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Sing With Me If It's Just For Today...
If I should fall behind, Guyster, wait for me.
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.



10 comments or Leave a comment
tedwords From: tedwords Date: July 2nd, 2007 01:41 am (UTC) (Link)
Sounds like the makings for a perfect day.
creactivity From: creactivity Date: July 2nd, 2007 02:11 am (UTC) (Link)
Miss you.

Today I sweated even when I was sitting still.
mwittier From: mwittier Date: July 2nd, 2007 02:21 am (UTC) (Link)

If all of us were to blow at once in your direction, maybe your chimes'd chime.

Ahh, there you are.
guysterrules From: guysterrules Date: July 2nd, 2007 02:48 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: If all of us were to blow at once in your direction, maybe your chimes'd chime.

I knew you'd think of something.

"You just put your lips together and...blow."
mwittier From: mwittier Date: July 2nd, 2007 04:43 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: If all of us were to blow at once in your direction, maybe your chimes'd chime.

Mmm, Betty. She still gots it.
cricketshay From: cricketshay Date: July 2nd, 2007 03:57 am (UTC) (Link)
stutts From: stutts Date: July 2nd, 2007 04:44 am (UTC) (Link)

How's your housemate?
littlezen From: littlezen Date: July 2nd, 2007 06:53 pm (UTC) (Link)
I am sorry, hon. This entry reads like a breeze made of melancholy.
calamityjake From: calamityjake Date: July 2nd, 2007 10:23 pm (UTC) (Link)
Sad, but it's just a house. It's just STUFF. You can always buy new stuff. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about: I buy a lot of stuff.
gotu From: gotu Date: July 3rd, 2007 01:51 pm (UTC) (Link)
One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

10 comments or Leave a comment