Strawberry Moon
From the archives- a Mother's Day Recipe idea that you may have missed! xox Karina
The moon rose almost full last night, hanging gold and low above the palm and ficus trees, urging the local beauty factor to give up its pretense of reality and meld with dreamland. The sky was a deep shade of violet with a wash of strawberry pink at the ocean's edge. Santa Monica holds me in her sway. I am in love with her- and deeply grateful to be here, celebrating my first spring in California since the late seventies. I drink the friendly May sea air in gulps. I wander the alleys and sidewalks in a state bordering on bliss, photographing details and eye candy with my iPhone.
The moon rose almost full last night, hanging gold and low above the palm and ficus trees, urging the local beauty factor to give up its pretense of reality and meld with dreamland. The sky was a deep shade of violet with a wash of strawberry pink at the ocean's edge. Santa Monica holds me in her sway. I am in love with her- and deeply grateful to be here, celebrating my first spring in California since the late seventies. I drink the friendly May sea air in gulps. I wander the alleys and sidewalks in a state bordering on bliss, photographing details and eye candy with my iPhone.
It is a visual feast.
And I am savoring every bite.
| Snippets from my neighborhood |
Walking the streets with an artist's eye is screwing with time in a Lostian sense. I am reliving art school and aging backwards in a slippery flashback time travel Back to the Future buoyancy, wandering with a camera, photographing shop windows, pieces of strangers, a red high heel, a cloud shaped like a crow, a chalk mark, an empty cup. Am I nineteen or am I fifty-five?
For the hours I navigate the neighborhood, I am neither.
Age is not relevant in a state of observation and creative response- although I would be lying if I didn't mention a certain advantage advancing age can offer. Being older- without the magnet of estrogen oozing from our pores- renders us invisible. This kind of freedom is not to be taken lightly. Its pleasure needs to be broadcast. Celebrated. Moving through time and space as something other than a trophy, a focus for desire, or a brooding hen is more fun than eating cotton candy barefoot. Nobody notices you. Nobody cares.
For a visual person like me this is heaven.
Or my idea of heaven, anyway. Which I do not embrace with a literal imposition but grasp lightly with irony and an abstract, low down bare bones trust in the reality of now as we know it, no strings attached. Because heaven?
It's here on Earth.
| Roads? Where we're going we don't need--- roads. |
READ MORE: GET THE RECIPE »
