This is the country, high mountains and rocky shores, where mountain lions call and the bush is tinder dry.
This is where we hitch-hiked back in the Summer of 1971. A place where the Milky Way was a mystical dust spread across the heavens and Pfeiffer State beach was a magic sanctuary of warm, friendly strangers, where we shared stories, music, food, drink and spliff and watched the sun go down over that warm, inviting ocean.
Back in 1971 Henry Miller was still alive and we discussed trying to find out where he lived and going to visit. But we were crazy kids. What would he want with us? So we didn’t.
I wish we had.
We went in search of his ghost in 2011. We’d seen the ghost of the Grateful Dead in SF at the Fillmore. We’d seen the ghost of Kerouac in another Beat Museum in SF.
Now it was Henry’s turn.
This was his house, where he’d written, got drunk and entertained friends. We’d found it much too late.
He was not there.
Like Kerouac he only existed in the dust and words that blew around my feet and in my head.
We had the sunset, the stars, the rocks and waves; and we had the books.
The Mountain Lions still roared.
It didn’t matter.