I took a walk the other day and ran into this mural on the door of a utility box. If you’ve ever wondered what happened to unicorns, well apparently they’ve fled to the Secret Ocean! Probably via that green UFO!

I had a hard time getting a clear shot because of its location. And also because of the bright sunlight!

Another utility box – this one in a more hospitable location (at least for photo taking.)

I’ve been in funk lately for a variety of reasons: a summer cold I can’t seem to shake, a garage that needed cleaning out about twenty years ago, and a lack of inspiration. As a friend of mine wrote, I’ve been thinking of putting writing on my list of things I used to do.

And then I found a birthday card a friend sent me long ago, during a particularly rough patch.

The “novel” she was talking about was just a rough draft back then. I did finally finish and publish the darned thing (unfortunately just after her passing) but was never happy with it. But now I think I know why. So I guess you could say, her note was my door for the week.

Check out other (presumably legit) Thursday doors at Dan Antion’s cool hangout.

Woke up to some devastating news about a very special place …

Lahaina Town used to be such a kick. An old whaler’s village with all kinds of vendors and a giant banyan tree. Over the years I’m sure it’s probably gotten be an expensive tourist trap but still, what a blow.

In case you’ve missed the news, much of the Hawaiian island of Maui is on fire with Lahaina Town seeming to get the worst of it.

It’s been over a month since my nephew drank himself to death. Whether or not it was an intentional act, we’ll never know. I can’t say that the pain is gone but yesterday I watched the movie The Whale while cleaning up after a family get together and this morning I woke up feeling freed from that awful doubt.

Spoiler Alert! Please stop reading here if you’re looking forward to seeing this movie and want the ending to be a surprise.

I didn’t know much about the plot, other than it was about an obese man. Were it a Disney flick, the obese man would be inspired by the love of a selfless woman to lose all that weight, take up jogging and live happily ever after. But, it’s not a Disney flick. And the whale the title refers to is not a grotesquely obese man. It’s this book:

The unabridged edition of Moby Dick or The Whale contains a whopping 135 chapters plus an Epilogue. Many of the chapters are considered extraneous blubber, unless, of course, you’re a Melville scholar. Even then, what meaning can even the most dedicated scholar extract from “Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales and the True Pictures of Whaling Scenes” or “The Right Whale’s Head – Contrasted View”?

So why did Herman Melville write so many chapters that did not enhance his plot? It goes against all the writing advice I’ve ever received. In fact, the obese man teaches an online writing course in which he advises his students about proper paragraph structure and the need to constantly edit in order to clearly communicate their message. In other words, how not to fill their compositions with useless blubber.

Then, thanks to his daughter’s eighth grade essay, he has a revelation. I won’t give it away in case you do decide to watch the movie. Would I recommend it? Yikes. It helped me realize that people who do anything to excess are trying to fill a void that can’t be filled by stuff. But otherwise, it’s an unsettling way to spend an afternoon. Good acting though.

I’m still struggling with a dark moon but I have to admire the brave hearts of these wildflowers.

I believe this flower is called a Black Eyed Susan. In Michigan where I lived as a child they grew wild everywhere, along the roads and in the fields, and they looked fearsome and brave. But growing from a shallow pot, they look fragile.

I feel like this bashful daisy; not quite ready to show her face to the world.

But she got over it. I suppose I will too.

We’ve been having unusual weather for this time of year (in this part of the world.) It’s been hot and dry. Not nearly as hot and dry as other parts of the world but generally our hot dry days coincide with the end of summer and not the middle. God knows what will happen when our summer arrives, sometime in late September.

Heat waves always leave me woefully uninspired to do much of anything. And so I binge-watched the first season of Foyle’s War, a BBC murder mystery series that ran from 2002-2015.

The series was set in the early 1940s in Hastings England. The country is expecting an invasion at any moment and the British are split between those who want to surrender and try to work out a good deal for themselves with the Nazis and those who feel the defense of England is the only thing that will save the world from fascism. Sound familiar? Enter our hero, Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, a widower who had recently retired but, like so many of his countrymen, he has been called up for service to King and Country.

At first Foyle tries to transfer to a more important job than solving murders during a time of war, but then he realizes what is happening beneath the surface in the manor houses and quaint villages of his country. In many ways, the invasion had already begun.

Anyway, it’s a well-written and acted series. British aristocrats and wealthy Americans are greedy, no good bastards (at least so far in the series) but what’s new? There’s a sense that, once the war is over, life will return to normal. I guess that’s something we all have to believe.

When I was a child I spoke with a lisp. I spoke early and often … to the pigs in their pens, the guard dogs on leases, the chickens running free and sometimes to the elderly aunties shelling peas in their gardens.

Much to my parent’s mortification.

They didn’t have a lot of money but they couldn’t abide raising a chatterbox with a lisp in the time of perfect children. And so … at enormous expense … I was sent to a Speech Tutor. The poor man is a blur to me now but his influence over the way I speak and write is unmistakable. You see he was a proper Brit. And so … needless to say, I stuff my speech with useless phrases like “needless to say” and I have a tendency to say “rather” rather often. (Not that all Brits are fond of pleonasm but he was from a different generation than even my parents).

And don’t get me started on my tendency to alliterate. But what can you expect from a person forced to recite: “Peter Piper” over and over again:

I need to join the gang of Fixed Fairy Tales!

Many editors feel that all unnecessary phrases and words should be eliminated but I like “burning fire” and “dark of night.” And you have to admit (or you don’t) that “I saw with my own eyes” is a lot stronger than “I saw.”

Thanks to all of you who sent your love following the death of my nephew. It’s been a hard couple of weeks for many reasons but I’m finally feeling something other than complete exhaustion. Yes, “complete” is unnecessary but fits the bill.

It’s hard to slow a fast heart
One that gallops on ahead of reason
And routine

And dies alone on motel tile
The why … you’ll never know

Here in California there are two main routes to get from the northern part of state to the southern tip. There’s the straight and boring Interstate 5 which is generally filled with semis and cars driving much too fast and there’s the 101 that meanders through the Salinas Valley and then along the coast. The coastal route is, of course, the slower way to go but we generally make it a two day drive. Stop along the coast and then hit LA midday to avoid the traffic.

However this has been an amazing year for the Central Valley. There has been so much snow in the Southern Sierra and rain in the valley that a lake not seen for decades has reappeared.

The artist Wayne Thiebaud painted many pictures of the Central Valley.

I must admit that I’ve never seen that much color in the valley but we’ll see. Generally the only thing that breaks the monotony of mile after mile of flat, dry farmland is the feed lot at Harris Ranch. Cows in holding pens waiting for the slaughterhouse. Thousands of cows mooing pathetically. Ugh.

And then there’s the 405 across LA. There are parts of Los Angeles that are beautiful. Perhaps even heavenly but this is generally the view you get. For two hours on a good day.

Anyway – I’m hoping to see what Thiebaud saw on our drive tomorrow but we’ll see!

I haven’t much to say today because I’ve been busy cloud dancing, at least in my mind. To me, it’s far healthier than watching the news.

This year Winter rarely took a break to give us a peak at Spring. Selfish old Winter just held on and on and I’m glad that he did. Here in California we needed the water and we needed the cool temps to stay around and slow the thaw of all that snow in the mountains.

Some afternoons there are a thousand things I should be doing but the clouds are so bewitching that often the tasks of the day must line up and wait.

I suppose Miss Summer will arrive by and by. Probably in September. Until then I must remember not to stare up at the clouds.