I write you from a new window, under the canopy of a kindred loquat tree, a new lake sparkling a block away. The time has come, dear ones, and we are moving and shaking, scattering like salt. We are Oakland and Ann Arbor, Victoria and New York, but we are always San Diego.

Only a few days ago, on one of my last days in town, I was walking along El Cajon in the midst of errand-running and car repairs, the sun beating hot against my brow. The nickle-thin soles of my sandals slapped loudly against the putrid asphalt and cracked concrete, each step pounding the pavement, vibrating gratitude into the earth’s core. I opened my palms to feel the air within the pulse of a full stride, emptying all that I had into the coming breeze. Grateful, grateful. I considered the evening ahead, and what I might say to all my friends, but I was already muted with joy and grief; with gratitude. My bangs were matted against my forehead, my neck humid with sweat beneath long locks as I saw a boy play soccer with his dad across the street. Raising his arms in victory, he sprinted a circle for a goal scored against the chain-link fence. Grateful, grateful. I crossed the bridge above the 15 and continued towards the auto shop on a street that is nothing but garages and religious supply stores, gas stations and barbers. Cars beneath and beside me moved in color and haste, in every direction. We are all going somewhere, I thought, and for a moment we are all here. A cardboard box collected sweat in the crook of my arm as I cradled the last of my unfinished business. With every whoosh of a passing car, every beam of the yellow sun: grateful, grateful. Open palms pressed against the morning air, a benediction of gratitude.

That night, a dear friend gave me a note typed from a red typewriter  ribbon. I hope you’re challenged by those around and connected to those that seem far from you. We are all going somewhere, and for a moment we are all here.

So, it is in this mind set that I present a mix for my dear Lady Hess as she is set to embark upon the journey of journeys: a cross-country road trip to Cranbrook and to Michigan. Here’s to Hess! Listen below or download here.

1. Judy & Hess Discuss!
2. Right On (Feat. Joanna Newsom) – The Roots
3. The Obvious Child – Paul Simon
4. Foot Character of Love – Locust
5. Skippin’ Town – The Drums
6. Heard it on the Radio – The Bird & the Bee
7. All to All –  Broken Social Scene
8. Light Switch – Eternal Summers
9. Sunburn – Pearl Harbor (Puro Instinct)
10. Fright Night (Nevermore) – Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti
11. Tighten Up – The Black Keys
12.  When Will You Come – Waaves
13. Soft – Capybara
14. Summer Mood – Best Coast
15. The Ballad of El Goodo – Big Star
16. If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out – Cat Stevens
17. Diamonds Dub (Todd Tangoterje Edit) – Paul Simon
18. Zombie Foot – Judy & The Family Foot

Golden Hill’s Never Looked Finer — Cara Heslip

Goodbye to waving trees. To your succulent winds & all my friends, fare thee well, good bye, so be it, amen. Amen.

(Image shamefully stolen from Charles’ blog. Definition shamelessly stolen from Anu Garg’s Word of the Day emails.)

I’m stoked to help launch Sezio‘s inaugural mid-week residency at Starlite, so come and have some mules, hear some jams, & be merry. Also, I’m like totally leaving at the end of the month, so get it while it’s hot.

from the top of red lungs, fists curled towards chests or extended skyward. We danced tightly amongst so many young bodies, like so many young bodies have before us, singing and shaking heads of hair in effort, maybe, to empty ourselves of nothing but noise and heat. We bruised our knees against the stage as the crowd closed in, swaying like sardines in the belly of a wayward ship. Things went from rowdy to ruckus in the tick of a white eye. Somebody bit Angella’s finger, for example, so I shouted “cool it already!” and made a T with my hands above my head. In the meantime, we danced and sang the words we knew from records worn thin, holding onto those speakers for our dear restless lives. The next day, my voice was all but wind and gravel, sometimes disappearing mid-syllable. When people asked what happened or how I lost it, it came back in flashes: laying on the stage, microphone in one hand while the other pointed to the girls or to somebody or infinity. Taylor and the feline Asian man in a beautiful sweater and perfect sandals. Our biggest fan, the drummer, with the Joey Ramone mop cut and sneaky one-hit. Internet mixtapes and geeked-out props. Potential life destruction versus immediate inconvenience and all that. And what’s cooler than Ariel Pink signing their own record? Signing Pearl Harbor’s, or whatever their name is now. And remember Laura Ashley and the seaweed bonfire?

audible beyond the periphery of sleep, sonorous and warm, calling either to usher in the day, or shepherd dreams. Salmon paint peeling underfoot, a bag of vegetables in one hand and a rusted railing in the other. The sun hovers behind gradient layers of palms and telephone poles, peaked rooftops. Parked in the ginkgo shade of the street, three white cars are so white they are blue. The liquor store’s luminescent alphabet reflects the sky’s final spread, as the hour expands and recedes into wide streets—illuminated in the green leaf, absorbed into faded stucco. The neighborhood’s chorus melds into the cool wash of evening: a girl laughs at the corner, keys sing in the door. I hear my name. A block down, the green and pink of my favorite neon sign glows brighter by the minute, as airplanes arrive in the rose light of gloaming. Welcome, welcome. Street lamps rouse to orange, each by each. We are spoon fed into night.

When I say that you can’t look at me without seeing my Grandmother Jean, I don’t mean the shape of my eyes or the crook of my ring finger, or the various other hereditary traits I was lucky enough to absorb. When I say that Grandma Jean’s presence is unmistakable in my life, that she is everywhere, it is because not a day goes by that I do not wear her jewelry and skirts, her scarves and purses. Hers is the gold couch upon which I host friends, the table where I share meals, conversation. Even now, it is her locket around my neck while her old seal skin wallet sits beneath my chair. What can I say? She had great style.

But even though her fashion and furnishings from past decades are again in vogue, the fact that I have so many of her flourishes is an interesting bond that reminds me less of our common taste, and more of the difference of our eras. I was always curious about her time working for the Corps of Engineers during WWII, and the years after: marrying my grandpa, life in society and horse races; or even just seeing Bakersfield grow from a farm and oil town, to the expanse it is now.

My Dad always said that, had my Grandmother Jean been born nowadays she would have been a CEO or investment banker or some other genre of bigwig. I’ve often thought about that, about what her life might have looked like had she been born in 1984 instead of 1918. I could just see her, in all her glory, calling the shots behind an impressive oak bureau by day, rubbing elbows on CNN by night. With her sharp mind, gregarious presence, and striking good looks, Jean would have certainly been a force with which to be reckoned.

I don’t mean to infer that subsequently, my Grandma lived an inferior life void of challenge or accomplishment—rather, the opposite. I believe that being a smart, ambitious woman prior to the transitional decades of a women’s right movement created a certain framework for our relationship. Namely, she gave. Always marked by her fierce, and potentially stubborn, streak of generosity, Grandma Jean graciously extended herself in whatever capacity she could. As a kid, I often took it for granted. As a teenager, I was awkward with it. Sometimes it felt like too much and I was embarrassed at how to accept her gifts. “I wish I could give you more,” she would always say. I would wave her off, admonishing that she had already done plenty. I used to think she meant fiscally, but now as a young adult, I don’t think that was the case. She meant the world. Opportunity. She wanted to help create the foundation for the lives we were about to build.

So she helped with savings and safe cars—giving us dependability before we ever experienced the sobering opposite. She helped with school and travel—the fruits of which continue to blossom to this day. The experience gained from my education and adventures are forever the touchstones of inspiration and creative discipline in my life. Quite simply, her gifts are the seeds for the thoughts I think, the passions I foster. It is what I draw from as a young woman and writer beginning to navigate my own way. Even now, as I am about to embark on a new season of life and education—moving to a new city for a Master’s degree—even now I can trace her influence in my decisions. Grandma Jean was always very interested in my future and my plans, if I had decided on going back to school yet or if I had considered this route or that.

It’s almost as if each of us wanted the other’s world—she anticipated the details of my future while I yearned for the sketches of her past. Now that she is gone, there are a million regrets I could bear into this next season of life: that she could not see my brother marry, or me finally begin to make something of myself. But instead, I’ll carry only her gifts: the flourish of dear possessions that remind me of her fierce desire for opportunity, growth.

Also, this is good:

& this:

Also, real-time David Bowie was in my dream the other night. He was ten feet away. Also, I dreamt everyone had the same bike as I did but mine was the only one stolen. Last night I dreamt just what I hoped I might, but now I can’t remember. Today I bought six tamales for $5.50 from a woman sitting outside of the thrift store, where I had just spent $11.25 on three over-sized t-shirts, three white blouses, two belts, and two pairs of shoes (one of  which do not fit me, but will probably fit someone else).

Yo La Tengo – Green Arrow

All photos by the lovely Megan E. Gilbert