Walking on the beach today, I happened upon a large conference of birds standing upon the sand , aparently discussing something, since they were hesitant to move even when a small child in a red coat ran up to them and shouted, briefly, like bark. At the middle were pelicans, about three or four of them, then surrounding in white were gulls, mixed with plovers and sandpipers that ran around a little bit, but didn' t leave the group to run in the waves like you would expect.
I stood for a while and watched them, kicking my feet in the sand and tying down my hair with a silk scarf, since it was windy. They were still there when I lost interest-or rather started thinking about what amazing creatures sandollars were-and wandered off.

Ever since reading Dream of 1000 Cats I sometimes think the animals plot things.

Last night I drank amaretto at The Crepe Place in Santa Cruz, admired the pressed tin ceiling painted red, and ate part of a crispy fried Tunisian donut with Graham, Summer, and Jen. It was a brief after-show dessert, and we talked mainly about seahorses (Jen says they are like unicorns-and i agree completely. What fantastic creatures to actually exist! They are like shells themselves, or a fossil preserved flat in a rock, except they live, and swim upright, and have spiral tails and ridges and beady eyes and snouts! Goddamn!


As I get older I only get more in awe of things. All the drama and hormones of the teenage years and the tumult of experimantation and love and distress are stripping away and I feel a "child-like" (harhar) wonder that pervades most aspects of my life. I don't know if this is what they mean by maturity. Is sort of think not. It is the maturation of a sensualist possibly. But it's not egotistical sensuality. It is appreciation of the simplest things, which are not so simple at all.