Sitting on the curb on Main St. in my hometown, a boy looked up, stared off into the night and said, because our bodies contained similar elements as those found in stardust, our awareness of ourselves meant the universe was contemplating itself.
“Isn’t that neat?” he asked.
“I guess,” I said.
City scene: On the 110, I spot a large structure, all i-beams, shrouded in black scrim. A large section flutters open to reveal a massive Catterpillar anchored at a treacherous angle atop a pile of waste fifty feet high. The arm of the machine rises up and sweeps down, violently scooping material from one area to another. Bits of trash waft slowly through the air. The scene is gone. But it stays with me. I will revisit this scene, I think, take a closer look. Watch the horror.
City scene: I am lost and I give up. At a stoplight, I look to the right and scan the facade of an autobody shop. Nothing interesting here. I see the gaping holes of the open garages, grime and dirt everywhere. But no people. It’s hot. The sign is wood and faded with blue lettering. And then they appear, like shapes in those 3D images. You crossed your eyes a little and looked at the picture as you would something at a great distance. If you were lucky, you were rewarded with some dumb scene, a couple of giraffes or some palm trees. There, peppering the facade, were cages upon cages of small, bright birds, fluttering, chirping. Affixed to the side of the building at different heights, I hadn’t noticed them at first. There were at least fifteen of them, filled with birds. Yellows, blues, greens, flitting about.
City scene: Crime scene tape stretches across the boulevard, across six lanes. It’s the longest running length of tape I’ve ever seen. Crime Scene. Crime Scene. Crime Scene, it says over and over again and over again. Three male cops are eating, wrappers littering the hood of their vehicle. The female cop walks towards us and says we cannot get into our apartment. I am annoyed with S. for trying to follow the rules. “C’mon,” I say and start off towards a driveway, not our own. Under cover of darkness, save for the far-reaching radius of a motion-sensor light, we scamper across a few low-slung roofs, and jump down into the back of our building. We are home. We do not leave for the rest of the night. For once, it is quiet and still, the din of traffic having died down to nothing. In the morning, the tape and the cops are gone. In their place are wandering investigators in search of details and witnesses. Good-looking, local news anchors show up. There is a march. The story goes like this. A man was waving down police. His hand was wrapped in a towel. Police thought it was a gun. They shot him. In the back. In the head. During the march, people had gray towels in their hands. They were swirling them in the air.
City scene: the corner of Sunset and Hollywood. I see two cops standing near their car. They are looking at a man who is packing up his belongings. He thought he could spend the night at the side of an electrical box. He was wrong. He swiftly folds up his clothes, patting them a few times when he’s done. And then, quite suddenly, he’s on the balls of his feet, hands raised in the air, pelvis thrust forward, hips moving in a controlled, precise motion from side-to-side. His moves are illuminated by the cold white, light of a street lamp. And just as suddenly, the outburst is over. He leans over his belongings and continues packing. The cops get in their car and drive away. I laugh out loud.
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