March 19th, 2012. A toasty R.V. park suspended on a large ridge like hill, green and rolling. It faces upon the beautiful rolling waves of the ocean, white roam radiating throughout the deepest depths, a calm suddle time of the day, a sunset approaching the misty sun above, pink and red making an appearance as their tints approach the phenomel horizon...all this beauty, wonder and glory for the Great Creator. We travel inside a greyish sandy fiberglass rectangle, a motor home. And the scene is ruined by a dirty tile floor, heaps of clothes and papers, barbies, blankets, and bucketloads of random items, with an air mattress stretching horizontally, a futon, and no room in this makeshift bedroom. Classic books balance on a wood trim and the cushions leather material on one side, and on the other barbie shoeboxes and containers rest pleastanly above a raggedy haired child, a brown haired girl of ten. Spread out and comfortable, a red haired 13 year old breathes slowly and rythmetally. We hear the whizz of urine on a toilet as a 60 year old father washes his hands and moves his flat feet to his Toshiba computer, then sits down in the small wooden chair, surrounded by cables and stuff, different technology and maps for the next planned venture of the Bourne family. Our ears wince to the sound of the click of a light coming on, as the mother turns the pages of a wonderful Amish story, a bestseller she just got from her stack of books she slowly digests on the big trip. Her newly bought iPad is also used frequently that morning. The red haired boy wakes up, as the mother goes to take out the dogs with him. They enjoy the beautiful morn that they find themselves in as the girl continues sleeping, the Dad, typing away, searching R.V. parks on the internet. As they return, anxious cold dogs dashing inside, running under the beds, the girl wakes up and is immediatley ordered to push her futon in. Relunctancly and after many askings she does what she is told, and then the narrator stops doing the over detailed introduction as Andrew steps in to tell it as he saw it happen. Go ahead, Andrew.
Thanks, sir. I kinda liked being referred to as the red haired boy. Oh well. We took showers quickly and got ready for our appointment at Look Effects that day. That was our reason of taking the daring trek to Malibu, was to meet Mark Driscoll, who was friends with the Gould's, who Mom and Dad are friends with. It was a visit I was excited for and was to cherish, although Rebecca could not say the same. Mark Driscoll was in charge of a visual effects company, who make the graphics and animation for movies such as the Muppets and the King's Speech, but we'll talk about that later. For now, let us focus on the introduction. Mrs. Gould had arranged the appointment, and we dressed nicely for the time at his building ahead. I imagined a cubicle like setting, with business people in suits and offices, plush waiting rooms, fancy prim secretaries, and a stern business like boring man who smelt of coffee and money...boy was I ever wrong.
Finishing that Ireland book in the morning, I now decided to read a quick one that Westin had given to me about a kid in the Civil War called Soldier's Heart or something of the sort. It was by an author I really hate the writing of, Gary Paulsen, who has gory terrible bloddy scenes and a lot of death and destruction, but hey, it was really short, would be a good transition from the last hard book I had read, and besides I had to read it because my friend gave it to me. So I took it with me for the longish drive to Look Effects.
Nothing of large importance, or any importance, to talk of the journey. Just a few docks by the harbor, and some nice boats that we looked at, and a tree filled road down to it. The white sailboats with pasty finished paint and rich sails shined pleasantly in the noonday sun. We went to several neighborhoods and chunky set of buildings in the town, with painted stone and that regular urban style. This was of course after leaving the rural Malibu, that has barely a town, just a few people living around in houses. I read the horrid book of the Solider's Heart, with blood and battle, bayonets and fat black rounds, gunpowder and amputated legs. If I was a little queasier(I got less weak on the trip), I would have barfed at the grossness of it all. Paulsen reveals the deepest corners of grunge and goryness, not the beautiful parts of nature or the comedic mistakes of man, the vastness of an ocean, or the denseness of a pretty forest. No, Paulsen focues on violence and death. After surviving the whole ordeal of destruction and death in the Civil War, which is the worst War in American History, and losing a leg, the pitiful creature who ached for war in the beginning wanting glory, the main character ends the pain and misery and pulls a small Derrainger trigger to his temple. Ouch. I do not recommend the short book to anyone, and I was sad to read it that day on the way over. However, I would soon be cheered up.
