High Plains Drifter
Posted By bbinns on March 6, 2009

How to proceed here? They're on the fence.
Or, not so much right now, because I have truly settled in. After the first 8 days or so were spent studiously avoiding the work, the words suddenly began to flow. If they are, perhaps, not coming trippingly from my fingers, they are at least not falling flat. The weather has been unseasonably warm, which has been the case since I first arrived in Malibu back on New Year’s Eve (which seems like a lifetime ago). This means that I can work outside on the patio, watching the trains go back and forth and delving into the box of notes and cards and quotes and hopefully-brilliant, half-thought-out concepts that I’ve been assembling for a year, in anticipation of this sojourn. When I am stuck for the right word or phrase, I stand on my patio and gaze off toward the southern horizon, where the sky looks exactly as it did in the scene in Giant, when local boy Angel Obregon is buried. Same sky.

A wait and see attitude.
Lack of scheduled activities, I feel compelled to note, does not automatically lead to writing. First, I must take Stella for a nice long walk, because if I will later ask her to sit patiently on her bed on the porch for many hours, I owe her a couple of miles. We have several different routes, but often visit the goats, who live well. They’ve almost gotten over their initial fear of Stella, and have now become intensely curious—if, still, a tad stand-offish. She can’t decide if she wants to play with them or rush them, to see what happens. Smelling is a good compromise.
In my neighborhood, there are some excellent examples of the fine tradition, only possible in the west, of the outdoor room. These little enclosed, dog-accessorized ranchettes sport outdoor sofas, outdoor refrigerators, kiva fireplaces, and often several different well-furnished seating and dining areas.

A happy face inside.

Sunday on the porch at Austin St Cafe.
Then, I visit the gym at the Hotel Paisano, and do 2.25 miles at a 9 to 12.5 incline. This helps to keep things under the belt under control during this highly sedentary time, but I can report that cutting out the margaritas has helped, too. (I write this as though it’s a surprise, which proves that my belief in empirical thinking is intact.)
Since I do work out, I continue to dine well, whether it’s at one of the few but fine dining establishments in town, or in the kitchen of my little bungalow, it’s good eating.

Now I, too, am ecstatically happy at the Austin St Cafe.

If C could make it as nice as this, I could totally do a triple-wide.
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