You don't know, California, it makes you really old

Sleeping in the woods, it is suprising to hear the impact of a pine cone's fall. The planes wake you up. We swam in the ponds on a Tuesday afternoon, after a morning of weeding a bed of tulips in acres of blackberry vines. We swam in the ponds with a water snake, who was suprising. While we swam, the butterflies would sun on our towels, licking up the minerals off terry cloth. I once caught the watersnake's head watching me, poking through the wood of the deck I was sunning to delirium on. I let the sun burn black holes through me and it was a slow-motion explosion. I wanted to sit closest to the fires, even if we were burning magazines and toilet paper. I burned my hoodie on a pot-bellied wood stove and I got a pink triange on my right arm with a scar like a birthmark in the middle from a singe in the sauna. When I came back to the city after three weeks in thin T-shirt cannabis mountain California, the car exhaust gave me tears in my eyes and I lost my keys 10 times. There, I did not open my wallet for three weeks. I squatted and picked strawberries every day at 4:30 pm, when my hair was still damp from pond water. I ate a pint of strawberries and got another sunburn for freckles and perfect dusk sun soreness. At night, I cooked dinner with a teenager from North Carolina in candle light, one lamp only because we were conserving the solar power to listen to KDVS (bless you). At night, we would smoke California medicinals and then I would attempt a cigarette on the cabin's porch, but would get a thundering heartbeat for fear of the glowing eyes. You could close your eyes and open them and still the darkness would be the same. When the moon appeared I finally could breathe deeper. Then, the solstice and we had herbs and dinner while the moon rose over a country of pine, life so dense that your heart hurt with magnitude and the eyes just wouldn't believe. Jackie made that dinner and then ate it and vomited for three days. I worshipped the sun, I wanted to basket it like petals. It rains every fifty years there in mid-June. It stormed three times this year. Fifty years ago, the trees fell to fire and the bland land was cattle ranched by a blind veteran. 150 years ago it was gold country and the busiest road in California bordered the property, and crooked toothed buggied those roads, looking to pan for gold. Now, it is quiet enough to be distubed by the thud of a pine cone falling from its cradle. Now, it is an oasis for the bougeiousie to have their proletariat fantasy, but still indulge in weddings with bride and groom dances to Dave Matthews. The wedding was muddy, but we covered the dance floor with hay. We were raving til dawn when I did the Morticia moves too excited and fell down. The cooks, who had been satiated on sensimilla and black-licorice hookah hits for the three days of cooking, brought out about 10 pounds of french-onion dip and unlimited port at midnight.
Now I am in Portland.