Sep 17 24
In the morning, we notice one of the sprinkler heads is clogged. An arced blobby jet of water is spilling onto the sidewalk, creating a river along the curb, down the steep hill. At a minute scale, it is likely wreaking havoc — though a possible godsend to the errant curbside weed or parched microscopic garden. We’ll have to spend the afternoon fiddling to fix it.
Later from a seat in the shade: the sumptuous variegated swaying of overlapping foliage. Spear palms waving stiffly like a queen’s hand against trembling bottlebrush branches. A eucalyptus trunk rocking upwards behind a nearly still box hedge. Scraggly sycamores creaking to and fro.
In the evening, from a hill-high window — a few approaching, yellow-lighted cars and a few departing red-lighted cars meander along some curves of Sunset Boulevard, and disappear. Above them (and the dark foliage and distant twinkling buildings and the bunches of quasi urban/suburban houses that typify Los Angeles) is a starless middling grey sky. Beyond this banal veil, as far as humans are able to conceive, is apparent infinity. It is likely that those people in the cars, and most of the people inside and in bed, are not thinking about the interminable crevices and scenarios of the cosmos.
In our bed, before drifting off to sleep, two vague memories alight from preschool. The first, we are sitting at a table with other children, for some sort of snack break. At the center of the table is a pitcher of apple juice and a plate of vanilla wafers. Without thinking we take the pitcher and start drinking from it. A boy says “you can’t do that” we put it back realizing that what he said makes sense. Surprisingly we recall the moment as not being embarrassing at all. The other memory is of popping out a kind of large plastic tube for kids to crawl through. We slide out of one end on our back, just enough so that our head pops out. A girl we are friendly with, is lying on the top, her head popping over the upper edge as much as ours, her dark hair hanging down and shading her kind face — in a kind of temporary cubby. She lets out a little glob of clear spit. We catch it in our mouth. After, each of us goes about our business playing elsewhere as though it never happened. Atypically, it is another memory devoid of shame and embarrassment.
After this, we sleep, which always seems something akin to joining the sky — but of course isn’t — but perhaps just the sky of our head.
Later from a seat in the shade: the sumptuous variegated swaying of overlapping foliage. Spear palms waving stiffly like a queen’s hand against trembling bottlebrush branches. A eucalyptus trunk rocking upwards behind a nearly still box hedge. Scraggly sycamores creaking to and fro.
In the evening, from a hill-high window — a few approaching, yellow-lighted cars and a few departing red-lighted cars meander along some curves of Sunset Boulevard, and disappear. Above them (and the dark foliage and distant twinkling buildings and the bunches of quasi urban/suburban houses that typify Los Angeles) is a starless middling grey sky. Beyond this banal veil, as far as humans are able to conceive, is apparent infinity. It is likely that those people in the cars, and most of the people inside and in bed, are not thinking about the interminable crevices and scenarios of the cosmos.
In our bed, before drifting off to sleep, two vague memories alight from preschool. The first, we are sitting at a table with other children, for some sort of snack break. At the center of the table is a pitcher of apple juice and a plate of vanilla wafers. Without thinking we take the pitcher and start drinking from it. A boy says “you can’t do that” we put it back realizing that what he said makes sense. Surprisingly we recall the moment as not being embarrassing at all. The other memory is of popping out a kind of large plastic tube for kids to crawl through. We slide out of one end on our back, just enough so that our head pops out. A girl we are friendly with, is lying on the top, her head popping over the upper edge as much as ours, her dark hair hanging down and shading her kind face — in a kind of temporary cubby. She lets out a little glob of clear spit. We catch it in our mouth. After, each of us goes about our business playing elsewhere as though it never happened. Atypically, it is another memory devoid of shame and embarrassment.
After this, we sleep, which always seems something akin to joining the sky — but of course isn’t — but perhaps just the sky of our head.