Information Blues.

Today on my lunch break I cruised down the sidewalk (without my Wayfarers) to the Berkeley Pvblic where I sat at a long table with my nose in a volume of Longfellow.

I started reading Bob Dylan’s Chronicles last night and Bob was waxing long about some NYC bohemian who could quote at will from Evangeline. So he’d be standing there and fire off something like this:

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.

Not bad. I like home-brewed ale too.

It’s fun to read Bob full of references, to track his periphery. Ie I was reading and went to my mp3 collection to listen to 3 separate versions of High Heeled Sneakers. That made me happy, then I pulled down some Dave Van Ronk. So I will continue to read and cross reference, to adventure in Americana.

Summer lunch time in Berkeley reading Longfellow, closed with iced chai; it can’t be bad.

After work today I hit the produce market to buy some basil. There were 50 people standing for Cheeseboard Pizza, but the Cheeseboard proper had closed (5 minutes early.) That was too bad, because I had my eye on a zampano.

I was locking up my bike when one of the employees stepped out. “Challah!?” he announced and inquired, dangling a brown paper bag. I held out my hand and smiled to become the proud recipient of a free braid.

After he handed it to me he said, “Hey man, how’re you doing?” I recognized him but didn’t know that he knew me. I will confess right now that I consider the employees of The Cheeseboard (and also Arizmendi) to be a little bit like rockstars, a minor pantheon of (scone) gods. Then I bought a boquet of basil, a half pound of baby arugula, some yogurt covered peanuts and a vessel of limeade.

The light was golden when I was done; the sun was getting low over Mount Tam. I thought of one of my favorite viewpoints in the east bay, in the hills on a boulder above my old dorm. So I parked my bike at the bottom and walked up.

The boulder is on a goat trail half way to the top. It’s not the absolute height that makes the view impressive, it’s the sheerness. It feels a little like dangling your feet over a 300 foot wall above a steep slot of trees and then the bay. I love that spot, it resonates with memories but I haven’t sat there in years.

A giddy couple emerged at the bottom of the path. I know they wanted my perch. But I was sitting there, eating free challah, so they hid in the bushes and squealed.

The sunset was about the worst I’ve ever seen. By the time it touched Mount Tam it was sinking quick, and when it passed behind that was it. The water in the bay looked like frozen slate, but there was no psychedelia, no orange or purple haze. It just got colder, and I realized the day was over, and I don’t really know what challah is all about.

When Matt and I arrived at Blue Water Kayaks there was a large skate in the water doing pushups. It fluttered in the mud, longer across than my arm.

We were there for kayak camping, a Huck Finn escapade along the cliffs of Tomales Bay. Mary was turning 30, and this was how she chose it: on a secluded spit of Point Reyes, accessible only to those who float or fly.

After some humble lessons from a teenage boy named Paris our fleet was off, an armada of doubles plus three singles for the headstrong. Matt and I took off, dual paddles turning like dragonfly wings, pulling for the other side. Then when we reached it us Tom Sawyers couldn’t help but land for a moment in a wild cove to relieve ourselves under a cave of vines as other boats howled and pointed.

Tomales Beach held six outhouses and two ospreys circling overhead. We ate noodles and stared at the water. A band of rascals formed to skirt rocky points that knew no steps. We skipped stones over sea anemones, and I couldn’t help dropping one or two onto dead jellyfish, carmelizing in the sun. I needed to know what would happen.

A few intrepid explorers suggested an expedition to Hog Island and I leaped at the opportunity. It’s a rocky bird sanctuary out in the middle; there were legions of cormorants and pelicans with one great blue heron as the mayor.

Later the fake and real sausages came out, baked beans, corn, and a bottle of Jack Daniels which I scoffed at. We were sitting around the fire when Jack started to circle; someone made telephone noises and told me he rang. A few others pretended to drink while passing it back and back to me. I knew I was in a little trouble when a substantial amount was gone yet I didn’t feel different. So I capped the jerk, set him in the sand, and over the next two hours felt like I was still drinking, I had that much bourbon momentum.

Thus nighttime meant burning kayak shoulders and wild potty. I theorized that the morning may yield a new set of paddling muscles; I envisioned them as knotty apples rising from the top of my arms. My ankles were sunburned, sock tan inverted, throbbing at the foot of my bag. I tossed and turned.

What an adventurous summer to be thirty!