““The road tilts toward the water and then just… turns pretending to be something else. Mendocino is meandering. The houses are quiet in that deliberate way… white against the salt air, holding their distance. The ocean keeps its own rhythm, unbothered. You stand there long enough and the usual urgency drains out of things. A gentle nod to Grisham’s Painted House. It took me back to my teenage days when I read the book and imagined what isolation and longing may feel like.

The sun messes up with its whimsical appearances.. cloud covers, goes away, returns. You notice smaller things. Gravel underfoot. A Cala Lily springs out of a hedge to say hi…. the skies turn red: almost bleeds before it dries out during sunset.

It’s not sad, exactly. But it isn’t comfort either. More like being held in a pause that doesn’t explain itself. Perhaps knowing that this land was stolen from Native Americans….””