Atop the Citadel. A perch on a flat piece of grassland 30 yards from the lone oak noticeable from all over poly canyon. Last time I was here a Yom Kippur years ago it was too windy to stay; now a gentle sea breeze in the oat grass, the last sun on my pants a weakening gold. It will get chilly but I have a down vest, windbreaker and sleeping bag. I’ve been snacking on cheese and gorp.
Fathers Day lunch was delicious barbeque. I had to carry Oma up the stairs then her change her horrendously stinky diaper, but then she was fine and quietly watched the baby and ate with gusto. Ian is the glowing center of joy for all the old and youngish folks, bringing us together in delight and concern. Jan and I had a great Sunday morning and I phone Mary L. to discuss working on the book again. Yesterday was graduation. I felt (a little) honored rather than humiliated and invited to a party at the house of Bob and Sarah. Afterwards Jan and I took a hike up a new trail in Reservoir Canyon where the flowers were splendid: yuccas, Obispo lilies, California fuschia, fairy bells, lizard tails, buckwheat and monkeyflower. Sun dropping to the horizon.
This morning I washed the windows. I concluded that the poppy seeds are hurled as projectiles off those formerly pink launch pads. I sat on the bench and planned to wait for the hurl. I was thinking about sleeping out tonight when I heard a weird click, looked to my right and saw what I thought was a grasshopper leaping through the poppy patch. Click and leap. Then I realized it was what I was waiting for: the poppy seed dispersal. Sure enough, where the grasshopper landed, about five feet from the path, there was a split seed hull. When Jan came home a few minutes later, I asked her to sit next to me and told her what happened. She said, “that’s why they’re called poppies.” Is all seed dispersal ejaculation?
9 PM I’m awakened by the train whistle from a deep snooze. Hollister’s top protrudes above the line of fog.
After I returned from taking Oma home from the party, a beautiful read haired woman came out on the neighbor’s new driveway and greeted me. I said something about the weather. She said Brian died a few days ago, under “special circumstances.” Turns out he drove up Cayucos dam road and shot himself because the rare form of liver cancer he was diagnosed with is incurable.
The train at Stenner is now very loud. I look back at the spot by Rockslide Ridge where I watched and heard it a month ago. The moon is a thick crescent and Venus is to the west. I brought the star chart, but am sleepy. No other stars. My mission here is to get to Caballo and reshoot the central campus and Brizzolara drainage at dawn.