Anodyne
Sunday, February 11, 2007
 

Up at eight with the dawn, grey West Coast light falling slantwise through the blinds. Gentle rain, which I mistook at first for fog. Out into Sunday. The green threads of crocus leaves screwed up through the soil. Pavement littered with every conceivable kind of debris: leaf-litter, newspaper mulch, dogshit, upchuck constellations like a trail of breadcrumbs home from the bar. A pair of feet, the soles caked black with dirt, protruding from a sleeping bag outside the big hotel. In an alley, burst black bags of trash, last night's curry takeout spilled out, yellow, as if the bags themselves are sick, trying to hurl up their insides. A meth head on a bicycle, shirtless, unshaven, clad only in sneakers and a flapping blue pair of track pants. Two huge bags of bottles precariously balanced front and rear. He wobbles past, conducting a high-volume disagreement with someone or something I can't see. "THEY'VE GOT TO TURN THAT FUCKING RADIO DOWN," & etc. Another half block of single-sided argument and one of the bags cuts loose. A Chuck Jones sound effect: breaking glass, amplified by the alley walls. Two dozen breaking bottles sounds exactly like someone's car window being smashed. Every car alarm in the vicinity chimes in in imaginative sympathy.
- posted by cjb @ 10:16 AM


<< Home

Powered by Blogger

.post-title { display: none!important; }