SANTA MONICA: SUNDAY MORNING
One of my favorite Sundays ever. Yep. Ever.
The sun warmed and welcomed the morning, as the surf rose and fell based on a rhythm dictated by the sea's metronome that never demanded the keeping of time, but rather disallowed such a static measurement.
On a rented beach cruiser, I adored the bicycle's olive green paint, but that paled in comparison to the shade of the moment. Pedaling along the boulevard, the bike's seat served me well, supporting a body that begged for nothing more than to be present. I cared not about where I was going - only that I was going. Yes, I was going. The slightly worn rubber grip on the handle bars gave me more control than I needed or wanted. So, I rode (no hands) and turned onto a wooden pier that I'd never been down and never wanted to leave.
The pier. Here I was presented with a series of surreal moments without gravity, definable only in weightless details. Shades of blue I'd never seen, paired with warm hues I'd never felt. One of my favorite Sundays ever.