White-tailed kite. Wet.

And not happy.

Ducks. Wet.

And all's right with their world.

If you're a journalist, you've no doubt known those editors who can't help holding a grudge against columnists who get to work from home. One such editor in San Francisco somewhat famously took after a female columnist at the leading local daily who had amassed a large following by writing about her personal life.

When this editor (a new hire who made everyone in her department re-apply for their jobs; yeah, you know the type) took away the writer's column and assigned her to a beat, she said no one was going to "sit around writing in their jammies" on her watch.

I'm here to tell you that these photos, one from the living room, one from the shower, and one out on the patio, were all just shot by someone in their jammies.

Headed home on a Saturday that started in fog, turned sunny and bright, then handed down this sunset, sky smeared red:

Redder:

Reddest:

Rain on the way means a beautiful sunrise, and if today's colors are any indication, you should locate your umbrella.

The Pacific was as still as I've ever seen it, glassy, like a lake.

Meanwhile, pink was spreading.

And when a tiny wavelet rolled to shore, it was so silent here you could hear the hiss of foam as it hit the sand, as the bubbles burst, as the water pulled back and went quiet again.

It used to be we'd drive up Kanan or Las Virgenes to the 101 and get on the appropriate onramp. Since falling madly in love with Mulholland Highway, though, it has become the first leg of the east or west commute.

And as to why, here's exhibit A. And B.

A swath of fog, thick and gray, has slung its bulk across the horizon. Here's what greeted early risers this weekend:

Then the sun rose and the fog slunk back, first a bit, then a bit more, and by the time we had threaded our way through four highways and a couple of boulevards, the view from the South Bay looked like this.

Ahhh.

And look -- there's Point Dume!

To thank the people whose donations helped build Legacy Park, the city of Malibu had their names carved into a series of pillars at the edge of the property:

The very last line on the very last pillar thanks the members of the Zilinskas family, who appear to have (or are grateful to) an invisible roommate:

We were talking last night about the pleasures of Thanksgiving, not the least of which is, despite retailers' best efforts, it's a holiday that resists commercialization. The menu is set and the elements humble. The bird, the stuffing, root vegetables, cranberries, gravy, a bread basket, even the pie, it's all of it affordable. If you go a little nuts, the greatest damage is likely to the kitchen (and the waistine) and you've still fed a hungry horde AND come away with a week's worth of leftovers.

No such luck with Christmas. You don't get to suddenly see the days are so short, a few strings of lights will ward off the early dusk. The luxury of realizing you physically crave the holiday's rich, deep colors, which then sends you to the closet or basement or attic where the decorations are stored, is gone. Instead, marketing masterminds play a cynical game of chicken -- if Thanksgiving's not too soon to decorate for Christmas, how about mid-November? Or Halloween? Then they mug you with trees and stars and stockings and carols, out of time and out of season, dangle mistletoe over your head so they can lift your wallet while you're looking for the kiss.

The meme is that holiday blues are about expectations and family (or the lack thereof) but I think it's more primal. We're wired to light, tied to its ebb and flow, to its spectrum which, when shattered, spills color. I think we need to feel the fading of days, feel the dark arrive a bit sooner each night. Then, we choose when the first lights go up, when the first candles get lit, when the recipes come out, when the wreaths get hung.

Christmas in our own time, at our own pace, on our own terms. Now there's a gift.

A misty sunrise:

A silvery beach:

The glassy face of a breaking wave:

A salty dog:

And the not-so-hidden subtext to the fact that I miss my kitchen is that I miss my house. But most of all? I miss living in a trailer park. (Somewhere on the east coast, the very nice French lady who raised me just fainted. Can someone please give her a hand?)

More on that (the trailer park) tk.

Have I shown you this before? (Am losing track, what with the move, the move, and oh yeah, you guys? I moved!)

A friend says it's a favorite spot for holiday cards, that at any time of year you'll see families posed for the camera, a perpetual mountain Christmas.

Color in the mountains as cool autumn temps stop the flow of chlorophyll and as the green mask drops away, the leaves' true colors start to show.

I gave away tons of stuff when I moved, and sold some and threw some away. But this pile of white sea glass, collected over the years along Malibu's beaches, today it went back to the sea.

In case you need any extra incentive to support your local indie book stores, our very own Diesel Books in Malibu (want a map?) is having its annual "we love you, now please have some pie" party on Sunday. And during the event, all books in the store are 20 percent off.

Let the rest of the nation go nuts at the big box stores on Black Friday. You can fulfill holiday wishes on the much more civilized (and delicious) Pie Sunday.

I can't help think that someday, in the digital future, the printed-on-paper word will be subversive.

Ahh, that was nice. Rain, at last. And this morning, blue all around, sky and sea and clouds.


Bass notes on the far horizon:

A bit alto-y closer to shore:

This one you can feel as much as hear:

And then look what happened:

Crazy.

Figuring out the lay of the land here at the new spot. The beach in front feels odd, narrower than what we're used to in the Cove, and with more houses.

Behind us is the hill that shields this little street from the noise of PCH. Climb up and there's a dirt road, plenty of trees and ground squirrels and bunnies.

This was the view this morning, the Santa Monica bay all gray and still.

Please don't ask me the name of this tree. (But if you know, please do tell me.) It sits in a field that has, over the years, been slated for various types of development. Thus far, though not as pink as in years past, the tree has prevailed.

One plus of waking at the crack of dawn? You're first to the beach.

Not a footprint in sight.

For a minute, anyway.

You'd think an hour of running and swimming and rolling around would be plenty for the Little Dog, that she'd be content to simply walk home, rinsed clean in the surf.

You'd be wrong.

A restless night. Outside, wind and more wind tossing palm fronds, forcing waves to shore. Inside, sparks flying from the fur of a cranky cat, the pacing of a fretful dog, and a pile of books for insomnia, my new best friend.

Here's the sky this morning, where all of the above continue, unabated.

The closest I've come to running a marathon (remember when Sara Catania trained for a marathon and wrote about it on LA Observed?) is wishing that I wanted to want to. Today, a few thousand runners -- including a few hundred from the it's on/it's off storm-canceled New York Marathon -- are in town, making me wishing that wish again. So far, no luck.

So here's the finish line in the Zuma Beach parking lot, coming close--

...closer--

...and even closer. You're almost there!

Lots of info about the Malibu Marathon at the official web site here, and in google news.

Up early enough today that this camper was one of only two vehicles parked in what passes for downtown Malibu. Feeling cranky, what with piles of boxes to unpack and this lingering case of insomnia. Feeling put upon.

And then I read the note on the dash.

From the little black-and-white water bird afloat in the pewter sea...

...to my favorite mountain sycamore, every day more golden, it's a chilly autumn morning here in Southern California.

Moody blue horizon as clouds bested sun.

We saw gliding flights of pelicans:

The briefest streak of gold:

And all the while, an east wind, photog weak with laughter, Tiny Labrador not amused.

At Casa Mulholland, the shells and sea glass felt like nostalgia. Here at the new place they're a reminder to go outside.

Hello, Malibu. How lovely you look (and sound and feel and smell) this morning.

We had no dsl at the house yesterday so for the first time in years, I missed a day of posting. From dawn until dusk it was all boxes and bubble wrap (as well as a growing certainty that stuff in a dark closet breeds more stuff) so really, you dodged a bullet. A linty, sweat-stained bullet.

Anyone who has ever moved (and isn't planning to again in the near future) is right now offering up profound thanks that corner of the garage (or basement or closet) can remain untouched.

Everywhere you look, it's autumn. On the mountain path:

In the sycamore's leaves:

As sunlight breaks on the lake.

You guys? I rented a house. On the beach. (Well, it's one row behind the houses that are actually on the sand, but still.) You hear the waves from every room, feel the sea breeze on your skin. Walk 100 yards and there you are, at the edge of the ocean.

Escrow on the mountain house closed yesterday so right now, I'm writing to you not only as an insomniac, but as a renter as well. And despite my longings for New Mexico (it's where I moved from when I came to SoCal to write for the OC Reg, and years later, in times of stress, I still get homesick) it turns out my longing for Malibu is even stronger.

More stories (and decorating! Seriously, have you met this blog?) tk.