A funny thing about life, that we don’t really ever consider the miracle of our birth until we’ve truly reckoned with the reality of your impending death. Standing here, two feet planted firmly on the path to the cemetery (let the reader understand), this is the first time I ever laid my eyes upon the moment of conception (again, let the ready understand).
When confronted with metaphor of this proportion there is no need of a horizon line- that usual separator of the known and unknown is no longer relevant when faced with this stark reality. There is nothing really to do now but just stand here and look back at our lives and face the rushing wind as it hollows out the spaces in our souls that turned to stone while we were busy dreaming of the points in between the Grave and the Cradle.
-Ok, that was cryptic. The point in the distance is the corner where the California coast makes a sharp right hook and is often considered the terminal of the line separating central and southern California… also the road we were on is named “Cementario”. Still a bit cryptic, but that should help make a bit of sense of the symbolism in those notes.