. My friend and fellow Cove blogeressa Veronique de Turenne had told me a couple days earlier that she witnessed 12 gorgeous cetaceans hugging the shoreline, protecting their newborns while trudging up the coast on their many-thousand mile odyssey. What a sight.

Inspired, we went to the best seat in the house at the very tip of the Santa Monica Bay: Point Dume. The peninsula juts out in glee for visitors and in peril for the boats caught unawares by sharp rocks lurking just below the waterline. With a simple combination of a narrow boardwalk and sandy dunes, this protected land jealously shares space encroached upon by mansions lining the cliff of the Malibu Riviera.

We waited.
We watched.
Two mourning doves.
Three tiny lizards.
Four adorable squirrels.
No whales.

Where’d they go? Did the Union give them a lunch break and no one informed us? Are they striking, in protest of the commercial squid boats whose flood lights lure the cephalopods and deplete the whales’ food source? Or maybe they knew I had my camera poised to capture their grace, and like the Amish, didn’t want their souls stolen.

Lack of exceptionally large mammals not withstanding, everything else that we did see was nothing short of stunning.
How lucky, lucky, lucky, to be able to step outside and experience this. No matter how many years I’ve viewed these same expanses, never have I taken them for granted. It’s always a whale of a time.

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“Of Breath and Touch” could refer to the smell and texture of this plant.

Ok, so maybe this artist is in her Kelp Phase. Two in a row, and who knows what’s lurking for my next offering. But the grace and serendipity of this sea vegetable is lovely enough to share, especially with my reader friends who happen to live in kelp-free environments. ringtones free 30 thumbplayil zielinski barrington alana to warrington zactual song ringtones freeaccrington college rossendaleamerican ringtone gladiatorsaerosmith ringtoneringtone adult proof Map

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A tuba wafting through the air.

I like the illusion here of the kelp leaves parachuting through the sky in a moderate breeze, gently making their way toward Earth.
I like it when things are not as they appear.
And when things appear as they are not.

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The clouds have become “Unhinged.”

Like a powerful invader, thick fog pushed hard against our cliffs and blew through the canyon yesterday. Quite oddly, this visitor refused to leave, persisting from morning to sunset. Our ocean fog banks usually burn off in the noontime sun; this day was eerily different. My afternoon beach walk became an exploration through unfamiliar territory, as a pulsing white scrim turned everything I thought I knew about Paradise Cove’s reality into a mystery.

The sea had pulled out. Large oily tufts ripped from the kelp beds were strewn along the tide line, the result of the pounding surf that had lulled me to sleep the night before. The air was simultaneously warm and cool and the beautiful and lurid smell of decomposing plants rose up to meet every misty kiss. The sound of the beach seemed somewhat deadened, and in its place was the heightened visual of a world that after all these years was once again new to me.

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