We are turning the corner on another year and the marker is that the clouds have reemerged, the pressure has changed the days are shorter the leaves are sifting down around the oaks. The mimosas are abloom with bright peach and orange tufts of fuzz, the vegetables abound.
It’s been a weird and wonderful summer: alot of grief, skies rife with smoke, bristling heat. My people, as usual, make my life worth living. I’ve made new friends, rekindled and refined old friendships. I’m really alone now, in that exhilerating and terrifying place of freedom from a suffocating relationship. My novel dangles like a hangnail, constantly aggitating to be finished, but providing me with no climax, no sudden burst of inspiration. Philip Roth said you have to leave a place to write about it and maybe he’s right. I sure hope so.
I’m heading into a couple interviews this week, big corporate firms that require suits and other conventions. In my hippied-out existence here, I have become so comfortable wearing yoga pants and tank tops in public, regularly using words like energy and ridgefolk. I’m at once scared and excited to enter the matrix, to regularly use words like schematic and return on investment. Most of all, I am ready to make some real money. I’m ready to pay rent, to unload a ton of useless belongings, to receive a paycheck and go home.
I am letting it all go: the dream of living off the land, of partnership, of participating in a local, vegetable based black market barter system. I’m letting go of art and embracing commerce. The new me will check her watch and monitor twitter and tumblr accounts.
I will miss you, Nevada County. It’s too bad you couldn’t employ me. I will always keep you in my heart and I will visit often. Sacramento is only an hour and a world away. I will finish the novel before I die, I swear. I will tell your story.
The water in Sacramento sucks.