Remembering. Pale blue corduroy legs ready to dance, run, spread, kick. Or not. Bronze statue wearing pink shirt. Formula unkown. Hotel fast foods glide between brilliant flashing and early summer shadows. Hidden walkers drift along the side of a tunnel. Or are they sleeping? Or hiding? Or dead? Do I stop, go, or reposition myself? And what made me think of blue corduroy? Oh yes, it was the song on the radio. It doesn’t matter. It’s past now. I change the station.
White sky peaking through a canyon of mud, glass, metal, broken, brooding windows that open from parking lot signs. Is this city a dirty place? Or is it just that I have been away for awhile?
This sight and these feelings are a board game, once played, mostly now forgotten. Even the winning or losing. So it really never mattered at all. Did it?
This plane of metropolitan stone and brick displays on shuttered streets are halls of memory.
Also a collection of thousands of fleeting stories from millions of faces that lay embedded inside each intersection.
Mold, musty mildew, layers of paint, colored paper dancing in a clay breeze.
Turning onto a distant Avenue, I listen to…
abandoned fixtures, frozen advertisements, chicken, tires, TIRES, brakes, BRAKES, More for Less, Azteca, human signs, stick figures walking slowly out into traffic, the smell of spices and purple falling flowers. Singing of lost love. Or freedom. Or just the color of hair feathering in a wind and slight skin folds at the corner of a mouth with a knowing smile, hint of lust, or the beginning of a laugh. The lack of clarity was what was exciting. The mystery.
I change the station and the scene shifts to transparent glazes of desire melting in a silver sun onto cracked bronze yards with hopes and dreams flailing as they hang on a line to dry. And they will dry. Quickly.
Then park. Then enter. Then forget.
By John Freeman Fish, June 2011
Written by jotting down words that popped into my mind one day as I drove through downtown Los Angeles.