Santa Cruz. Perfect, lovely, impossible Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz of small streets and golden water and thick air. Santa Cruz of cold fog and green cypress and big ocean. Santa Cruz that renders me wordless every time I try to specify with any measure of precision why or what it is that I love about this place so fiercely, so much.
Even moving to Brooklyn was faking it. I could still come back, to get my fix, to defrost, dehydrate, decompress. To be quiet, still. To stretch out, run. But now there is talk of moving, and seriously. We speak of life in New England, together and finally, with real intention. We talk about the quaint niceties of wood burning stoves and big red barns, pick ups and sheep, and I am excited and we will go and make a run of it. And we will chop wood (maybe) and haul hay bales (hopefully) and grow vegetables (certainly) and make stews. And will we be fine, better than before, but I fear that I will live like this with a half broken heart, always trying to find my way home.
Even moving to Brooklyn was faking it. I could still come back, to get my fix, to defrost, dehydrate, decompress. To be quiet, still. To stretch out, run. But now there is talk of moving, and seriously. We speak of life in New England, together and finally, with real intention. We talk about the quaint niceties of wood burning stoves and big red barns, pick ups and sheep, and I am excited and we will go and make a run of it. And we will chop wood (maybe) and haul hay bales (hopefully) and grow vegetables (certainly) and make stews. And will we be fine, better than before, but I fear that I will live like this with a half broken heart, always trying to find my way home.
