July 1st, 2007


A hot dry blue dream slips away

The wicker loveseat that I bought on a whim at Home Depot lends the perfect view of the neighborhood––tucked to the side by the leaded glass that breaks the wind from the north, as if we’d be lucky enough to have a breeze to come along and cut through this endless dry heat. The two guys who grew up in the house next door have their girlfriends over and the smell of lighter fluid is slowly wafting this way, making me hungry or lonely, or both.

There hasn’t been a cloud in the sky for nearly three weeks, a giant blue dome encasing the city in cheer and drought. The weatherman said last night that this is the driest year in the hundred and thirty years they’ve kept records of such things with a little over three inches of rain in the past twelve months. The whole city is starting to smell like dried dog pee. Or maybe it’s just my front yard.

Stephen is splayed out on the porch in front of me and Eddie found a place in the shade under the jacaranda, now naked without its pretty purple flutes. I like sitting out here, lately a when I crawl home from what’s been a very stressful few months of work and want to relax. People pass on the sidewalk, some see me, others I can spy unnoticed.

Our home in Venice is off the market, bought by a couple who are getting married at the end of August, or so says their wedding website. She’s a realtor at Sotheby’s and he’s ungoogleable. The house had been empty for so long I got used to it, used to seeing it for sale on MLS for months and months, in play, and when I saw it go into escrow sixty days ago, I could only hope that the deal would fall apart and the house would stay still waiting for my humble bid that would’ve been accepted.

I drove by it today and saw they put up a fence moderne that’s at odds with the quaint little cottage up front. They’re screwing with the exterior, too, adding sheet metal to the shingles to match the back loft. What this happy couple doesn’t seem to appreciate is that the contrast between the original beach house and the towering architectural structure above the garage is what made the property unique.

That and a thousand other things.

When I hear the slightest rustle of leaves, I let my eyes take flight up to my left to see the little wooden anchor that serves to stir the wind chimes into action. It sways a little, threatening to make contact with the metal tubes, teasing me with a possible song, but the wind is never quite enough.

The girls next door just squealed out some laughter, the lighter fluid is starting to smell like cooked beef, and I’m going to just sit here and wait for that breeze to come along and make me some music.