Comstock's simple epiphany;

Quietly siting his harmonious homes, as if planted before the forest matured around them

The enigmatic boughs of cryptic Cypress crawling and drooping the roof line

Organic are its elements…. a modern day Tor house…. stone, fire, wood and water

The antidote for sheets of steel and glass and the cold concrete mass of Meunning’s Big Sur bungalows

Today, there are no unwieldy Pelicans standing idled;

One legged, Yoga like, on the sea-worn pier post before me

The big brown birds have taken to the vibrant sky to feed and fly

Single-file they trace a languid wavering line over the sixth hole at Pebble

A silhouette of Mother Earth’s deepest green against a cadmium clear aquamarine

Stokowski was not deaf, nor Disney blind, when they set music to image so sublime in the forest Fantasia….

And fitting it seems,

That my first step into this surrealistic scene

Invokes the lust imbibed by the Rites of Spring

The seaside bluff shrouded under a murky veil

I awaken from thick damp slumber,

Irritated as hell

Perched cliff side

At the precipice of land and frantic sea

The craggy granite face on which I stand

Collides and Ignites white burst all about me

Amidst the grandeur of a curved horizon

I ascend the winding road above the ecclesial clouds of the Camaldoli Hermitage

And as the fodder of the fields scatter in my wake

In the span that it takes a multitude of frames to parse and convey an otherwise indecipherable image upon a screen:

A flash of time passes….then a re-acquaintance with the moment and image at hand.

All about me the alluvial flatlands accentuate the abrupt upheaval and vertical mass that is Point Sur.

On an aimless course through the Old-Growth, down to the silver turquoise Sea

I sighted a Steller Jay today, at Nepenthe

My modern-day radio;

I tuned into a Podcast on the Internet

And began listening to an audio short doc

The colors in the foreground of Shoendorf’s sanctuary rival the eye-dappled plumage of the Sri Lankan peacock’s fantail during courtship. The Bragg reflections of freakish avian barbules, reminiscent of the illusions created by the ablated rock flour that slips down precipitous Santa Lucia slopes to join with the angular pulses of sun beneath the Sea. Where dancing double helix refractions and iridescent aquamarines scream, and express themselves as alien greens amongst the brilliant Big Sur Buddha blues.