vintage shop

tourists at main beach

With expectations based on what it was like around our hotel, I was a
little shocked at how crowded and touristy the downtown area was:
throngs of people waiting to cross the street, lines at restaurants
and ice cream shops, musicians at street corners, neverending stream
of cars... Then I realized expecting anyhing different was a mistake
-- this is a beach town, after all.

low tide

Walking back to the hotel from Main Beach, we decided to walk on the
beach and saw this interesting water flow pattern on the sand.

claiming the freshly-made bed

cress street beach house

the holy bible

dog and sunset

coffee and the sea

sunrise at cress beach

family and the sea

la casa del camino

I was supposed to be on-call the whole Thanksgiving weekend, but at
the last minute my co-worker asked to swap. Freed up, I looked for a
getaway that was close enough to drive to but far enough to feel like
we actually went away, where we could escape for a few days and bring
Eli along for the ride. I found it in Laguna Beach.

happy thanksgiving

mugshot

eating my carnitas torta by the water

fever

I am crouching on the floor, so low that I am almost flat on my belly. The room, my parents' room is completely dark except for a single candle on the floor about a foot from the wall near the door. I feel the firmness of the wood floor on my palms and on my knees. I smell the warm waxy scent of the candle.

A little plastic ballerina is spinning on the floor in front of me, the kind that you find inside a music box. She has pasty yellowish-pink plastic skin and painted-on brown hair and golden shoes. Her eyes are two black brushstrokes and her lips a red blob on her flat face, making her look haughty and clownish at the same time.

Her tutu is made of stiff lace. She spins continuously in her ballerina pose, one bent leg, one hand up over her head. She is standing on a clear blue platform inside which is a magnet that makes her spin around inside the music box. But this time she isn't in a music box, and there is no music playing except a chorus of dogs that are barking incessantly outside.

The air is hazy with candle smoke.

And I am counting. I am counting her spins and turns, making sure that she doesn't go past a hundred. I closely watch her frantic spinning, the candle flame flickering to a music I cannot hear. 97... 98... 99... 100... 101... Stop! I cry out at her. You went over a hundred! You need to spin the other way now.

And she follows my direction, now spinning counter-clockwise, faster and faster. 87... 86... 85... It is hot. I am sweating, but I do not move. I don't know if I can't or didn't want to move. I just stay in my position, sweating, crouching, and counting. 43... 42... 41... 40...

The candle flame has a halo around its quivering tongue, a tiny circular rainbow formed by the humidity of my breath and my sweat and the heavy air in the darkness. The door is open to the room outside where I know there is an old sewing machine by the jealousy window. But it's too dark to see, as if I were looking through gauze. And I cannot look away from the ballerina for fear of losing count. If I did she would have to start from the beginning, and I don't want that.. We've come so far, we cannot mess it up. 11... 10... 9... 8...

The ballerina needs to stop at zero. Or at 100. Exactly on the number. If she goes over, even by one, she needs to go backward... or forward. 4... 3... 2... 1... 0... and she continues. No! I try to reach out and grab her so she would stop, but my arms are frozen and I stay crouching. You were supposed to stop and you didn't I yell at her. Now you have to spin the other way and stop, please try, at 100. Please! I'm so, so tired...

37... 38... 39... 40... And we keep on going. She keeps on spinning past 100 or 0, and I keep on yelling at her and counting.

And then I smell alcohol. Rubbing alcohol. And I hear voices. My mother? Another female voice. Dr. Katigbac? My head is resting on a shoulder. I don't know if it's my mother or father carrying me. I don't care, I just know this is where I want to be right now. They are talking about the shot I was just given. And something about high fever. I slowly open my eyes, but I don't move. I see the stone brick wall and the green draperies in the doctor's living room. I stay still, too exhausted to even raise my head.

They carry me out of the doctor's house. It is dark. The candle is gone. The ballerina is gone. I don't have to count anymore. I am so tired. I fall back to sleep, my cheek on my parent's shoulder, even before we got in the car.

paperclip #9

Working this early on a Sunday morning is for the birds.

insanity

goodbye

my day