A Road Trip Down Memory Lane
There is something ironic about this: The smallest mug I found was the one that has a picture of a bear in a nightshirt dozing off that says "celestial seasonings sleepytime herb tea."
I was looking for a small mug because I wanted to drink some yerba matte and I have no dedicated matte mug. Anyhow, This mug is big for matte purposes, and the matte is strong, and there's no way I'm going to be ready for sleepytime any time soon. Strong is in *sip* *erk* *twinge*.
Now, I haven't had yerba matte proper, by which I mean, through a bombilla rather than from a tea-bag, since a certain trip up the coast with Adria, way back in the spring of 2002, before I met Maddy.
Somehow this matte is not as good, or perhaps my sense of nostalgia is stronger than my sense of taste. I would say that the latter is more likely, except that nostalgia is generally associated in my mind with a time that was in some way better than the current time. But perhaps nostalgia can be strong without any lack of appreciation for the present.
As is turns out, "Memory Lane" is CA-101.
In Spring of 2002, my parents bought me my first car -- a 1983 Honda Civic Wagovan, which was named "the flea" by my roommate John, after I told him that "brown piece of shit" was not acceptable as a nickname. The car soon proved its necessity when my other roommate, Matt, who I usually got rides from, had an unfortunate disagreement with some prescribed medications (that should never have been prescribed) and had to go home midway through the quarter, and take the rest of the year off.
Then there was a period of time during which I drove between Santa Cruz and San Diego (about 500 miles) fairly often, for various reasons. Between April and June of 2002, I made the trip several times, each time passing through Santa Barbara. Back then Adria lived there, and a couple times, I gave her a ride for the northern half of the trip, to our mutual hometown.
It was on one of these trips that Adria and I left early in the morning, and to help us stay awake, she brought yerba matte paraphenalia, and a thermos of hot water, and off we drove, with bohemian flair, into the chill of the coastal fog, our minds full of surrealism.
Once in Santa Cruz, we met up with Kyle and talked about interesting things. At some point, I believe we made our way to the Kickit tree, where, only a couple months later, I'd come again with Maddy
It was one of those days when the intellegence and wisdom of my peers seemed unstoppable. In reality We were far from accomplishing anything or doing anything productive -- indeed we were doing little more than sipping yerba matte and talking grandly -- but I felt like we were a collective of creative geniouses just waiting to change the world. Not that I've ever felt any hubris or anything.
Today I'm drinking matte not to free up my mind, but to help it focus. (And this entry is a testiment to its effectiveness -- though this isn't what I'd originally planned on focusing on.) Today my life is very different. I can't simply walk out the door and decide on a whim to drive to San Diego. I have a wife, a career to work on, things to start, things to finish. Dishes to wash. It's not that the past was a simpler time, but that it was easier to ignore the complexities.
Young children shame older children with their fantastic imaginations. At a certain age, you realize that you've lost it and wonder how. And then later you realize that even then, when you lamented your lost imagination, you were still living in a dream world. The only difference is that your dreams got bigger, and more possible. And at some point, I will look back at today and realize that my life is still a dream. Does it end?.
These next two pictures were taken on a separate trip, a couple of months later. We are inside the "Kickit Tree" which is in Lighthouse Field, in Santa Cruz.
Today my dreams are of children, savings, money in the bank, vacations in europe, a private practice. Still dreams, just possible ones.
I've stopped wearing my crazy red corduroy raver pants. I rarely wear that corduroy sports coat that I once declared was "more me than I am." I've all but stopped wearing the beany. My "Fear No Music" t-shirt eventually disintegrated from so much use. These days I keep my hair short, and my face shaven. My clothes match my current dreams. On those car trips in 2002, I was an avante-gardist musician, and my wits were loose. But I've found, and admit only begrudgingly, that my creativity has in no way been damaged by short hair and sensible pants.
My matte is empty. And my caffeine high is now in full force. That means it's time for be to get down to business. Work. I do not have any regrets, and I miss that past less than I enjoy the present. In spite of the stress, worry, and daunting face of reality, I'm finding out that this present dream, "playing house" you might call it, is ever so much fun.
I was looking for a small mug because I wanted to drink some yerba matte and I have no dedicated matte mug. Anyhow, This mug is big for matte purposes, and the matte is strong, and there's no way I'm going to be ready for sleepytime any time soon. Strong is in *sip* *erk* *twinge*.
Now, I haven't had yerba matte proper, by which I mean, through a bombilla rather than from a tea-bag, since a certain trip up the coast with Adria, way back in the spring of 2002, before I met Maddy.
Somehow this matte is not as good, or perhaps my sense of nostalgia is stronger than my sense of taste. I would say that the latter is more likely, except that nostalgia is generally associated in my mind with a time that was in some way better than the current time. But perhaps nostalgia can be strong without any lack of appreciation for the present.
As is turns out, "Memory Lane" is CA-101.
In Spring of 2002, my parents bought me my first car -- a 1983 Honda Civic Wagovan, which was named "the flea" by my roommate John, after I told him that "brown piece of shit" was not acceptable as a nickname. The car soon proved its necessity when my other roommate, Matt, who I usually got rides from, had an unfortunate disagreement with some prescribed medications (that should never have been prescribed) and had to go home midway through the quarter, and take the rest of the year off.
Then there was a period of time during which I drove between Santa Cruz and San Diego (about 500 miles) fairly often, for various reasons. Between April and June of 2002, I made the trip several times, each time passing through Santa Barbara. Back then Adria lived there, and a couple times, I gave her a ride for the northern half of the trip, to our mutual hometown.
It was on one of these trips that Adria and I left early in the morning, and to help us stay awake, she brought yerba matte paraphenalia, and a thermos of hot water, and off we drove, with bohemian flair, into the chill of the coastal fog, our minds full of surrealism.
Once in Santa Cruz, we met up with Kyle and talked about interesting things. At some point, I believe we made our way to the Kickit tree, where, only a couple months later, I'd come again with Maddy
It was one of those days when the intellegence and wisdom of my peers seemed unstoppable. In reality We were far from accomplishing anything or doing anything productive -- indeed we were doing little more than sipping yerba matte and talking grandly -- but I felt like we were a collective of creative geniouses just waiting to change the world. Not that I've ever felt any hubris or anything.
Today I'm drinking matte not to free up my mind, but to help it focus. (And this entry is a testiment to its effectiveness -- though this isn't what I'd originally planned on focusing on.) Today my life is very different. I can't simply walk out the door and decide on a whim to drive to San Diego. I have a wife, a career to work on, things to start, things to finish. Dishes to wash. It's not that the past was a simpler time, but that it was easier to ignore the complexities.
Young children shame older children with their fantastic imaginations. At a certain age, you realize that you've lost it and wonder how. And then later you realize that even then, when you lamented your lost imagination, you were still living in a dream world. The only difference is that your dreams got bigger, and more possible. And at some point, I will look back at today and realize that my life is still a dream. Does it end?.
These next two pictures were taken on a separate trip, a couple of months later. We are inside the "Kickit Tree" which is in Lighthouse Field, in Santa Cruz.
Today my dreams are of children, savings, money in the bank, vacations in europe, a private practice. Still dreams, just possible ones.
I've stopped wearing my crazy red corduroy raver pants. I rarely wear that corduroy sports coat that I once declared was "more me than I am." I've all but stopped wearing the beany. My "Fear No Music" t-shirt eventually disintegrated from so much use. These days I keep my hair short, and my face shaven. My clothes match my current dreams. On those car trips in 2002, I was an avante-gardist musician, and my wits were loose. But I've found, and admit only begrudgingly, that my creativity has in no way been damaged by short hair and sensible pants.
My matte is empty. And my caffeine high is now in full force. That means it's time for be to get down to business. Work. I do not have any regrets, and I miss that past less than I enjoy the present. In spite of the stress, worry, and daunting face of reality, I'm finding out that this present dream, "playing house" you might call it, is ever so much fun.