It's a beautiful and cozy day. I am sitting with my dog in my lap and my family all around, one mimosa and two cups of coffee in. What a loveliness and a blessing. Many adventures have been had and many more to come, I shall recount more of my doings in the coming days but for now there's a fire, a guitar, and another mimosa calling my name.

This desk is now the living room of a cozy hand-hewn cabin in the Canadian Rockies. A gentle snow is falling. The room smells of pine sap and cookies, always. Also, the generic principle of grandmothers. The taste of Man O'War Dreadnought Syrah (2010) lingers on my tongue. My dog is wearing a sweater, and neither of us feel self-conscious about this. The gentle sounds of Rolling Stones demos and Simon & Garfunkel B-sides waft through the ember-warmed air pockets. I am not feeling self-conscious about those musical choices, either: quality transcends your accusations of pretension or triteness. I get to sleep in tomorrow, in sheets made of flannel and dreams. That boeuf bourguignon you made was just perfect, I will have more for lunch tomorrow. I am sitting on a sheepskin rug from Costco my mother bought me two years ago, in anticipation of just such a moment. We are not fearing death, but embracing the arbitrary and potentially meaningless purpose of life, reveling in the simple joy of involuntary breathing. Your eyes smile. My eyes smile. I don't know who you are. It doesn't matter. This is nice. Thank you, youtube.

On my shelf: vintage porcelain swan statuettes, an eagle feather I found in Avila Beach on the golf course, and my "Keith Richards" decanter as I call it, a filigreed-metal-accented piece covered with pentagrams and other symbols I picked up in a shop in Santa Fe last summer.

Fall is my favorite time of year, and this fall has been exceptionally lovely, despite the fact that I have been a bit more of a homebody than usual lately (only getting out of town three times a month, and only spending four nights a week out). This is selection from the past month or so.

Fountain in the forest in the late afternoon.

Pumpkin-carving party results. My disappointing handiwork is center.

Playing where (almost) no one can hear me.

Autumn wreath I made for my door with detritus I scavenged from the forest.

Exactly the kind of lovely, picturesque, quiet and charming neighborhood I don't think I could ever live in. Studio City, CA.

Eclair watching TV as she is wont to do.

The commute back home.

One of my favorite places to read (and drink).

First snowfall of the year, Tehachapi Mountains.

Dressed like it's 1981 in my mom's camping jacket.

Live Greek keyboarding mastery at midnight for the only patrons (us) of Taverna Tony in Malibu.

One of my favorite adventurers, Jaime de Angulo, on his horse Hudini.

“Sunset at sea is for me a dread spectacle: it is hideous, murderous, soulless. The earth may be cruel but the sea is heartless. There is absolutely no place of refuge; there are only the elements and the elements are treacherous.”

--Henry Miller, “The Colossus of Maroussi”

Poet Robinson Jeffers, Central Coast, CA.

About a month ago I went to Palm Springs for a night, holed up with my best friend and some of his family in the quintessential mid-century Palm Springs pad. We spent an afternoon drinking, attending a Barbie-themed fine art exhibit where the most glorious transvestites served us pink cake pops, and taking pictures, but all the best are on his camera. Here's some of what I picked up on my phone to tide you over until I get the better shots from him (he's got me jumping in the pool, fighting life-size chessmen, flying across the lawn, and napping on the dining table-- I've got a jackalope).

Jackalope at a roadside diner.

Our casita.

Courtesy of Palm Springs Albertsons.

Outdoor dining area.

The putting green and hot tub.

Me and my roommate.

Living room time travel.

The gloaming hour from the pool.

The practical & low-maintenance front.

After years of dithering and backpedalling, I can now proudly and openly admit, without shame, I can play about five chords (slowly) on the guitar. Below are some images of what I could aspire to if I could, in fact, sing.*

*Correction: Sing in such a way that anyone with mostly functioning ears might enjoy listening to it for more than a few bars. I think bagpiping has knocked my head out of tune, or maybe I now think in a (still out of tune) pentatonic scale?

Cozy Rainy Day Poem of the Day: The Dutchman*

The Dutchman's not the kind of man 

To keeps his thumb jammed in the dam
That holds his dreams in,
But that's a secret only Margaret knows.

When Amsterdam is golden in the morning,
Margaret brings him breakfast,
She believes him.
He thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow.

He's mad as he can be, but Margaret only sees that sometimes,
Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes.

Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zuider Zee.
Long ago, I used to be a young man
But dear Margaret remembers that for me.

The Dutchman still wears wooden shoes,
His cap and coat are patched with the love
That Margaret sewn there.
Sometimes he thinks he's still in Rotterdam.

He watches tug-boats down canals
An' calls out to them when he thinks he knows the Captain.
Till Margaret comes
To take him home again

Through the unforgiving streets that trip him, though she holds his arm,
Sometimes he thinks he's alone and he calls her name.

Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zuiderzee.
Long ago, I used to be a young man
But dear Margaret remembers that for me.

The windmills whirl the winter wind
She winds his muffler tighter
They sit in the kitchen.
Some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew.

He sees her for a moment, calls her name,
She makes his bed up singing some old love song,
She learned it when the tune was very new.

He hums a line or two, they hum together in the night.
The Dutchman falls asleep and Margaret blows the candle out.

Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zuiderzee.
Long ago, I used to be a young man
But dear Margaret remembers that for me.

*(well, ok, it's actually a song and I'm not sure whose originally)

About two years ago, in a deep freezing spell, I picked up and went to New York for a week. I rented an apartment in Brooklyn, old and stone, with a couple big windows with glorious views of a solid brick wall three feet away. One morning I woke up and took myself to Manhattan, and hopped on the Staten Island ferry because I can't say no to boats and it seemed like a good idea. It was. I stood out on the deck for most of it, and I was mostly alone, because it was so cold outside everything was frozen and frigid wind whipped right off the water and up the sides of steel boat straight to your bare naked little face. It was exhilarating.

Wonder what she was thinking.

Me lookin' happy. Stole my best friend's Kooples jacket with the fur-lined hood for the day. I can't remember if I asked the stranger to take this using an accent/false identity, but probably.

Lighthouse in the bay.

Sunset over Staten Island.

I don't know these people.

Brooklyn and the moon on the right, Manhattan to the left.

"Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones."

Marcus Aurelius

The following are pictures I did not take of things I like, I don't know who took them, but I'll appropriate them into my own momentary sense of identity.

I'm just really hungry and a traditional English breakfast sounds perfect.