and we're off: palm trees with mullets, road like a fat gray ribbon, striped with glittering cars.
into the chalk drawing of my three-paneled tryptich, from left to right: the top corner of a human dwelling space, the bigscreen freeway where cars wait, idle, zoom over a hill that vanishes on the horizon, and a tree with a combover crossed by white plastic window panes. first stop: here comes the sun. plopped on a wooden patio replete with chalk drawings -- messages of peace, floral depictions, and solar hieroglyphics in honor of the establishment. yards from the highway, reclining in frontrow spectatorship, cars like contractions -- one, twooo, threee -- dashing down the coast.
a viewing. a wake.
we sat in sturdy plastic thrones: a mad tea party with adirondack chairs.
your wallet looks right at home, he said.
sure enough, it posed in shameless kitsch against a mud colored pot, shaded by the grass skirt shadow of a dying succulent. aztec red, cross-stitched and acceptably worn in all its thrift store glory -- it napped lacking only a cactus, sombrero y cerveza. feet up: sandcrusted like sugar donuts. walled off from the traffic.
birds have died here.we witnessed one CRACK its neck--a dirty trick of the avian eye. a deceptive horizon beckoned them from the rooftop -- each diving head-first SMACK into the invisible forcefield. be still, let the heart take its vital roll call, all systems check. pink clawed feet retract from the crash, like baby hands burned on a hot stove, lesson learned. little wheels are pulled into heaving feathered breasts, frightened eyes, visions of blue skies and giants. fretting, feathers flexing like useful goosebumps, the bird scanned around for escape routes. flit. gone.
how can you text at a time like this? you're sitting in a plastic lawn chair, the ocean is just behind that glass, we're live in 3, 2, 1...
nothing like a city of ghosts to kick the lid shut. childhood. high heels tramping around downstairs, or on the roof, does she EVER just sit still? stare through her own glass, watch the world go by like a dream mobile?
here comes the sun roadside coffee...where life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain. charades: mother orders daughter, daughter fires mother in mock punishment for screwing up the drinks. mother knocks on the window with the broom handle, a cartoon pout and slouch. daughter forgives and rehires, finishes writing out the lyrics of another george harrison song -- one word purple, one word yellow...purple yellow purple yellow -- a new song entirely. on the wall, a clipboard with pages of compliments written on tabs, words of encouragement in lieu of digits for banjo lessons, lost kittens, pathways to wild wealth. were compliments like fortune cookies? one calls louder than the others: let all that does not matter, truly slide. slide. devil's slide: when we were six and seven, the entire house shook like the rippled reflection of trees on water. dad was on his bike, somewhere near devil's slide, and didn't feel a thing.
nostalgia tour resumes: high on a hill of orange ice plant, where drowning by ocean or spanking by my own mother was a guarantee, dare we scale that hill alone.
hold the phone. fingers pressed against thick glass: a separation of sound, filtration of frequencies, no way to whisper requests or share secrets. contact would be limited: memories captive. stand back, cotton candy face, watch the world like a pacing lion--matted, blurred, sedated under inches of dust but caged nonetheless. the nostalgia tour meets a woman in a red car...she's lived here for 20 years, bought it when the house was the color of driftwood, when the entire facade had to be replaced: wood rot. life on the beach! a salty shrug.
where is the abalone man? his collection must have come under the scrutiny of a more conscientious townsfolk. roads are still unruly, the soil still impossible. would you like to see inside? no.
miles down the road, to the spanish fishing village -- a southern anomaly packed with antiques, a red rusted birdcage with twisted spindles, a rampant bulldog known for biting visitors, and a general store. church was locked up tight, ladies streaming out the backdoor in hats, erected exactly 147 years and two days before he was born. seedstore. two oval ova that saw two weeks of sunlight each, then thought better of it and hunched over, nodded into death. sleeping seahorses, tails locked in the shape of a heart, better that way.
nos tal gia tour. two kites crossed their lines -- one in texas, the other in new york. one was called gia -- her eyes were always large enough to fall into, great puddles of molasses. all stories are serious and all inquiries hysterical when your eyes rival aliens. gia on main, a close almost, a close cut of the eyes -- might have escaped blindness, might have loved a normal love. both kites knew eachother, without realizing they had a third kite in their midst -- a butterfly kite, swallowtail bound for tulum.
nosotros sampled wine, fruit hybrids, farmers cutting peaches with pocket knives, dirt under their nails, added colors and flavors. why is everything described as savory these days? leeks, are savory. onions, savory. was savory a flavor -- not something you do? savory lingers on the tongue, shadows all flavors to follow, dampens bitter and makes you cry.
tal taller tallest trees i've ever seen. que tal? what happened and what is up? pescaderos catching comets in their nets, a summer snow, selling samples. aurora borealis. birds again! red turkey hawks, those damn RTH's, swooping in, we'll take them out. orange toys, fighter jets, mini UFOs with eight propellors and a viewing window on a tripod. up up up and arms crossed, eyes skyward -- bored birds amused on the hilltop, picking fights with hobbyists.
nostalgia winds to a close. stillborn seeds upside down in a glass cubicle, naked roots exposed in toxic moss, left to dry over london rooftops.
