Comfort.  A subject on my mind of late.  Because of the last decade and how difficult it was, emotionally.

I went for a drive yesterday, by myself, to see if I could do it.  I did.  When you are married, at least in my case, the man does the driving.  On freeways.  I had forgotten that I like to drive.  Or that I used to drive really fast, and far.

There were ghosts to confront on that drive down, especially at this place:

Once, a lover and I would meet there.  A long time ago.  Writing the memoir may help to purge the last of that.  Hope so.  It has taken me many years to come to terms with what happened between us.

By driving down there I can face the past.  There are so many ghosts for me down in Los Angeles, that creeping towards it is the only way I can proceed.  So, yesterday, I drove the back roads to Carpinteria with the top down.  It was afternoon and I got a late start.  I thought, well, just see if you can do it.  You could stop anyplace.  Like Ventura if you can’t make it, and even that would be a sort of progress.  Or Ojai.

The road was very rough.  Huge potholes, and bumps, and mass development that has happened since the time when it was all just fields.  I know the way because as a child my mother drove that way when she was going south.

I felt really lost?  I did.  And I got lost too, because it was night.  It was the strangest feeling.  I asked for directions from a little shop and I was lucky, because I was very far off the track to home.

But I made it.  To Neptunes.  I did.

And I watched the sunset, and the cliffs, and the light.  Next time, I will go further south, and further the following time.  Until I can go to the center of the city — and not be afraid of the memories.

Memoir is a very difficult thing to write.  I’m going to write that period of time out of myself.

And I am already in love.  It was at first sight, frankly.


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