Jacek Yerka and Febreze: A description of my days up north.

Please read this while listening to: This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) by Talking Heads 

Spotify  Apple Music

In California it's still summer in October, it's still hot and dry and the people are still moving slow, though  the responsibilities of winter have set in. In October I drove up to the north, by the seaside, where vodka flowed like milk and honey, and all the drug dealers were at their best. Where, I would learn of the death of one of my dear friends, and grow closer to one of my old. 

Up north, though not so far north that you can kiss Oregon, were boys with long hair waxing their surfboards in the evening sun, burnt and happy and high. Up north, were blonde girls, tan, and tall, smoking cigarettes with shell bracelets and tiny faces, flirting and going mad. And there I was, in the middle of it, world spinning, in baggy jeans and a Jerry Garcia t-shirt, stark sober, wishing I was beach body beautiful and smelled like coconut and weed instead of corndogs and Allergen Reducer Clean Splash Febreze. 

It was dreamy. The whole thing still, when I look back on it, was like I had stumbled into a Jacek Yerka painting, combined with whatever was in the pipe of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland. I recall, walking into an apartment, Dollar Tree butterfly wings on the wall, the smell of something dreadfully sweet, and the hum of a tattoo gun. Everything was softened by purple light and the breath of a skinny alcoholic I had found myself in meaningless conversation with. It was nice. A change of scenery, different from my little guest house in the suburbs that constantly reminded me I was alone, and had rather too much freedom. Here, in the hills of a college town, I at least had the structure of a strict partying schedule, where I could observe how 'real' college students did it. 

One day, we went to the bins. It was hot, and everyone felt like throwing up, but we persisted, sucked down strawberry smoothies, and dug through dirty clothes. The boy with blue glasses asked me if it was cultural appropriation or appreciation to wear a shirt with Chinese dragons on it. He bought it anyways. I bought two dresses, and a purple button up with horses on the front, I hated the two dresses as soon as I got home, but the purple horse shirt I wore out to dinner. 

Even at night it was hot. I sat outside on two cinder blocks, while three boys walked by with skateboards and shot glasses, I was FaceTiming the left behind back in Nashville. Later that night, my friend shot himself. That was when I realized, nights up north aren't as dark as the ones in the south. At twelve, the street lamps glow dim, as to not awake the committed stoner. It's a gentle light, that illuminates a row of palm trees and a set of train tracks with a memorial for the suicidal stranger. Everything smells like salt. 

In the morning, it was sticky, until we drove through the mountains, five minutes, to get to the beach. I had dressed in a lime green button up and shorts, a respectable outfit for the ninety degree weather on the other side of the rock. But when we parked the car and got out, mist had settled between the houses, joining with the sand, and had brought upon an early morning chill. I didn't mind the cold, it felt appropriate after a night of waiting for tragedy to unfold and complete itself. I contemplated trying a cigarette to ease my burning psyche, but my father had been so addicted, that I settled for digging my toes into the sand and picking at my nails. 

When I left, I had not realized I could change so much in just a couple of days. I had gone up the costal line, innocent in the ways of thievery, and come back down well educated in grief, guns, and the devil. I think at some point I will return, in hope that my personal Jacek Yerka painting can stay soft and surreal without a bullet smashing through the canvas.