JEAN-CHARLES CAZIN: SOLITUDE

The best road of all...

KAIROS

Kairos is an ancient Greek word meaning the right or opportune moment (the supreme moment). 

The ancient Greeks had two words for time, chronos cand kairos. 

While the former refers to chronological or sequential time, the latter signifies a time lapse, a moment of indeterminate time in which everything happens. 

Kairos - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

MONTECITO MORNING MOONSET

THE COLD FULL MOON

COINCIDENCE MULTIPLIES ON THE ROAD

Maybe you're crossing a border.

Maybe you're getting off planes and trains.

You're out and about.

In movement in the world, you tend to drop your normal, routine pattern of perceptions and notice some different things because you're in a different landscape.

-- Robert Moss

CHRISTMAS EVE: COLD MOON RISING

CHRISTMAS TWAINISM

COLD MOON RISING

...AND MATCHING WINTER SOLSTICE SUNSET

WINTER SOLSTICE SUNRISE...

I knew something special awaited as I rounded Channel Drive to Butterfly Beach...

SHASTA UP CLOSE

April 2015


Lemurians or no, there is something awfully spiritual about Mount Shasta once you are within its magnetic pull.

Around three a.m., the devil’s hour, I awaken with a headache and a thirst:  Advil, a glass of Shasta water, from the tap, fresh and cold.  It takes a while, but I eventually fall into the sweetest sleep of the night, and with it a very vivid dream:  I am staying in this very room, but instead of a rustic setting, outside my door is a lively, vibrant street akin to San Francisco’s North Beach.  As I gingerly step out, joyous people engulf me, asking what I’m looking for, offering to take me to Mount Shasta’s central boulevard, which, they say, is even more vibrant and artsier than the street we are on.  I am awed by the joyfulness and gaiety exuded by these smiley, very happy people.  They call their main street Honore, and seem in a hurry—so gleeful they are—to take me there.

I awaken to a cold rustic setting, no people, and a few birds singing, shower and dress, and aim myself at Everett Memorial Highway, a curvaceous road that ascends the mountain to its baseline.   

Brilliant sunshine glistens upon fresh white powder.

Few others are on this road; few others are anywhere in this quiet community.

At road’s end, prematurely, due to winter snow, some folks have set up camp, with pitched tents, hoping, perhaps, to catch a glimpse of Bigfoot—or a Lemurian.

I park, amble about, and head back, this time to a town further north called Weed, for better views of Mount Shasta.   

In search of coffee, I wind up back in Dunsmuir, where a shack called All Aboard Espresso obliges with a latte I end up dumping in a refuse bin.  

Further down Dunsmuir Avenue, near the movie house, which may soon show its last picture, is the Cornerstone Bakery and Café—the only lively place I’ve seen since arriving near the mountain, decent coffee and breakfast.

Just past eleven, a shop called Unexpected Treasures opens.  I stroll in and announce I’m looking for one. 

The unexpected treasure is not here, but next door at Harley Antiques: a miniature oil-on-board of Mount Shasta by Kela Wyss, who, Harley explains, painted in this area during the 1970s—mine for fifty bucks.

I don’t want to drive 600 miles home, so I assess my options:  Petaluma, San Francisco, Carmel… ultimately, I opt for Healdsburg, nestled between Napa and the Russian River Valley.  

And just as well because I-5 is so straight, you want to scream after an hour.  

Route 20 takes me into wine country: hilly vineyards and curved roads, arriving a few minutes before four p.m., closing time...

...at Ridge Vineyards, just north of Healdsburg on Lytton Springs Road, and a tasting that includes their “collectible” Monte Bello cab. 





The Healdsburg Hotel is full up due to an event.  They recommend a hotel, which also turns out to be full, which recommends... The Honor Mansion.

Honore—from my dream.

My first novel about a road trip has been acquired by Skyhorse Publishing in New York City.

It will be published in Fall 2016

RY GUY & CO: UPGRADE TO UPPER

Good start to a Merry (UK) Christmas.

ARRIVING IN SHASTA

April 2015


First stop is Valley Grind in Old Town Santa Ynez for a lavender latte to set me up for a marathon nine-hour drive, music alternating between Jack Savoretti and the soundtrack from a movie called Begin Again, a good fit for the mission at hand. 

In no time at all, I’m San Luis Obispo (a Madonna Inn pit stop), King City for gas and, many hours later, more gas in Winters before joining 505 and connecting to I-5.

Passing Shasta Lake, the great mystical mountain finally comes into view, peaking over lesser mountains, fleeting glimpses here and again.  

At first, second, and third glance, Shasta is every bit as majestic as painted by the Harry Cassie Best, a traveling musician who discovered his talent as an artist by painting this mountain.

Soon, the ancient volcano looms, providing me the same kind of thrill I used to get when approaching Disneyland as a kid and seeing the Matterhorn.

I exit the interstate into Dunsmuir, a quaint town that exists in a gully, from which most of Mount Shasta is hidden.  

I’d been minded to find overnight accommodation here and check out “the world’s best water” from a 5,000 year-old aquiver.    

But Dunsmuir is sleepy and I’d read the best views of Shasta are seen from the drive north from Dunsmuir when the sun is about the set, and the sun is about to set, so it’s a no-brainer to continue on to Mount Shasta City, which isn’t much of one, more a village combining retirement community with new age mystics. 

My iPad navigates me to the Mount Shasta Resort, which seems right, due to its astonishing view of the mountain and a name suggesting something reasonably elegant.

I’m sent down to a “chalet,” a quarter-mile away, but “chalet” is just a façade for a sparse motel room with basic plumbing.  Miniature soaps in paper and cellophane-covered plastic cups conclude the amenities. 

An absence of cars suggests I am to be the only being around this night, except maybe Bigfoot stomping around nearby.

It is now 6:55 and I return to the Clubhouse, where I’m told the bar and restaurant stops serving at eight o’clock.

“What about in town?” I ask.

“Pretty much the same.”

I grab a high top by the picture window and content myself with martini, up, twist, leave the shaker.  The only thing I’d eaten all day was a banana and a handful of dry granola before departing, so the combination of extra-large pour and nothing in my stomach is lethal—though after nine hours on the road I am extremely grateful.

Meantime, the sun not so much sets as disappears behind hills to the west.

I order “Thai BBQ salmon” on a bed of spinach, and it’s a crying shame the poor fish had to give up its life for so dismal a dish. I’d wondered why the few others around me were eating bacon cheeseburgers, and now I knew. 

By nine o’clock I am only customer remaining, finishing a glass of Rosenblum cab. 

The bartender, who has kindly stayed to see me through, wears black eyeliner and eye shadow and, when I ask about the magic mountain, revels in its lore; waxing enthusiastic about an ancient civilization called the Lemurians that reside under the mountain in the golden city of Telos.

And isn’t this why I drove 600 miles in one day to get here?

Lemurians or no, there is something awfully spiritual about Mount Shasta once you are within its magnetic pull.


Around three a.m., the devil’s hour, I awaken with a headache and a thirst:  Advil, a glass of Shasta water, from the tap, fresh and cold.  

It takes a while, but I eventually fall into the sweetest sleep of the night, and with it a very vivid dream:  

I am staying in this very room, but instead of a rustic setting, outside my door is a lively, vibrant street akin to San Francisco’s North Beach.  As I gingerly step out, joyous people engulf me, asking what I’m looking for, offering to take me to Mount Shasta’s central boulevard, which, they say, is even more vibrant and artsier than the street we are on.  I am awed by the joyfulness exuded by these smiley, very happy people.  They call their main street Honore, and seem in a hurry—so gleeful they are—to take me there.

My first novel about a road trip has been acquired by Skyhorse Publishing in New York City.

It will be published in Fall 2016

LONDON, DECEMBER 1974

Dickey, Kathy, me, and Renee

(That Real '70s Show...)

MOUNT SHASTA

A View of Mount Shasta
Harry Cassie Best

April 2015


You do not need to travel to India for spiritual enlightenment.  

If you do, spiritually enlightened Indians are likely to point you elsewhere.  

Like, back where you came from.  

Specifically, to Mount Shasta, in northern California. 

You've heard of Born Again Christians.

Mystical Mount Shasta is where you go to be reborn without having to become Christian, or anything other than your own reborn spirit.

The mountain itself is an ancient volcano 14,000 feet high, once home (maybe still is) to an ancient civilization called the Lemurians.

Nearby, Bigfoot runs amuck.

UFOs drop in for a magnetic energy fix, rendering this real magic mountain a service station for extraterrestrials. 

Assorted New Agers, Buddhists, shamans and charlatans hang their shingles to milk the pilgrims, some of whom never leave. 

Purge the past.  Spiritual rebirth.  Tranquility.  

Hell, it doesn’t hurt to try—not least because Shasta is only a nine-hour drive from Santa Barbara.  

Plus I have a novel playing in my mind set around a road trip like this.

Torrential rainstorms throughout the Golden State keep me home.  Although I welcome moodiness over stark blue sky, it seems senseless to go when the mountain may be obscured by raincloud. 

I aim to depart the day after Easter, but another winter storm gets in the way, dumping fifteen inches of snow.  

Finally, I'm off.

First stop, Valley Grind in Old Town Santa Ynez for a lavender latte to set me up for a marathon nine-hour drive, music alternating between Jack Savoretti and the soundtrack from a movie called Begin Again, a good fit for the mission at hand. 

My first novel about a road trip has been acquired by Skyhorse Publishing in New York City.

It will be published in Fall 2016

FUNK ZONE ART WALK

Featuring the creations of artist Dan Levin.

For only fifty bucks I now possess the devil.  (The devil is cheap.)

A new way to vanquish evil...

TRIMMING THE TREE

NEVER GETS OLD

RETURN TO BOISE

November 2014


Up and out early, back to Boise from McCall, the Snake River snaking around us until we reach  North End for lunch at the 13th Street Bar & Grill.

Final evening, I'm sitting at the bar in Chandler's, a burley gray-haired guy two stools away wants to know what I'm drinking.

I tell him, 20 year-old Tawny port.  He orders one for himself, likes it.  His name is Randy.

Randy and I talk, about a range of things, from Sun Valley and Hemingway to grandkids.  He has two, a boy and girl, 11 and 9, rarely sees them due to “issues” with his son.

A few days earlier, Randy’s grandson had called him out of the blue, invited him to his school for a Veteran’s Day event, knowing his grandpa was a vet.  Randy went, got stoked by it.

“He’s calling out to you,” I say.  “Inviting you in.  Whatever crap happened with your son, move around it.  Get to know your grandkids.  It’s tough out there these days, at their age.  They could use your wisdom.”

“Yeah?”  Randy orders another port for both of us.

“Yeah.”  

We kick it around a little more and sip our drinks.

“I mean it,” I say, by way of goodbye.  “Your grandson called out, wants you in his life.  Be there.”

The family regroups early to check out.

“Look, it’s snowing!”  The cheerful concierge points out the glass door.

It is truly a joyful is a sight—unless you’re headed for an airport, which we are.

I’m thinking delays in Boise, maybe a missed connection to Santa Barbara.

The check-in clerk at United sets me straight.  “The problem,” he says, “is in San Francisco.”  

This is a grumpy man, and by now I know the look:  high end of middle age, mostly bald with a short fringe and a mousy moustache, still clerking.

No matter how polite I am, cutting quips, it is impossible to make this type of person smile, and it makes me wonder if actual looks are responsible for disposition.  

But never mind him.  The problem is not snow in Boise, but San Francisco.

“Fog?”

He clacks his computer, ignores me, angry (this day and most, I gather) for having to do the job he does, or maybe other components of his disappointing life.

I’ve got my laptop and I find a good book to read, so I’m ready for whatever happens next, including the acquisition of an appropriate talisman, which has eluded me this trip.    

Inside a cooperative selling the wares of local Idaho artists I find a small silver pendant, a cube with minimal bar-relief design dubbed introspection by the artist.  

It symbolizes the very essence of Idaho:  Hermits, solitaries, individualists, and loners.  This is The Introspection State, where people go to get away—mostly from other people, or maybe their own sorry pasts.

But back to our predicament:  With my background, I'm always thinking contingencies.  In this case, what if our flight is cancelled?

Within a minute, I have one:  We re-rent the Suburban and drive seven hours to Portland, spend the night, whoop it up, and catch a nonstop next day to Santa Barbara.

Truth is, when our flight gets called only fifteen minutes after its scheduled departure time, I’m disappointed, so married I am to the idea of remaining in motion (pardon the oxymoron). 

My next hope is that we’ll miss our connection in San Francisco and have time to sit down for teriyaki salmon at Ebisu in the airport terminal, even better, if no other connection exists, spend the night in San Fran, whoop it up, fly home the next day.

So much for that idea:  our jet from Boise is the incoming aircraft for onward travel to SB...

My first novel about a road trip has been acquired by Skyhorse Publishing in New York City.

It will be published in Fall 2016