Lost Self Meditation on the California Coast

LOS ANGELES

in the little green car we put our legs into it, pull ourselves up over the orange curves & release, over and over, back down to the sea. later read Joan Didion and think about repetition, dizzy spirals of Malibu. the ocean swallowing everything with the same mouth over and over. I don’t have the time that everyone in LA seems to but I watch the version of myself that does lean into it hard, learn to see the brown as gold. they cross the street like it’s a stream and they are trying not to slip, call Jane on the always yellow porch on Thursdays. they carry a notebook into a wine bar with Emily and write about fate and missed connections. the two of them rename all 7 of the driveway cats and split a peach over the sink. they love Los Angeles until it slips under the fault line and is lost.

PESCADERA

the moment I’m reminded how much water can hover I know I’d hate to die any further South. in the dark I have no clue about where ocean becomes horizon and only when the sun rises in the morning on thousands of miniature crabs do we watch the fog burn off and separate sky for the day. in a million other timelines I learn how to surf. my hair is so long & so light & so salty. I could never miss a single sunrise that makes me feel this wide alive so I wake up for all of them. in a little beach town I start drinking hot coffee instead of cold, sitting by the window. I’ve never spent so much time alone and been any less sad about it.

NAPA

last August I could see the ghosts of all of California’s trees from the roof of my Bed-Stuy apartment, in the form of a red sun pinching itself into a circle. my hypothetical Napa selves close a dozen wide rings as I take us on a treasure hunt for my old favorite crying spots. I am an artist and I am a teacher and a ritual keeper and a heavy sleeper. I am finally old enough to apologize. I have so much to teach myself. the closure makes me miss you and all the selves that could have kept you close.

the one without so much to prove who just stayed and gave New York summer a chance to feel like home. the one who kept coming by until you wanted me to stay the night. the one who had done everything the same but also told you how much I missed you as soon as I reached Virginia. and Louisiana. and Texas. the one who had spent the whole summer laying in the grass in Washington Square Park eating falafel sandwiches with you instead of having constant funerals for people that never existed.

 OTTERSPACE

Devan sleeps as I wind through the biggest trees. Devan sleeps as I read all the road signs out loud (grandfather tree, one log cabin, tsunami hazard zone). we are both wide awake as I slip and slide down 13 vertical miles of slick red clay, speedometer counting decimals. meditation on all the selves (both of ours) that slide off the ledge and collide, chest to chest with redwoods, in a dozen different places. red clay red blood. and then it’s over. we’re jumping on a trampoline with an 8-year-old boy we will never see again, grabbing mint from the trees and becoming the selves that never grew up, never drove a car, never fantasized about death. imagining who might or might not be texting our disconnected phones while we collect the smoothest stones we have ever touched by the wide warm river. deer break large branches all night as mud and sap slap the top of our tent.

I am angry at the self who was in a rush to leave in the morning, once we make it up the mountain after all. when a mudslide takes out a chunk of the PCH we sit in the grass by the side of the road for hours watching waves with a group of teens en route to circus camp. I long for the self that stayed long enough to skinny dip in the river, where I found all the wishing rocks.

*****

Meghan Aubuchon is a writer and visual artist pursuing a BFA in Communications Design and a Creative Writing minor at Pratt Institute. She grew up in rural Vermont and is currently based in Brooklyn.