Down by the bay, where the streets converge near the beach, the stories coalesce in snapshots. I enjoy looking at old black and white photographs of previous eras, mid-20th century, olden times frozen in the fashion and sparseness of things past.
Fast-forward to the roaring 2020’s. The sun tanning skins. Long creamy thighs. Vehicles and bikes sharing the road, mechanical love in the time of coronavirus. Unsuspecting tourists making their way along the seawall, where the coyotes hide in the bushes ready to snipe. Ice cream. Laughter. Bikinis. Seductive smiles. Retirees staring at the sea. It’s lovely to sit in the seafood joint with a pint as the sun goes down and drenches the west in beautiful nostalgia.
There was a weed festival the other day, and colorful characters were selling magic mushrooms and cannabis while blasting music and impassioned lectures on the politics of ecstasy.
Volleyball on the sand. The same crew always seems to be there any time and day. Perhaps they have always been there in potentia, and like Schrodinger’s cat, they materialize the moment you observe them.
Coming and going in this distant land. Even the Canada geese walk the streets with no name. Not giving a damn about the humans around them. We’re all in this together, right? So, deal with it.
