It's rare in Southern California to find any trace of season, as if we've been veiled with a cloth of consistency. It's not a bad thing at all, but I think of this: on a cloudy day I feel lost in time as there is no obvious change in shadow throughout the day. My visual clock becomes confused. It's a miracle that we get anywhere on time, really.
Anyways, I traveled to Los Angeles this Veteran's Day weekend for a live performance with two friends and stumbled into Griffith Park. We drove up, passing the Observatory and masses of desperate rear lights to find parking back down to a small but warmly cheerful coffee house (loose leaf tea's for the calmer folk). It had just rained throughout the prior evening and the air was still damp, frozen over in the shade but our hands warm over coffee (seen in the prior post).
I noticed the colors that the leaves appeared; alive and breathing, vibrant. one day earlier and the streets would have been brown and bleak, leaves dry and broken. I suppose it's a wonder that I notice the extremities, from dead to alive being color and colorless. But still there's a simple magic to that idea.
Elinn_
