banal hills, spurned lover

Here, halfway up the hills, they’re no longer separate, a force to ignore from the highway.  They are the bigger man and take you in, despite all the times you’ve spurned them.

I am California, born and bred, and have always found it easier to love our spring’s uncomplicated greenery and fall’s twisted nonchalance much more than summer’s dry confrontation.  I have an unsophisticated aesthetic, manifested in my focus on cars between me and my end point and inadvertent neglect of exquisite male specimens who cross my path.

The Bruns Ampitheater’s trespass against these hills lends me a focused objectivity that clarifies my setting’s glory.  For the first time in my life, instead of seeing these summer hills as something to just get through, I recognize their intimacy.  The yellow no longer seems the dead, burned thatch of wildfires.  Incredibly, these hills, completely lacking in life’s necessities, suddenly have become the curled backs of a pride of lions; I have shrunken down to a child who wants nothing more than to grab fistfuls of fur and bury my face in its threatening grace.  Truly, hills like these help me understand what C.S. Lewis meant when he described Aslan as so terrible, and so lovely, and so right.


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