I did not visit Paramount Ranch in search of this year’s already mythic superbloom, I swear I didn’t. And let me disclaim right away that no flower was trampled in the making of the above video. Let me also confess that the only wildflowers in the piece that I can identify with confidence are the california poppies, the purple lupines and the yuccas. Needless to say, I felt quite ignorant roaming the various trails in the park, surrounded by bright green fields in every hue dotted with patches of orange, golden yellow, princely purple, violet and white. But life is a learning process, right? And I haven’t delved into the chapter about wildflowers yet. What I did notice, was the total disappearance of the chaparral I am slightly more familiar with. Laurel, manzanita, ceanothus, toyon and scrub oak were comprehensively consumed by the Woolsey fire, leaving only charred, spiny carcasses stubbornly planted on the hillsides. Only the shaded north-facing slopes retain more visibly the barren, rock and dirt, lunar landscape look. On the sunny slopes and in the valleys, grasses have sprouted like wildfire, thanks to all the rain we’ve had, leaving a green carpet swaying gently in the breeze and from which the silver and brown remains of old growth oaks, many of them famous like movie stars, still stand. They will not be written off so easily, already, only three months after the blaze, tufts of green leaves adorn their less ravaged limbs; they will be back! Like the landmark Western Town that is already being rebuilt, and the ants that are already busy gathering who knows what from the ashes, and the butterflies.

Zigzagging haphazardly from bloom to bloom, migrating painted ladies cross my path by the dozen. They see me coming, I know, and they tease me; one after the other they land as if to rest, or pose, on a goldfield, I think, only to take off as soon as I approach. I’ve tried talking to them, slowing down my approach, waiting for them to land in frame, all to no avail. Either they’re camera shy or in a hurry. I guess when you’ve got thousands of miles to cover and only a limited time to do it, optics are not a priority. Besides, I don’t care, I get ensnared into their dance, a smile blooms in my soul, and eventually I take note, the ladies spend a few more seconds on the blue flowers.

Speaking of painted ladies, Abbey Lincoln recorded an album entitled “Painted Lady” and I’m spinning it right now, because life is like that, right? you look for connections. It doesn’t always work because it’s often forced, artificial, but this music is doing something very sweet to my disposition, kind of like dancing with butterflies. And when it fades, I’m left lying in the grass, happy like the poet.

The Herdsman

by Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)

trans. by Richard Zenith

I’m a keeper of sheep

The sheep are my thoughts

And each thought a sensation

I think with my eyes and my ears

And with my hands and feet

And with my nose and mouth

To think a flower is to see and smell it

And o eat a fruit is to know its meaning

That is why, on a hot day

When I enjoy it so much I feel sad

And I lie down in the grass

And close my warm eyes

Then I feel my whole body lying down in reality

I know the truth and I’m happy.