BOLINAS

I'm conflicted about professing my love for Bolinas. To write about Bolinas is to spread its gospel, to make vulnerable its deep green and mossy underbelly. To tell someone would be to give away the magician's favorite trick. This place is still here. I want to disturb nothing, not the locals, the leaves. I want to leave   and (with arrogance) be the last who came. Time hasn't found the clocks here - the only thing you need to know is that the post office closes at 4. 

The drive here from San Francisco, though not a long one, is life affirming, marvelous, threatening. I look out the window and ask myself over, what more do you need? while we listen to The Byrds and keep a count of all the Westy's that pass by. We settle the van on a secluded dirt drive, just steps up from Jared's house. I see ocean in one direction and mountains in another. There is nothing to do here, at its best: nap beside the fire, put another record on, make tea for three, read through carefully selected coffee table books, ride the motorcycles up the mountain, take a walk, count the deer, shuck oysters from the bay, feed the cats.