skonen_blades

Unfamiliar territory here.

The desert foxes struggle to stay out of the way of headlights. It's bat country but there are no caves for miles. No mountains muffle the wind’s pouting current as it tries to play with whatever lonely soul has the bad luck to be on foot. The horizon says that we are no closer to our destination than we were an hour ago. Watches have no place here.

Whittled fingerbones clatter together in prayer. There is an unending thirst afflicting the damaged, hairy neck of the human race that you can feel here. Give us doom, they say, eyes bright with Hollywood glints as they trudge to the well, only to find that you can’t carry water in a basket.

Falling stars land in Los Angeles. It’s the only big city left where you can still see them at night, eating at expensive restaurants. All the clubs along the strip are buildings with heartbeats, eating bright-eyed starlets and spewing out gutted mermaids with stitches on their lips.

Reporters turn into court stenographers and clog the telephone lines with raven letters of bad news that end up dripping out of television sets. Ink makes a drooling spectacle out of real life. All cameras are eyes of the same vain beast. Run from them.

Anecdotal evidence stripping connections out of magic like wire cutters in the hands of a greedy old electrician. Every conversation is fueled by lines to the bathroom to do lines in the bathroom. Everyone agrees that tonight is better than last night. They will agree to the same thing tomorrow.

I can’t wait to leave this place of desolate screenplay luck and smeared-makeup movie-of-the-week angst. These are the skinniest people I have ever seen with the hungriest eyes. They look like they were never young. They sport weather-person smiles while they sleep. The occasional emotion will rattle around inside them like the last marble in a jar.

I long for the stink of the forest and the company of ugly people who don’t talk very much. I have a plan in my head to burn the car and fly back two days early citing a death in the family as an excuse. It’s a melodramatic thought that doesn’t fit in my head but would look great in a movie. It’s in the very air here, sharp edges and second-act plot twists showing up in my thought processes.

The west-coast spirituality of the rich and famous curdles my simple beliefs. I feel repulsed by sunglasses that cost more than my car payments.

I think that the rest of the continent prays for the Big One that will make a broken cookie out of the left coast.

I think the locals do, too.





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