A Sense of Place by roberto_johnson

Just another line in the field of time - Neil Young

WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY Roberto Johnson ART & DESIGN Sophie Sachar

INTRODUCTION It’s hard to pinpoint where to start when attempting to dissect the whirlpools of emotion we’ve all experienced since last spring. Reiterating the obvious, it has been a strange and difficult time. The scope of last year’s life stoppage was titanic, an unavoidable wall of nothingness that asked us to look inward before attempting to scale it. One way or another, we were all forced to deal with the nature of what was, and still is, going on. We have all searched, questioned, and coped relentlessly. 2020 will forever be remembered as a year of grief and loss but alongside its grim standing in our minds, I believe it was also a year for great personal discovery: a time of uncovering meaning, finding magic in minute details, and learning to create something out of nothing. It is a time I refer to in my head as “The In-Between”: a period marked by change, transition, and most of all, uncertainty. The volatility of life during this phase bred questions and curiosities that perhaps would have otherwise stayed dormant until pried out by another seemingly apocalyptic event in the future. My year in COVID looked similar to that of many others. One day I was employed and making a decent living at a steady PR gig. The next, I was without work and unsure of where to go or what to do. Cooped up indoors and without a job or general direction, I grew sick with a homebound wanderlust that, all too predictably, drove me looking for answers to age-old existential questions like ‘Who am I?’ and ‘What does this all mean?’. Subsequently, 4

I retreated into the quadrants of my notebook and found solace in abusing the shutter buttons on some old film cameras dug up out of my parents’ closet. Creation became my go-to vehicle for self-examination, and pandemicrestricted travel, my primary means of discovery. These means of self-documentation turned out to be a fun and revealing coping mechanism for the inescapable isolation and detachment that seemed to permeate every aspect of life during this time. In attempting to capture the scenes and feelings of a tumultuous year, I found myself learning to appreciate life’s changes, no matter how unexpected, as they unfolded before me. The contents of this zine are a snapshot of that evolution -- a collection of photographs and written transmissions extracted from The In-Between. Looking back on this period, the greatest moments of clarity came when I was fully immersed in where I was and what I was doing. Often this was on the road and in the presence of nature. Other times it was at home with family. Ultimately, I learned that seeking experience is not only about the places we go and those we long to visit. It’s about the space we occupy within those places and the space they occupy within us. This mutual exchange between self and place can’t be counted in likes or currency, but its value to our individual pursuits and collective conquests, whatever they may be, is immeasurable.

It really is the journey that makes us in the end. 5

ODE TO SAN MARCOS Where does home fit into the equation of identity, place, and purpose?

I often find myself thinking of a place. Not anywhere in particular, just somewhere else. I’ve been a victim of this intermittent wanderlust since I was a child and no matter how often I curtail that sense of longing, it always comes back. At the core of this urge to “go,” is the warm assurance of knowing where I’m from. As an idea, home represents two kinds of portals. It is, at once, a revolving time capsule of nostalgia and one of idealistic yearning; a looking glass that simultaneously reflects into the past and peers into the future. It brims with emotions from a previous life and a desire to venture far away from what you know. For me, home is San Marcos, a dense, well-populated suburb on the northern perimeter of San Diego County. It is the place of my youth -- where I grew up and formed my first meaningful relationships. Spanning a handful of exits on I-78, it is somewhat of a sleepy town, at least for Southern California, and while there is plenty to do, it doesn’t overly stick out from its neighbor cities to the east or west. There is a state university, quality fast-food Mexican fare, and dozens of pleasant housing communities tucked in among its valleys, tree-lined parks, and golf courses. The beach is less than 20 minutes away; the mountains not too far inland; and the US-Mexican border only an hour south. It isn’t quite paradise but I would be lying if I said it isn’t a nice place to live. 8

As a kid, San Marcos had all the feelings of a regular hometown, including the notion that it was ultimately an insignificant preamble to somewhere more important or exciting in the future. It was comfortable but boring. Busy but uneventful. Fairly large in size but small in grandeur. At the same time, it seemed all-encompassing, like a microcosm of the universe. Sure, I was aware there were other cities, other states, and other countries, but as far as I was concerned, they weren’t that different from good old SM. This, of course, was a silly thought to entertain, which I can chalk up to being young and naive. Now, being back seven years later from the time I left town to go to college, unsurprisingly, the script has flipped in a major way. I first moved back to San Marcos last spring, after the pandemic altered my job situation. I was fortunate to be in a position where I had the option of returning home to live with my parents. At the time, it was the obvious short-term solution: move home, save money, be with my family, and take some time to get my shit together while this whole coronavirus thing sorts itself out. It wound up being much more complicated than that, but at that moment, it was a pretty easy decision to make, given the circumstances. The idea of returning home left me with mixed emotions. On one hand, I was excited to be around my family, who prior to this, I was seeing sporadically. I was especially looking forward to hanging out with my brothers who, also now young adults, had been starting to build lives of their own. Even though I was returning to a place I had previously tried to distance myself from, it felt like the beginning of a new chapter. I had been in Los Angeles at my previous job for almost three years and was ready for a change. Moving back in with mom and dad wasn’t 9

quite how I drew it up, but it was action nonetheless and there was no other choice but to roll with the punches. The flipside of this was a pit of uncertainty for what lied ahead. Returning to the place of your youth is in many ways a sobering experience. Storefronts and street corners allude to specific memories, moments of laughter, bad decisions, and all sorts of childhood serendipity from a bygone phase of life. But in reality, things are different. No longer are you the innocent and highly impressionable person that came of age in that setting. You’ve seen a few things, faced your share of challenges, fallen down some, and gotten back up. Your skin is thicker and your life outlook is perhaps a little more cynical than it was when you first left. Yet between the unavoidable wave of nostalgia and your present state, there is a happy medium that offers enough comfort and familiarity to feel safe. My first few weeks in San Marcos were as laid back and carefree as I could have hoped for. I read furiously, wrote lots of poems, and took frequent long walks around the neighborhood, taking in familiar scenery while contemplating my current surroundings as a stepping stone toward the future. I was content and well-fed, work being the last thing on my mind. The state of coronavirus was still particularly mysterious and scary, but as far as life in my little North County bubble, everything was pretty good. As time went by, the nothingness of each day gradually turned more stale. I journaled more, attempting to cope with increasing boredom and confusion, wrestling myself deeper into my own mind in the process. I pondered almighty and impossible questions, which in the face of my job status and empty schedule, 10

seemed more and more pressing: Who am I? What am I doing? Why am I here? What is happening? Where do I fit into all this? In reality, these questions had little to do with my life accomplishments or career prospects, but rather, everything to do with my purpose and what I truly wanted from the present moment. Being in San Marcos again, I could not help but wonder if I had gone backwards by returning to a place I largely associated with my past. On the surface, I was grateful for the privilege of being able to have a place to regroup and refocus myself. The dilemma I had created in my head, however, seemed perpetually dissatisfied with my current situation. It wasn’t until I learned to take comfort in the uncertainty of the future that I was fully able to relish the joy of being home and become aware of how it aligned with where I wanted to go next. The thing with constantly yearning to be somewhere else is that you wind up missing where you are and what is happening around you. By always wanting to be somewhere special or important, the magic of the present moment is diminished to background noise. For a long stretch of quarantine, San Marcos was just that: a big pile of old memories and a mundane backdrop for my pitiful bouts of identity crisis. Only in time did I realize that the best way to endure this period of transition was to embrace it. Home ended up being the perfect place to do so. Your 20s are a time of excess, indecision, risk, and new responsibility. You battle with the preconceived notions of who the world wants you to be. You decide whether to deviate from the predetermined path the world says you should be on. You indulge in your vices and start to figure out what you actually 11

care about. You take on new challenges with little regard for consequence and seek out pleasure wherever your intuition leads you. Returning to your childhood home can seem like a disruption within that personal evolution but it can also be the water needed for the soil of your dreams to grow into the garden you have always envisioned. When faced with a conflict, I don’t have large amounts of life experience to draw from, but I do have a home: a place where I am from; a place to return to when I have been gone; a place to lay my head when the day is over. San Marcos is small. In fact, it’s microscopic. There is so much more to see beyond the small sliver of the universe it occupies and it is imperative to do so. But in the same way it appears inconsequential, San Marcos has been instrumental in my becoming. No matter how I choose to think of it, I am endeared to it as a place, and it is endeared to me. Home is essential to discovering what we want and where we are going. In its absence, it fuels the spirit of a journey. In its presence, it manifests appreciation for the world beyond ourselves. It helps form the underlying fabric of who we are and is a base over which all of life’s threads may connect and intertwine. It can be a place of comfort and refuge but it is also a feeling we carry with us in our travels. Whether it is a place you long to see again or one you are trying to leave behind, its essence is within you: your family, memories, dreams, experiences, all of it. It all goes with you, wherever you are, and is inseparable from your personal story.

THINGS I LIKE I like laceless vans and baseball caps Rock memoirs and '90s rap Homemade food and dry red wine Riding bikes in summertime I like useful goods and things for sale Ample sun and hiking trails Nature walks and skies of blue Midnight gazes at the moon I like reading where there's peace and calm Finding thoughts to ponder on Fruitful talks with those I love Seeds of wisdom rise above I like dim lit bars and lively bands Blistered feet from burning sand Morning sweat and ocean breeze Running hurts yet it feels free I like smelling grass and pouring rain Climbing rocks and rough terrain These days pass by with absent stress Saying more in saying less

NOV. 7 - At Ease

FIELD NOTES

I welcome the ease of Saturdays and Sundays when I am home without plans. I enjoy this same luxury most weekdays but the weekends bring about a warm and welcoming feeling. Perhaps the working world is a bit more tranquil and therefore I am simply wading in tune with its waters.

“Chasing the Desert Skyline” Joshua Tree National Park, California

The breeze flowed freely through my window as I turned the bend and leaned on the gas, the town of 29 Palms now well behind me. It was the peak of the day and the sun had perched itself comfortably in the center of the sky. I felt its warmth radiate through my now extended arm and into my open palm. “Welcome back,” it said with a sly grin. I had never entered the park through the north gate. Upon clearing the toll booth and paying the entrance fee, I was the only vehicle on the road. Just me and Gene -- my trusty Ford Escape, who had seen his share of highway miles in recent years. We chugged on up the hill and around the winding road, taking in our view of the high desert expanse as it revealed itself to us bit by bit. Vast, beautiful, and dangerous, just the way we had left it. Coasting into the Skull Rock region, I pulled over and parked on the side of the road. I could see the boulderous grounds up ahead. There was a decent crowd of visitors for a weekday in January and something about the long stretch of cars caused me to turn and look in the opposite direction. To my left was a much more beckoning sight -- no cars, hikers, or even trailheads for that matter. In my direct view were mountainous walls of peculiar rock formations and a gorge that was begging to be explored on foot. I had found my destination. I stepped out of the car in high spirits, eager to get moving. Suddenly, it hit me -- that piercing silence one only encounters in the desert, so thick and penetrating it nearly takes the breath away. I looked around as if to seek approval from the elements to commence my journey. I tipped my cap to the wind and crossed the road, disappearing into the brush and entering another universe. Hiking over pits of sand and shriveled cacti, I walked with a steady and stern pace, determined to get to wherever it was I was going. The silence that had first greeted me up on the road now engulfed my entire surroundings. I cried out “Hello?” wondering if 21

I had company, but even I could barely hear my faint call against the howl of the wind. I worked my way towards the horizon in the foreground with the hopes of scouting out a mountain top on which I could camp out for lunch. Slowly but surely, I climbed. The sky was without a cloud and grand in its appearance. I relished the warm rays of sunlight beaming down on me. The further I went down the path I had chosen, the less traversed the ground appeared. Vague footprints gave way to more dirt, and eventually, just rock. The souls of my boots dug into the monzogranite with a firm, unrelenting grip. “Where to?” they asked. I fixed my sights on a tall but not steep slab of rock that looked to have a wonderful view of the surrounding terrain. Sweat trickled down the side of my face as I outlined the route to my desired lookout. I put my head down and persisted, my breaths now synchronized with each step, until I reached the top. Resting on my lifted perch, I greeted the sun for a second time, feeling much closer to it than when I had arrived. It didn’t seem to mind my company. Down below, a coyote scampered around, its nose to the Mohave floor in search of a scent, ideally one leading to a savory meal, I presumed. Not 30 yards behind, a lone hiker trekked the rugged hillside of rocks and cacti, her eyes aimed at the ground, lost in thought, or perhaps simply looking out for snakes. Two creatures on the move, both playing their own version of desert solitaire. Overhead, a pair of red-tailed hawks circled about. I followed their flight with much adoration as they coasted gracefully into the distance. My gaze fixated on the horizon once again, now different from the one I had first seen upon starting my hike. It’s a mystical thing -- skylines and their never-ending mirage. One always leads to another. And so their trance continues. I sat in peace until the landscape and I became one. What I saw in front of me was now within me, and I within it. 22

FIELD NOTES

JUNE 21 - The Trip: Friends, JT, & The Universe Our three days in the desert were glorious, our skin kissed by the sun and warm desert winds, our conversations soaked in the boozy aroma of cold Coronas and tequila shots. Much like the ocean, the desert commands respect for its natural power yet never fails to impress you with its sheer beauty.

“From Soil to Snowfall” Ravalli County, Montana

We had only been in Victor for two days but the mountains of the Bitterroot Valley had us under their spell once again. Unlike our previous visit three years prior, this trip had no agenda. Its main objective was to have no objective at all; my dad was keen on kicking back and taking things day by day, which of course we were all fine with. We didn’t go to any of the national parks nor did we have a checklist of to-do’s or must-see activities. Instead, we lounged -- Montana style -- which, in reality, still meant perusing high elevations and hikes galore, albeit at our own pace. The weather so far had been crummy at best. We’d seen thunderstorms, lots of rain, and predominantly grey skies, though it did little to deter us from exploring the wonders of our home for the next week. On Sunday morning, after filling our stomachs with bacon and farm fresh eggs, we planned a daytime excursion to Burnt Fork Lake, our second hike in as many days. My parents, Ellie, and I climbed aboard J.J.’s F-650, an absolute behemoth of a truck, and made for the slopes across the valley. Alex and Tony loaded up Christina’s car and trailed close behind. Our journey took us past 30

Corvallis and into the hills, away from town and closer to the oasis that awaited us in the sky. Once we got past the remote farms at the base of the mountains, the only way to go was up. The lake, a highly-frequented, camp-friendly waterhole, was technically only a handful of miles away but the steep and muddy inclines required that we drive at a slow speed. We sat and wobbled our way to the top in a comfortable quiet, making casual conversation about past trips and listening to J.J.’s many hiking stories. I was thinking about Huckleberry Beer. I silently prayed each turn would bring us closer to our destination but the road ahead appeared to go on forever. At last, we reached the top of the mountain, where there was still plenty of snow lying around from past storms. We all took pit stops in the nearby woods and at 8,000 feet above sea level, we began our journey into the mountain to find the lake, which was about a two mile trek each way. Though it wasn’t quite raining, the ground was wet and the hillsides were running rampid with water. The forests surrounding the trail appeared so dense, the trees looked like a single horizon of solid green. I didn’t know whether it was too cold and icy for animals to be about, but I scanned the trees for movement nonetheless, as one does when they are from the coast and in the woods. Looking down at the moist ground, I knew my tennis shoes wouldn’t stand a chance should it start to rain. 32

After a short while, we emerged from the woods and saw a welcome vista up ahead: Burnt Fork Lake in all its misty glory. By this point, a light rain had begun to fall and we scrambled to take pictures amid our final dry moments. We huddled under a large pine tree and anxiously scarfed down cheese crackers and beef jerky snacks, as if storing up fats ahead of a long season of hibernation. Though perhaps an unspectacular body of water by Montana standards, the precious lake looked majestic at the base of the grand forest. In this particular hour, the foggy air that hovered over its tranquil waters cultivated a stillness that was, at once, both ominous and peaceful. Our hike back to the car quickly turned from a mild walk in the rain to a frantic escape from the wrath of an intruding thunderstorm. From the moment we stepped foot out from under the pine tree, the skies unleashed a torrential downpour unbeknownst to our Southern California. Our two mile hike suddenly felt like twenty, but in the rain, we collectively seemed to marvel at what was happening. It’s not everyday you get to adventure into the woods in this kind of weather. At this point there was little we could do to resist the elements and their mercurial fury. Our pathway was now hopelessly muddy, swamplike even, and the way back would take us past monstrous hillsides of giant jagged rocks and loose logs, any of which could start sliding from the moisture and tumble 33

down toward us. By the halfway point, our socks and shoes couldn’t have been any further from cozy and warm. My jeans, now soaked from the rain, stuck to my legs like tree sap. J.J. sprinted ahead with both sets of keys to give us some form of warmth to come back to. When we finally made it back to the dirt lot in which we left our cars, unthinkably, the raindrops slowly turned to snowfall, and we looked around in amazement as the sobbing skies transformed their tears into blankets of white. As snow scattered around us, we piled into the cars soaking wet and out of breath. My dad let out an exhilarating “That was awesome!” upon sledding his way into the front seat. Suddenly, the lengthy ride back down the mountain didn’t seem so daunting. We rolled down the windows to take photos and were instantly pelted with fluffy wet powder from all sides. It dawned on me that neither of my brothers had ever really seen snowfall. Outside of a few times in Colorado, I hadn’t either. I was sure they were losing their minds. In a matter of a few thousand feet, there was hardly a trace of ice left on the car or the road. It was like we had spent the afternoon in two different worlds.

FIELD NOTES

JULY 2 - Adrift in the Western Sky On our final evening, as the last rays of sunlight illuminated the green pastures behind the house, I sat outside taking in the solitude in its full majesty. It was good to be here.

“This Mysterious Place” Lake Powell, Utah

What is this mysterious place that at once encapsulates the unsettling solitude of the desert, the mystique of the mountains, and the grandeur of the open ocean? Where time dissipates into the omnipresent abyss of sunlight, where the waves flow in unison like a great blue orchestra, and wakeboards and Sea-Doos are the warrior’s weapon of choice. Lake culture is something to behold. There is an unholy sense of empowerment that consumes you when you find yourself standing on a boat, speeding over waves at what feels like 100 miles an hour, basking in the glow of the sun and a warm afternoon buzz, shirtless with a cold beverage in hand. “Am I dreaming?” you may ask yourself. One look to your left and you will find two seas of blue sandwiching fire-colored monoliths that look like they belong on the fringes of Mordor. To your right, four more football fields of open water before you see another boat. Dehydration isn’t on the menu of survival options and sun lotion is a lifeline, for too long without it and you will be as orange as the sandstone cliffs that surround you. The nature of the day is determined not by time, but rather by the unrelenting will to have fun. Sunrise serves as the alarm clock for all and signals the beginning of more aquatic escapades. ‘Morning’ is whenever you wake up, and ‘during the day’ refers to the never-ending stretch of when 42

it’s light out. ‘Night’ is on the outskirts of the equation but for the sake of definition, refers to the short dark period when the sun tucks itself behind the mountain. Should you really seek to get lost, the labyrinths of high-rise canyons are like portals into another dimension. It doesn’t matter if water sports aren’t your jam because everyone surfs. If you stay on your toes, you can even taste some freedom from the full-service bar of friends and hard seltzers on the back of the boat once you get beyond the wake. Drinks evaporate like water droplets on the sand. Good playlists are imperative and mediocre DJ play will be momentarily shunned until washed away in the foam of another beer bong. Smiles are abundant and the days are bonded by laughter. Cups will be full and bad vibes disposed, for the lake is a place of pure ecstasy. 43

VAGO’S PRAYER How I crave the unbound freedom of the open road Dream of chasing shrinking horizons Absorbing new worlds through tired eyes While swimming through the sea of time

How I long for speeding under aqua skies Itch to ride off into an unfamiliar sunset Seeking temptations in which to misplace faith Unsure if I am moving or running in place

FIELD NOTES AUG 28 - Airborne As we surfed and skied over the following few days, the water became our source of life. It was our nutrients when we needed to replenish our bodies with a cold splash, it was our playground when we desired to laugh and run, and it was our escape when we needed to rid ourselves of any worries weighing on our hearts and minds. We marveled at its beauty and indulged in its bottomless embrace.

MORNING Morning is few words said Ceiling stare downs while lying in bed Hastily mounting up onto your feet Mindless yawning and brushing your teeth Morning is motion Morning is quenched cheeks on a cold toilet seat Hot cups of coffee and slippers on feet Breakfast plates of the varying kind Neighborhood jogs to clear the mind Morning is awakening Morning is cracked backs and snoozed alarms Driving to work while putting makeup on Silent prayers and short meditations Making the bed and ingesting medications Morning is battle training Morning is feeling the warmth of the sun Counting your blessings and praying on each one Golden light in the eyes of the earth Growing plants sprouting out of the dirt Morning is life-giving Morning is the stillness of the present moment Sharing a smile and knowing where home is Finding people and things to pour into Feeling the spirit and knowing it’s within you Morning is peace

JUNE 8 - Outdoor Empathy

FIELD NOTES

When all else fails, nature is the unsinkable ship that is always headed for happiness. It’s a remedy and an escape in the same way it can feel friendly and embracing. Today it greeted me with a big hug and open arms.

SUNDOWNER BLUES When I wake up in the morning All I see is black and blue The sky is frowning at me Where you went not a clue All my friends in the city Say the weather’s got them down I guess I’ll sit here sad and waiting Wishing you would come around I dream about when I last saw you The way you set upon the sky I miss your rays and golden kisses The flame of white in your burning eye All the things that used to shimmer Have faded into darkness now You don’t know the things I’d give Just to see a passing cloud I heard they’re waiting for some sunshine On the other side of town They say that all their clocks are broken And all their smiles are on the ground So when you make it out to nowhere And I creep across your mind Just know I would be grateful If you had left some light behind

A ONE BEDROOM APARTMENT ON UPPER STATE There is a 15-mile stretch of highway along the northern tip of Southern California running between the seaside towns of Ventura and Carpinteria. Here, you won’t see any landmarks like the Golden Gate Bridge or the Santa Monica Pier, but for precisely those reasons and like so many other legs of California’s coastal interstates, there is something magical about it. For me, this particular stretch of coastline has always been somewhat of an oasis. In a way, it represents the departure from the “busy” Southern California and the arrival into a more secluded and low-key part of the state. Geographically, you are still very much in SoCal, yet the overcrowded madness of Los Angeles and the artificial paradise of Orange County couldn’t seem farther away. As you make your way through the heart of Ventura, the green overhead signs on the freeway start to indicate where you’re going is different. “San Francisco” and “Ojai” they read -- towns and markers of another California, different from the one you just left. From then on, the drive becomes a tranquil affair consisting of only a few components: the road, the land, and the vast waters of the Pacific Ocean. What starts out as a modest commute alongside pleasant state beaches gradually turns into a mystifying trek along a euphoric landscape. To your left, across the ocean, are the Channel Islands -- Anacapa and Santa Cruz Island to be exact -- their majestic brown ridges visible in full detail on a clear day. On your right, rows of rugged mountains start to form, not so much engulfing the landscape, but amplifying its obvious beauty.

Continuing up the freeway, the land occasionally expands to include a farm field or a small community of beach houses, though never for too long. For brief stretches, the Pacific Coast Highway appears down below the 101 close to the shore, its two-lane road running along the ocean for those wishing to stop off at one of the iconic surfing points that lie along this route. No matter the time of day, there is a good chance the rolling waves on the horizon will be speckled with bobbing heads and longboards. For the last half-decade, I’ve dreamed of moving to Santa Barbara, the picturesque beach town that waits on the other side of this highway sanctuary. From the first time I ever visited, five summers ago with my girlfriend, Ellie, I fell in love with its air and aura. The climate and the scenery weren’t only perfect, they were unimpeachable. I could hardly believe that such a gem of a city existed so close by. Its charm was so natural and its beauty, effortless. It quickly became my favorite getaway. For the better part of those five years, Santa Barbara was just that: an escape and a place of refuge. Ellie’s parents, who still live in the same Goleta house as when her family first moved into town, always hosted us graciously. We made a ritual of visiting them during college and the years following school. SB became our go-to weekend trip, worth planning around several weeks in advance yet convenient enough to spontaneously visit whenever we pleased. I daydreamed about those trips often, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to visit. During COVID, both Ellie and I moved back home due to the fluid nature of our work situation. She headed for Goleta while I returned to San Marcos. Since I didn’t have a full-time job, I would visit her for several days at a time, either by train or car, on what always felt like a short road trip. It was heaven. After several months of weathering COVID with over 200 miles between us, we decided to

try and make that heaven a daily reality. This March, we moved into our first place together, a small one-bedroom apartment on Upper State Street, fulfilling our longtime fantasy of living in Santa Barbara. The excitement we felt about living together coupled with the joy of knowing every day we would wake up in our favorite place was an overwhelming feeling. For as long as we had been together, all the memories we had created in Santa Barbara happened under the constraint of time. Each previous trip had an inevitable expiration date. At some point, I always had to leave. Now that sense of temporality was gone, alleviated by a new set of apartment keys, new street names to memorize, and a new neighborhood to get acquainted with. We took over the lease on our apartment from a childhood friend of Ellie’s, a girl she knew well from church. If you know Santa Barbara, this kind of occurrence is unsurprising and, in many respects, reflects how things tend to work inside “the bubble.” Geographically, the town sprawls out over a solid chunk of coastline, hugging both the mountains and the ocean the entire way. In looking at a map of Santa Barbara, the thing that most stands out is how the region, despite being on the coast, runs from East to West and not North to South, creating its own pocket that appears distant from the larger cities down below it. Santa Barbara’s small but significant sense of separation from the rest of Southern California is reflected in the lifestyles and perceptions of its locals. San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco sports franchises are equally represented in apparel because there are no professional teams here. Orange County cities like Costa Mesa and Irvine are commonly referred to as “LA.” Twitter isn’t a thing here and you’ll be hard-pressed to find many people who use it. And though it is the next closest major town, trekking down to Ventura is considered a long and time-consuming drive. 68

These attitudes may seem out of touch and in some sense, life here is unconcerned with things happening on the outside. But in that reality lies a contrast that exemplifies the true wonder of this place. What some may see as self-absorbed or disconnected, is in fact a deep investment in preserving community. Plugging out to plug in. That genuine, interconnected orbit on which life in Santa Barbara revolves is precisely why it is so charming. People here are passionate about trees, plants, and spending time in nature. They appreciate their open spaces and care about preserving their farmlands. They prioritize recreation and treat the ocean as their playground. They love their wines and craft beers and make ample amounts of both. They value not the plates from which they eat but where the food that is served on them comes from. They cherish having an unpolluted skyline so you can see the ocean in the day and the stars at night and so that no matter where you are in town, you always have a stunning view. All this time, I’d thought I wanted to live here because of how much it felt like getting away, an escape. If I close my eyes, I can still imagine the lust of those weekend trips and how it felt, wishing I could stay longer. Moving here, I wasn’t sure whether I would feel the same, whether Santa Barbara would lose its luster in my mind. That has yet to happen. I am still mystified by its mountains and palm-dotted skyline, by its rugged beaches and verdant cityscape, by its small-town feel and the collective kindness of its people. To me, Santa Barbara remains a warm, idyllic paradise, isolated from the noise of the previous places I have called home. I hope to God that will never change, though realistically I know one day it likely will. Should I ever leave, all I can think about is how much I will miss it.

“Of Wind and Waves”

East Beach, Santa Barbara, California

Looking out in the distance, the skyline was split into two colors. A strip of light blue lay beneath a thick, hazy layer of gray, causing the horizon to appear dark and mysterious. The waves crashed below with a quiet vengeance, small but persistent, devoted suppliers of the ocean’s unrelenting massage on the coastline. It was a gloomy spring afternoon yet you could sense the fog’s days were numbered. I sat there quietly, gazing outward, thinking of either everything or nothing at all, digging my toes into the soil of my new home, feeling as if I was standing on the edge of another world. Above the shoreline, the water was dotted with sailboats and white caps. I counted 45 vessels of varying sizes, some anchored, others racing out into the open sea to seek whatever it is that keeps sailors afloat and away from land. Armies of brown pelicans flew by in synchronized formations, descending towards the water like bomber jets crashing down from the sky. Everyone was after something it seemed. I had come to the beach in hopes of finding some solitude and to use that alone time to indulge in one of a dozen activities I had been itching to do. I wanted to write (both my notebook and computer were packed in my bag) and I had also brought my book, my headphones, and a few snacks in case I simply wanted to eat and stare out 74

into nothing. The problem with too many options is the indecision that follows. All too predictably, I sat in my chair, slouched in a puddle of empty confusion, fiddling with my feet in the sand. Hopelessly distracted, I looked down the beach and noticed a runner coming towards me. His body slowly increased in size, much like the sun does when cresting over a mountain in the morning. He was tall, tan, barefoot, and appeared notably enthused to be running in such conditions. Who could blame him? The sun was only half-peeking out but the coastline was golden. The setting was glamorous, motivating even, life-giving. The man gradually approached my humble plot of sand, eventually trotting by at a steady pace. It occurred to me that I had never gone for a run on the beach. Body surfing and boogie boarding? Sure. Volleyball? A thousand times. Tossing a football or a frisbee around? Countless occasions. But a run with the sole intention of cardiovascular exercise? Never. I felt puzzled by this realization and decided to make amends with this personal letdown in the near future. I looked down the beach again. Another runner, this one with shoes. Suddenly I remembered I had left my book in the backseat of the car. I reached into my bag to double check and confirm. I wasn’t in the mood to read anymore but immediately I got up to go grab it. It was colder outside than I had anticipated, largely in part to 75

the heaps of wind coming in from the harbor, but the sand still felt piping hot. Summer was right around the corner. I trudged back to my car through slopes of sand, not looking up until I had reached the small strip of grass that separated the beach from the road. A homeless lady stood pacing along the fence line in front of Gene, screaming atrocities at everyone who walked by. You fucker! Get the fuck out of my house, God damn it! I scampered by without engaging, sliding into the front seat of my car to sit for a minute and find my book. I watched as the lady stopped her rants to dig through a nearby trash can, emerging with a handful of cans and long disposed plastic bottles. For a moment, she seemed at peace, as if all that was troubling her had suddenly vanished. Sharing in her respite, I looked out at the sand, where I had left all my belongings, and watched as my chair became part of a painting. Back on the beach, I sat on my towel, no less distracted than I was before. Attempting to salvage the afternoon, I opened my book and turned to the chapter I’d left off on. It took me five minutes to finish the first page and subsequently, the book went back into my bag. I settled on a snack and stared at the ocean. I looked down towards the pier once more, anticipating the sight of yet another jogger approaching. This time, all I saw were silhouettes and sunshine. 76

Roberto Johnson is a writer, photographer, and publicist from San Marcos, California. He is the creator and editor of the music blog Riffs & Rhymes and has contributed to publications such as Visit Newport Beach, Album Book Club Magazine, and Petal Motel. He currently lives in Santa Barbara and works as a dockhand at Lake Cachuma.

Sophie Sachar is a self-taught graphic designer and marketing freelancer based in Richmond, Virginia. College radio in Boston and a love for live music led her to a myriad of music gigs, and she currently works in marketing for several record labels. She was previously the Editor-in-Chief of WTBU’s music zine, The Beat, and has been published in Folklife and NYOTA Magazine.

A Sense of Place

Articles inside

A One-Bedroom Apartment on Upper State

"This Mysterious Place"

"From Soil to Snowfall"

"Chasing the Desert Skyline"

Ode to San Marcos