Once, I drove over 100 miles straight up the coast from my city apartment and rented a house that was nestled in the redwoods and overlooked the ocean from a decent height. It was around my birthday and I wanted to celebrate in some small way without the noise of the city. The house was really three small structures, teared and connected by one long corridor with one long window arching over the entire thing. The Hobbit House they called it.
“The owner who built this place used to live in New England and liked the covered bridges. If you’re from there you can tell the post and beams are reminiscent of a covered bridge.”
In the mornings the sun shone down through the redwoods and lit up the entire house. I got up, played country music, cooked breakfast and went for day hikes through the red woods. Mid day I drank beer on the porch, counted the banana slugs and thought about giving them a drink. I didn’t. Later in the day, as the light fractioned away by the minute, I hiked down to the ocean. I stood on the bluffs and looked out across the ocean. I smoked cigarettes and looked at other people standing on other bluffs looking out across the ocean. I saw people throwing balls into the water for dogs to go get and bring back and go get again. As the light waned I walked back up the hill past a sheep farm to the house. I cooked a simple dinner and watched horrible movies. The next day I did the more or less the same.