Morning is like this: I start our little gas stove and set water to boil. I pull a jar of coffee from the cupboard and spoon eight scoops into the French press. Mugs on the counter side-by-side, I sit by the window to write.
The simpler it gets, the more I believe the greatest act of subversion these days is to create rather than consume.
Right here in front of the West Ventura Urgent Care, on a quiet little strip of asphalt beneath huge trees and manicured grass, we feel invisible. No one pays attention to the curbs and parking places. Our 117 square feet of clandestine cooking, surreptitious showers, winks and wine in soft candle light are hidden from the world by a cheap piece of fiberglass siding. People walk to work around us, twittering voices and heavy steps. We don’t even exist.
We drive to the beach where the woman at the gate waves off our two-dollar fee, and park next to an old BMW. Sitting on the rim of the open trunk is an old dude. A Dude. Long gray hair. Wrap-around shades. Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Wetsuit pushed down around his waist and thick muscles – for an old guy – still wet and salty from the morning’s session.
We’re soft on the morning, padding over the shag carpet in bare feet and long johns. We talk to each other. Work is a block away. Or just right here, in a parking lot where the world opens up to the bigness of the surf, sun and sky.