10:00 a.m. - 2001-05-22
fire-pit
Dockweiler beach Saturday night- waves crashing, fat 747s taking off from LAX and screaming out into the crazy fucking yonder...feeling loose after 5 hrs of volleyball. Standing around a fire-pit at the edge of Los Angeles, passing a gallon jug fulla brown lemonade between new and old friends. At one point I stare down the beach and notice this nice juxtaposition between the little groups of people huddled around their fires and the twenty story, candy-striped, exhaust towers of the power plant looming in the background. I think:
"Energy...man".
I'm sort of wishing I had elaborated. But I guess I was pretty stoned. In fact, had I been a little more stoned, the whole sentiment probably could have shed any vestige of dependence on a "subject"...could have transcended it's primitive need to signify and crystallized into the om-like, all-encompassing utterance that is so deeply associated with those of us who meditate here by the infinite and unfathomable majesty of the Pacific. One more toke and I would have uttered the sacred syllable:
"Dude..."
Right. Anyway, Saturday the haze burned off and it was sunny and warm and there were bikinis and we listened to the Beach Boys and played volleyball. Sunday it didn't burn off and it was cold and windy and we listened to Metallica and played volleyball.
Tough life, crybaby.
