7:17

7:17 am. The horizon between when I feel slightly chilly, sitting outside on the terrace in the courtyard, and when the southern Californian sun rises up in all its majesty. I wonder if there are local words here describing the sultleties, if any, of the sun here. For it would seem to me that it is either mid-day sun, or it is not. But then I am just a foreigner, accustomed to clouds which mediate my relationship to the sun.

It was a beautiful, rosy evening yesterday at the Getty. I had spent the day driving up the coastal highway, in search of what I always do here - lunch, trinkets, a shady parking spot. The sunset was soft and long. We, again waved our gallery opening invitation and our badge, and to our surprise, were directed to drive up the holy, sacred way to The Parking at the Top. Not even other researchers here at the house were permitted this. We must have done something good.

The Getty is an extraordinary setting. And it created one also. One does feel like a god or goddess in the clouds. Many beautiful people, and there was an endlesd supply of food and drink. Think that the food outlasted people's appetite. Such was the pervasive generosity that evening presented.

G showed me around this kingdom - the plants, the views, her office. Of the four walls in it, the two opposite walls each have a door to a terrace. It was a space in which the idea that fresh air, a view, and productivity need not be exclusive of each other.

Today, a bit of packing, and then the Eames House No. 8.