(no subject)
no one can describe
the scent of summer
or the
euphoria of youth
paul wondered mistily whether he had intended to drink so much. all it made him was tired, so tired. staring back from his hand were two white tablets guaranteed to help his problem. they would, too, he knew they would. with the record playing softly and the rain on the roof, paul lowered himself into sleep. he wondered at the nagging suspicion of regret.
drops of rain
landed hard on both feet
shaking the roof
with us underneath
santa cruz, the youngest campus of the university of california system (with the exception of the fledgling uc merced), is arguably the most beautiful and wholy unlike its brethren. uc santa barbara, which began on a picturesque hilltop in the city itself, soon moved to the flats of unincorporated isla vista which, though more practical, resulted in an unlivable town made up almost entirely of college students. most of the other campuses are locked in the urban landscape: san diego, san francisco, los angeles. even the flagship campus at berkeley exhibits a different standard of beauty than the seemingly unadulterated university of californa, santa cruz. the majestic santa cruz mountains are a perfect companion to the monterey bay and pacific ocean.
it’s true. the campus is what decided me on santa cruz. or, should i say, the campus drew me, something else kept me. i love the woods. growing up in the city meant i didn’t get much time with trees. going to santa cruz meant I’d live among them. i don’t know why but the campus sold me as soon as i saw it. it does that for most people i’ve asked. whatever my reasons, they weren’t good enough for my mother. “santa cruz?” she sneered. “why would you go there?” “i don’t know.” i couldn’t explain it. “i belong there,” i told her simply. she hated the town. i never knew why. i don’t think she’d ever been there.
Paul wanted to be a wild-eyed revolutionary. he was a poet by nature and charmed most of those whom he met. underneath all that he harboured the disappointment of being born a few years too late. the intensity of the late 1960s passed him by and once he was old enough to appreciate the significance, those years were thoroughly over. paul chose uc santa cruz as a substitute. an ambitious experiment of a school so different from his father’s ivy league up-bringing it almost came full circle. he had mixed feelings about the atmosphere, but the setting-the setting was enough to kill him. there is nothing more evocative, he thought, of what my life should be. just enough of the counterculture ethos took root at the school to sustain him. paul didn’t know where it would take him, but this was the place to start. it was pure inspiration - the redwood forest, ocean view. even the left over ranch buildings had a presence more than anything he’d seen before. paul found himself compelled to write, all the time, it seemed. it was wonderful. he churned with poetry, some of it awful. he kept it in notebooks lining the small shelf above his bed. his father wouldn’t approve, but paul didn’t care. he brought down the latest notebook from the shelf and went for a walk.
the forest pulls me
beneath its majesty
ever
down and down
and in
side
the effervescent
green + black
naked arms of trees
yellows, reds and browns
gauzy through the fog
opaque
and i am transparent