The road to Big Sur. I go here twice a year with some of my best friends. We rarely see each other.
The road to Big Sur. I go here twice a year with some of my best friends. We rarely see each other. When we arrive, tucked into the forest canopy like smugglers, we crack open beers and start talking. It’s as if we live our lives in order to store up new ideas, new pain, new lessons… all to bring to the alter of Big Sur and process together. The spray of philosophy, confession, concepts, and laughter is like a broken fire-hydrant soaking a city block. . Phones don’t work because the terrain forbids it. It is a frenzied mash-up of micro-climates. Redwood forests. Sun-burnt golden grass. Dusty cliffs. Flowing streams and green ferns. Blue-gray boulders tumbled down the water as if made for scampering and perching. It is my favorite place in California. The writers that have influenced me the most lived or frequented this place. They were drawn to its remoteness. It isn’t paradise because it is uncomfortable. But it is perfect. It is so beautiful that it insults the subtle beauty of other places. . They say it takes three days to forget the Internet. On the first day, you check your pocket thinking it vibrated. On the second, you worry about emails building up. By the end of the third, you forget what it was like to care. . Big Sur is the location of that final freedom. From the moment you’re there, it says ‘what is the busy world of people you speak of? What is a sky-scraper? How can that exist? I only know cliffs and raging water. Where could you put such a thing? What do you mean everyone can get ahold of you all the time? That sounds like a myth. What is a deadline? Never heard of it.’ -- source link