no beginnings

I would start at the beginning but there is no beginning. At least not one that I remember. No, that’s a lie. There are many beginnings, many encounters that all converge. They converge here, in this small rocky cove, where Stockhoff Creek trickles out of a redwood-lined gulch and spills into the Pacific Ocean. But it’s not really about this cove, either. It’s about how this cove becomes a metaphor. This cove becomes a mirror. It becomes a victim, a perpetrator, an arbiter, and an enigma. It becomes a story book, a history book, a graveyard, a cauldron, an inquiry and an appeal. It becomes a paradise.

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