the grass was an undulating mattress of rolling hills and generous acreage, zigzagging blades of green, surrounded and lined by silver walkways and golden sporting fields. the earth was communicating along the length of my spine. beneath a tree. pinned by gravity, cradled by soil. looking for shapes in the tree branches. listening to ringtones of tiny chirping birds, beeping perfections, sharp chortles. the afternoon sun a delightful nuisance against the playful park noises. my head was resting on a tale of two cities. the book. already preparing myself for that night's dreams.
being in a paris-like version of paris with a train stop that, on weekdays, stepped out onto onto a floor of the building within which I was staying.
everyone thinks i'm being looked at but me. oblivious. i was on stage in santa monica and i caught one. this girl, she was beaming at me through hours of sierra nevada consumption and i can still see her smile. it threatened to break free from the edges of her face. she shined light on me. in front of the crowd i told her i'm not used to seeing young vibrant women at these things, so when i see you, i see you. i see you. where have you been hiding all this time? the best place when we were young was in the clothing hamper or that dark little closet in the back of the walk-in pantry. now it's trickier, like driving around los angeles, looking through the windshield for an opportune place to make love in the car.
