Young Man, Big Sur
There exists, here, the sort of person, who you might find really anywhere, who, in green t-shirt and hiking shorts and pack, running shoes, an old well-worn and washed BIG SUR baseball cap; the green of the embroidered tree that separates the two words matching the t-shirt, reads the latest New Yorker on the train, who, while more at home in the woods; on the way up a mountain; at the river’s edge, still wants to stay abreast, in touch with what is going on in the city; the contemporary art world, the latest works of fiction, who wants at least some part of himself to remain true to who he once was, despite his reluctance to stay where he once was, who does not want to take the inheritance, but who, in the end, someday will.