barnabas_truman: (Default)
My brother and I ended up at the same college, but after a few years I worried that we were drifting apart. I studied math and philosophy; he studied history and politics. I read sci-fi and fantasy; he read biographies and manifestos. I played folk music; he played, well, rather different folk music.

One evening the two of us were walking home together after some event on campus--maybe a movie or a concert; I don't remember. It was very foggy that night, with visibility less than a block in any direction. As we crossed the Richards Overpass, my brother paused, looked out into gray oblivion, and said "What I like about this kind of weather is that it feels like at any moment a unicorn could walk out of the mist."

For a brief moment, if a unicorn had walked out of the mist, it would not have seemed at all unusual. And at that moment I realized that perhaps we weren't so different after all.
barnabas_truman: (oldstyle)
In my hometown, there is a group of exactly one dozen very old, very tall, very slender palm trees, all lined up along Wheeler Avenue, spanning five or six blocks. The old folks called them the Twelve Apostles. The last few trees on the north end of the line were rooted at the west end of the street where I lived, so every evening we got a lovely view of majestic palm trees silhouetted against a blazing orange and red sunset.

That, to me, has always been a powerful symbol of the glory and beauty of California.

Today, on my way home from a mediocre meeting, I popped a cassette of Irish folk music into the tape deck, cranked up the volume, rolled down the windows, and motored west on the highway, a glorious sunset over the mountains ahead of me and shadows of palm trees speeding by.

California, I love you.

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June 2017

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