"Art is not concerned with environment either; it doesn't care where it is. If you mean me, the best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. In my opinion it's the perfect milieu for an artist to work in. It gives him perfect economic freedom; he's free of fear and hunger; he has a roof over his head and nothing whatever to do except keep a few simple accounts and to go once every month and pay off the local police. The place is quiet during the morning hours, which is the best time of the day to work. There's enough social life in the evening, if he wishes to participate, to keep him from being bored; it gives him a certain standing in his society; he has nothing to do because the madam keeps the books; all the inmates of the house are females and would defer to him and call him “sir.” All the bootleggers in the neighborhood would call him “sir.” And he could call the police by their first names.

So the only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost. All the wrong environment will do is run his blood pressure up; he will spend more time being frustrated or outraged. My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey." William Faulkner

FIND THE ARTICLE IN FULL HERE.

*this

Today I woke up wanting nothing more than to look like this* and listen to Jimmy Buffett. I have raided all of my parents' (apparently substantial) Hawaiian shirt collection, including several that belonged to my brother. When he was six. I am now creating the appropriate playlist on Spotify (sorry) and eyeing the tequila shelf. If you don't hear from the real Cheyanne in five days call in an exorcist or otherwise qualified specialist.** You will find me somewhere between 1974 and 1998 in Margaritaville, on a boat called "Imagination."

**I do have insurance.

Grace Kelly playing me in the upcoming project from Warner Bros., "March 2013."

Life is a strange and magical thing, my slight cherubs. I've fallen into a series of proposed adventures for the next month that might surpass in quantity and magnitude all previous months in recent memory. How thrilling. Several of them involve islands. Not usually one for warmer climes and tropical themes, I am nevertheless ecstatic at the prospects before me. Granted, sailing to Catalina should actually be a very cold endeavor this time of year, but it's still more exotic than driving to Tiki Ti, right? And a weekend in Hawaii-- bring on the tiny umbrellas and lengthy vowel-heavy words! Not to mention my love affair with skuzzy surf-rock a la The Allah-las and Blackfeet Braves (and the Zombies and Love) is still in full swing. I need to find some ratty Hawaiian shirts or something to show the world that while my body is firmly planted on cracked cement sidewalks walking the crowded streets being "productive," my mind is on some isolated island with nothing but the boat I used to get there, some Red Stripes, some rum, a hammock, the books I'm reading (the stack is huge-- Miller, Celine, Campbell, Neil Young's bio, Brautigan, Jeffers, a tome of Stones' interviews, and some really cheesy fiction to start...), and... what else? Something to eat. Clothes wouldn't be important, but sunscreen is naturally a must-have. Also nice smelling shampoo or something (eco-friendly, obviously), because that sounds pleasant. Oh, and coconut macarons. This fantasy is getting too elaborate. You get the picture.

That said, I really haven't the slightest desire to "be" anywhere besides exactly where I am. Not to get all "Oprah" (can we make that an adjective?), but the present is most delightful, thankfully, and the future holds the promise of... I'm not sure yet, but there are some very lovely possibilities bobbing about on the horizon. Let's toast to an exciting spring-- now where did I put my glass?

THINGS I HTAE

1. raw tomatoes

2. typos

3. stoplights

At Giant Rock. This rock is not that rock.

I've been busy since the last time I saw you, I'm sorry. But we have so much to catch up on. I'll have to explain it all later, with photos. Above is one-- this was how I spent my birthday. A weekend in Joshua Tree and on the way back dinner in Santa Barbara. Just bear with me on that. It was fabulous-- to wake up in a creaky room filled with cowboy paraphernalia in the middle of the desert and end the day boots in the sand, staring at the stars on the edge of the continent-- could have done worse.

Speaking of doing worse, I've picked up sailing again and joined a group that co-owns a lovely little 35-foot sailboat in Marina Del Rey. It's called The Mystic, which just brings images of Van Morrison levitating into mind from the ether.

While commandeering said vessel a few weeks ago, I ran over a whale. I didn't hit it (it's more accurate to say it didn't hit me), but it surfaced a few feet off, headed straight for the side of the boat. Flabbergasted, we all stood making "ahhh!" and "woooh!" sounds. The whale, a master of suspense, waited until the very last moment to dive its approximately 50 foot self a few feet below our hull, soaring beneath us into the deep. Not one to leave without saying a goodbye, it resurfaced a little ways off and sent us a tail flip straight from a Pacific Life commercial. Easily in contention for one of the most magical experiences I have ever had or beheld, it was exhilarating in a way I do not think I could convey to anyone who wasn't there with me.

In all, I'd say my plans for world domination are proceeding nicely.

Super flattering. Hand motions not sold separately.

The day of the whale (pictured) was so clear you could see all Catalina, some of the farther islands, and up to Point Dume (or as I like to think of it, Pointe Doom). Inland you could see the mountains above Palm Springs. In this photo, Mt. Baldy, downtown, and the moon are all having a moment.

Another charmer, this is me and a can of beer, in a foam holder (the beer), en route to a nap up front.

At this moment I am sitting in Monterey and watching the sun rise. It's been rising for about 45 minutes, and I've been watching it and sure enough it's still going up, up, up. I am looking out the large windows of a neat and comfortable apartment set high on the hill where the Presidio also sits and has for a long time. California's history is everywhere here far more tangible than most places, and it is beautiful. The southernmost tip of Monterey bay lies directly in front of me, the steely cobalt of the early morning sea perfectly complements (hey, I know my color wheel!) the tangerine orange of the slowly elevating sun. Birds keep flying by, like they know how perfect their lateral movements across this vista would appear to me at this moment. This is the kind of view they write poetry about. "They" being the kind of people who do a good job of writing poetry I like about things like what I am looking at right now, which is stunning. There's smoke rising from some of the trees in the middle distance, by the water's edge. I can only see one stoplight in this expansive view, surprising, but leaving the scene more timeless and pastoral than you would assume it would be.

This is, despite its awesome glory, not technically the prettiest view I have seen in the past week. I took it upon myself to get out of town, as I am wont, and accordingly jumped in my car, armed with my guitar, my golf clubs, two hats, and a library's worth of books, and drove aimlessly to Caspar, CA. Along the way I stopped many other places, including a lighthouse where the sea looked like a Turner painting and elicited an emphatic "WOW. F*CKING WOW." from me the moment I saw it. Most of the last ten days has appeared to be some grand conspiracy between Turner, Thomas Kinkade and Ansel Adams to bewitch me into never ever leaving California. It's OK, I'm not really planning on it.

Caspar is between Mendocino and Fort Bragg, if you didn't know, and if you don't know where those places are, they are a good deal north of San Francisco, and into the region I think of as northern California, really. They sold more flavors of kombucha in the local grocery store in Fort Bragg than I have seen in all the Whole Foods of the south, and in a twisted and controversial way that is symbolic of precisely why I appreciate northern California so much. However notably, though, I do not actually live there, so judge that as you will.

I stayed in a farmhouse that was built some 150 years ago and it was the perfect combination of cozy charm and eery creepiness you'd hope for in a rambly, creaky old house set in the middle of the mossy old forest by the sea. I loved it.

I also love being alone, and that was something I could revel in. Thank god. I need to balance the millions of people I live with on a regular basis with silence and solitude, two vastly underrated things. Before this gets all Emersonian or didactic, let me say it wasn't some pilgrimage of isolation. I talked to a bundle of people. There was an insightful ex-silk importer with a loud and charming sense of humor; an awkward but very sweet middle aged woman who I believe went by "Jewel" and offered me Cointreau to put in my cheap white wine; a music shop owner with a love of psychedelic rock who looked like Jerry Garcia and in fact had done tech work with the Dead back in the day and from who I got an abalone shell necklace and a list of great obscure albums to check out; a group of dreadlocked men who looked like characters from Alice in Wonderland and hit on me, but very kindly and with a good deal of earnest charm; and two young marine ecologists with a love of Downton Abbey, one of whom was one of the most talented singer songwriters I've seen of late but who may never actually pursue that talent. I hope she does. Solitude is one of the best positions from which to enjoy people, and it often affords you the choice, which perhaps is what makes all the difference.

At any rate, many more stories and adventures and I shall try to share some of the many pictures I've taken. It's been a lovely respite and a lovely start to the new year, if you're into that sort of thing. Simultaneously, it's been an appropriate-feeling send-off to last year, which was in truth the best year of my life (so far, I feel little too precocious declaring that outright). I made a resolution last year to "have the best year ever" because it was just the sort of cop-out resolution I'd actually endorse and it didn't sound like a bad idea either way. If I'd only known I'd actually make it a reality! **exclamation point for sincere effect**

Without bogging this down in too much detail (for all three of you who may ever read this), and apologizing for the pedestrian nature of this sort of paragraph, in short, last year: I went to 16 states and 2 countries; part of that being on a road trip with my dad which was one of the best things I've done, visiting all kinds of sites and cities and dear friends; became 50% of a lawyer; saw the premiere of my last feature to surprisingly good acclaim; finally started to figure out the guitar; moved to a place I truly love; saw more live music than I ever had before; met tons of fascinating people and went to gobs of events I actually enjoyed immensely; had so very many adventures all over the country; got a wake-up call from the universe that confused the heck out of me and has set me down a very entertaining path that has only gone to show how small and connected and magical the world really is if you pay attention; my hair got longer, which is objectively natural but still pleasant and true; I read some good books; and I started golfing, which honestly is a skill I haven't improved much at since but nevertheless greatly enjoy. There is so much, much more but it's obnoxious and if you are one of the three (two) people who read this chances are you know all about all of this or I shall shortly email you with further elaboration if you so desire.

It really has been the best year, and given the fact my "resolution" for 2013 has been "to have a better year" lord only knows what I, and the universe, shall come up with. It doesn't really matter, I know where I am going and what I'm about and the rest is just the part that makes it all worthwhile, because what use is achieving a goal if it happens immediately? That's not a goal, that's a purchase, and a cheap one at that. If the past two weeks are anything to go by, 2013 should be at least as interesting as 2012 and if we are lucky even better. There is only one way to find out.

The sun is up now and I can hear seals going berserk down by the water. I'm not sure what I'm going to do today, but whatever it is I aspire to enjoy it immensely. Pip pip, loves. CMG

I'm about to carpe some diem. More soon.

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)