Big Blur

We don’t know what happened in Big Sur. We came to dry out, to shake from our wrists the blue horrors, the pink spiders, the green fairies and whatever rabid devil would march out of that particolored menagerie of monsters on Noah’s leaking and electrified ark. We came to calcify into the luminous cliffs with the silt-packed generations before us – to stay ourselves against the maddening erosion – to mumble with the muttered argot of waves – only to find the solitude howling. Instead here we are, raving about the last taboo in the worst company when we ought to be waxing hysterical about Simcoe ho[s with all the damp resin of coastal conifers – about the zesty nose of Citra – about a city of gold in the center of a hop cone called El Dorado – about the rocky head that piles on top like thunderheads on the horizon – about the oaten turbidity churning like a tide. It should have been so, but it was all just a big blur. Show Less