Scenes from home.

At least this place I call my own.

The Charles starts to freeze.

The biggest tree in Boston is from another country.

Here we are.

Big city livin.

Our chapel.

The road downtown.

Despite everything, my heart will forever be out West. Let that be known, now. I think we are closer to London than we are to California. I've tried, though. I've woken up every morning and done my duties. I've cooked and made friends and stayed healthy. Most of the time, though, I wonder what I'm doing here. Do you ever get that feeling? I think my energy is in the wrong place.

Tonight we built a fort in our living room to contain ourselves. Tomorrow we are finally renting a car and driving out. Today I read a poem by Robinson Jeffers, that reminds of the Marin Headlands, and that goes like this: 

Four pelicans went over the house,
Sculled their worn oars over the courtyard: I saw that ungainliness
Magnifies the idea of strength.
A lifting gale of sea-gulls followed them; slim yachts of the element,
Natural growths of the sky, no wonder
Light wings to leave the sea; but those grave weights toil, and are powerful,
And the wings torn with old storms remember
The cone that the oldest redwood dropped from, the tilting of continents,
The dinosaur’s day, the lift of new sea-lines.
The omnisecular spirit keeps the old with the new also.
Nothing at all has suffered erasure.
There is life not of our time. He calls ungainly bodies
As beautiful as the grace of horses.
He is weary of nothing; he watches air-planes; he watches pelicans.

-1925