is it dawg or is it cat, is it this or is it that, is it love or is it fleeing, is it mind or does it matter, when the times go fast and rather, do we think or do we feel, which comes first, what is most real, if we think it, is it faker, than just feeling nature taker (nature taker) you talk in your rhymes and rythems, those mathematical dimensions, articulation of divine, when the real is where there’s laughter, oh you takers of the mind, would you give us all the times, give us back our nature laughter, ha ha ha ha what you after..
The alarm buzzed her awake, or was it her phone? She let her mind drift in that dreamy state between sleep and obligation, eyes half open, the sound of heavy rains streaming full force down her windowpane. This time it was her phone.
“Have you looked outside yet,” asked Mark, her co-worker who lives just a few blocks away and sometimes carpools her to work. His voice had a tinge of excitement. “Holy shit.. I just walked down to get a cup of coffee and the panhandle is lined with fallen trees everywhere. Paige & Hayes Streets are totally blocked by trees!”
Her room was warm and felt cozier than normal with the strong sounds of rain and wind. She cuddled further beneath the blanket and with her big toe, held open the curtain to see the day’s beginning. Grey. Dark. She pulled the covers over her head and held the phone close to her ear.
“You can’t fuck with nature,” he went on. “Want a ride today?”
A half hour later, Mark beeped the horn and she hopped into the passenger seat. Most of the traffic lights were completely out and they had to zig zag through the city to get to the highway. Everywhere the ground was moist, soaking in the storm, curbs became puddles, manholes became lakes,
countless trees uprooted laying about so beautifully and dead.
She felt a deep sadness in her heart and the last thing she wanted to do was work at the computer in her cubicle on the 12th floor without a window. They waited for the elevator but it was not working, so they hiked the long haul up the stairs. A good sign, they both thought, excited about the possibility of having a day off. Sure enough, the phone lines were not working and they were told to go home. “Yippeeee..,” she buzzed, and agreed with her boss that you can’t really run a public relations firm without phone lines. Eagerly, they flew down the stairs and into the car with a feeling of elation as they drove back to the city, still dark, still grey, trees down, lights mostly out, bed still warm and waiting. She cuddled back into the bed that was her cave and entered into that deep dream state without restraints of a buzzing clock.
When she awoke a few hours later, the rain had stopped and she felt that the day was a gift to explore and enjoy, almost like a dream. She threw on some jeans, a hoody, pair of comfortable sneakers and started for the door.
“Hey sweetie.. you got off from work today?” asked Tina, the only roomate she really liked in this big, old victorian beauty of a house. Everyone else, she would try to avoid — the glassmaker artsy couple who drank cheap red wine every night just before the breakout of a dramatic fight, doors slamming, yelling down the hall — “but honey, I love you, really..” The aspiring MTV v-jay from Santa Barbara who sported multiple chique outfits a day, drifting between acid and ecstasy, this club and that one. She was a nice enough girl but just so removed from her world.
Tine was sweet and real, an ex-exotic dancer turned bike messenger and bass player for a rockin’ band that was just starting to play out. New to San
Francisco and just out of college with a somewhat professional job, she wondered if she would ever fit in.
“Yes, got the day off.. thinking about taking a long walk in the park..” she said.
“Wait.. I have something for you,” said Tine, fumbling in her purse and handing her a freshly rolled joint.
“Wow, thanks!” She was not much of a smoker but the day seemed somewhat special. Tine handed her a book of matches and smiled goodbye, as she left for the door on route to Golden Gate Park. The four short blocks to the park were strangely desserted and adorned with tree branches, little rivers
flowing freely in the sidewalk crevices, old wisdom trees taking last breaths as roots were cut from the earth. The panhandlers and street kids were nowhere to be seen and the park itself was abandoned by people. Only the softer sounds of birds and stillness, her light footsteps, the occasional wind
sweeping forth branches and flowers abound. She walked deeper into the park, feeling very small in this big powerful world with a feeling of deep appreciation and awe for the storm that created all of this beautiful magic.
She found the perfect spot to toke up in the Japanese gardens. She sat on a large, heart-shaped rock overlooking a pond in complete silence. She could see her reflection intersperersed with water lilies. She noticed that her eyes seemed more awake then normal. She toked. She sighed. She cried. She sat in the beauty of silence for a very long time before noticing him. Underneath a twisting Japanese maple with branches winding up to the sky as if in a blissful dance was a beautiful Asian man. His arms were spread wide, flowing slowly with birds lined up and down each arm to the shoulders. He moved slowly and the birds moved with him in a dance of peace. He was wearing some
sort of traditional Asian costume, white, and his eyes were filled with pure light as he smiled at her. She smiled back and a warm feeling of peace filled her heart, replacing the sadness with the beauty of understanding the power of nature, death and decay, love and light, stillness and peace.
She smiled, thinking of Mark. “No, you really can’t fuck with nature,” she thought.
Waiting at the busy Jewel Avenue bus-stop, hoping to grab a gypsy cab to take me nowhere faster, the little latina girl clung to the back of her mama’s legs.. I thought she was shy but turns out she was being coy only for la luna..
The sky — cobalt blue; the time — transitory, not quite dusk, not yet dark.. just then, the little girl emerged from behind her mama’s pant legs and screamed, “Where’s my moon, where’s my moon?” Waving her arms, laughing, doing a little hop.. “Where’s my moooon?”
Mama tried to calm her down.. “Tranquillo, Ava, tranquillo..” Then mama shrugged her shoulders and shook her head with a smile of adoration. “Where’s my moon? Where’s my moooooon?” the little girl demanded.
Just then, I saw her, as if it were the very first time.. La Luna, white and glowing in her radiant splendor, appeared fully from behind a cloud.. “There’s my moon.. There’s my moon..,” the little girl shrieked with delight.
Gypsy cab came and went. Bus arrived and I got on, looking through the window to the dark sky to the bright glowing lady of love called La Luna.. noting her chisseled face.. and finally, seeing my own reflection of brightness in La Luna..
There’s a clock on the corner above the building that chimes every hour ’till midnight. There’s an alley behind my apartment where drunk people gather between sets to get stoned. Outside my window is a storefront with a vacant sign; another with colorful pieces of blown glass, bowls mostly, as a squirrel climbs to the limb of a tree staring at me.
It’s dark except for moonlight waxing to fullness and Venus is high in the sky tonight. I take another sip of wine, cheap Chianti, and contemplate whether to join the festivities a few doors down or watch reruns of bad 80′s sitcoms, the ones with recorded laughter in the background set perfectly on cue.
I lean towards the latter, as I hear snip-its of conversation filter through the evening air; the band making tuning noises calling in the crowd. “Hey — you’ve got a cigarette I can bum?” “Yo, dude, Maddi’s wasted!” “After party at my place.. BYOB!” Annoying laughter and the almost beginnings of a fist fight broken up by the high-pitched squealing sound of a girl stepping in to protect her man.
The chaos quiets as someone pukes at my doorstep. 80′s sitcom it is, I decide, and flip on the telly. The phone rings. I know it’s you and don’t pick up. You don’t leave a message and my mind wanders to that place of wondering why you called. Next, a knock on my door. You know I’m home because the light is on. Tonight, I made sure to lock the door. I wait tensely as my phone rings again and then more knocking. I can tell you’re drunk because of the wild rhythms of your knocking, so determined, a little angry.
“I know you’re home. Stop hiding,” I hear from the window as the band revs up the tunes with the muted sound of the crowd cheering ‘em on. “Go away,” my fingers spell back. And you do — a little too easily as always. In the moment Horschak belts out a one-liner and does his famous drone chuckle, my heart stops and then begins again with that anticipated recorded studio laughter. I can go on this way, I think — on again, off again — with one press of the remote control, one text. I can zap you away simply by not answering the phone, not leaving my home, and staying wedged in this dark apartment with my cheap bottle of Chianti, drowning the sorrows with Horshack’s laugh, killing the bottle, resting head on pillow, not yet wet with tomorrow’s tears, learning how to say goodbye, again and again — like a rerun that’s right on cue.