the light now is thick and golden, honeycombing through the oak leaves to glint off my windows. the sea has settled some, finally, though the waves still reach too high on the rocks and have swallowed some of the beaches whole. i'd like to paint this world, but i wouldn't know where to begin. with the pines trailing their bony fingers through the fog? the silhouette of a craggy cypress? the long curl of the sea itself, perhaps, its rugged insistence on soft beauty, or the gilded opalescence of a sunset? how could i capture any of it?

my mother has been full of distraction lately, bursting with it. she can hardly finish a sentence or purchase a christmas present before she leaps to the next. we spent the day in carmel, collecting hysterically expensive gifts nestled in chic paper bags. we stopped at a chilly french cafe with a nervous waiter for lunch; she asked me about my life, my love. i didn't know where to begin, not in time, not under so weak a sun and with the wind so cold.