the foothills and the ocean

never have i believed that a writer learns how to write by attending school. if anything, the experiences, or the lack thereof, would in my opinion silence the words that attempt escape. writing is, after all, about experience. the more varied and courageous our experiences are, the more we will have to tell. one can only observe so much from within the walls of a classroom. this seems painfully obvious to me. i'm not sure why my words are so often misconstrued here, but they are. i felt that i was clear in telling that my reasons for applying to an mfa program had nothing to do with the idea that i would be learning to write. and perhaps i would have become a better writer by the sheer fact that i would have been writing more than i do presently, but in the end, {if completely honest with myself} it was simply a lazy way to find a job in two years. but enough of that.

as for the music, that too is simple. i have never, and most likely will never consider the cessation of creating music. quite frankly, i'm not sure if that's possible. it has though, been rather difficult, if not nearly impossible, to make any money at this. while this is not the goal in any way, it would certainly make it much easier to devote my entire life to this if i didn't have to have a day job of some sort. quite frankly, $12k a year has grown quite tiresome. $24 has become the goal. but perhaps that is just the problem. easy. few things are easy. perhaps i simply need to give it more of myself. how often we search for the easy things in life. i have begun to coonsider a graduate program in music, which would be far from easy. i would have to learn how to read music. learn transcription. learn orchestration. learn theory. wow. at this point though, it is the only way that i can imagine giving my entire life to music, which has become the goal.

but enough of that too for the moment. for the moment it is california. it is the memory of a plane ride on a big plane over a big expanse of land. the big planes are better for sure, as they rise up and float differently. i can feel their substantial mass beneatrh me, carrying me with such fortitude. it was the searh for, and the finding of a perfect moment {thoughts of spalding grey moving in the brain} as i sat dangling my feet in the pool at my parents house while drinking tghe best glass of wine i've had in 5 months or so. watching the ocean meet the land at muir beach. walking through the heat of davis. lying about with the flu. and so many other things. oh the unspoken things of life. watching christian kiefer play a song i wrote, yet another perfect moment.

and now, there is work to be done. the fence repaired, i continue with the painting. brown on brown. the dogs brushing past, the trilling wings of a hummingbird. i stand about, scouring the bushes with my eyes, hoping for a praying mantis, drifting through the leaves. the hot sun of california. the rolling hills. the long stretch of it all. i even read of it now. angle of repose by wallace stengner. an old man, in an old home, in a wheelchair, searching through the entrails of his family history. grass valley and santa cruz. the foothills and the ocean. the places i will always know. wild and delicate. seductive beyond imagination. california. she holds me gently, as always.

Posted by jeff pitcher at June 10, 2005 10:35 AM

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