Where is there? That place, where we know corners and crannies so clearly with our eyes closed.
Sunken between mountains, there’s an aptitude for stillness — still water, sunken sunlight, solid ground. The valley’s bowl shape, we’ve always found, is the perfect arena to test the expanses of our orbit. It goes in circles but never in the same place twice. It goes up and up and up until we’re just sky. A single chandelier mimics a close star in the barn. It swings and shivers when we come through, potent with the energy of every step we take. We run barefoot in the grass as if it propels us up and out. Wherever we fall, we know the ground will bend to our whim, leaving only an imprint shaped like the swirl of a piggy’s tail.
We burrow ourselves in wood chips, to transubstantiate and awaken. Eyes wide, we dress ourselves in worn plaid Vivienne Westwood pants and Chloe tanks, adorning them with hay and yellow groundsel. We remove our grip from the corrals, taking some of the paint with us in flight. An Undercover cape reflects the blues of lakes and lush green trees. Before taking off, we place our feet firmly in the ground, our Prada boots just a little dusty, reminding us of where we left. The chickens roll their eyes at our antics, but they can’t help but join us anyway. They’ve seen it all before: ancient dirt under our toenails, scraped-up knees and laughter that echoes through the canyons.
Yearning for a breath of new air so crisp it cuts our throat, we inhale deeply and catch new notes in the tack room. Today, the leather smells sweet.
We read the constellations in Roma’s fur, a guide map populated with every lifetime she’s ever lived. Another big sister, a teacher with eyes searching for a likened soul. Her wispy mane floating in the breeze transmits hushed secrets. The frequency jolts us upon receipt. Just go, we hear in the whir. Sometimes, we dream of infinite versions of Roma chasing herself. Each one faster than the last. We wake up before they meet. We wonder if ideas of us help lull her to sleep. Curls in the wind, limbs lighter than air, restless in pure pasture. Are we a familiar comfort?
With nothing but rolling greens and super blooms turning to us on the periphery, there’s no end to where we’ll go. Who we’ll become.
We see it. We have always dreamt of here.
The post On a Malibu horse ranch with young hearts, old souls and a wardrobe sourced entirely from Depop appeared first on Los Angeles Times.
