The California Coast stretches out topographically in my mind; I'm Jack Kerouac, going south by bus on the 101, and it's pulsating, this coast, a mess of tumbling waves and grinding techtonic plates. The beach reaches perpetually onward, smattered with driftwood teepees and various pseudo-hobo shelters, bird-ravaged seal carcasses and stringy kelp. Nature, in her element, manages to stun with beauty even amidst too-large houses and tacky RVs; quietly she alludes to a bygone solitude and glory. And I open wide my eyes to honor her, determed not to ignore this free chance to behold art. The seaweed-strewn, beloved Pacific is breathing with Luna's tides. The ocean is a living thing, lapping at the crooked edge of broken land, kissing and licking Earth's wounds faithfully, healer that she is.

I listen to Conor Oberst sing, She sends me pictures of the ocean in an envelop, so I know there is hope. Hallelu.