Sun-strolling through the manicured universe of LA: grass so green and well-clipped it seems like a set, a pseudo version of nature; palm trees; oddballs; arid plants; traffic lolling in wide, trashless streets. The ocean a band of dull blue stretching from the shore to the horizon. Dust coloured beach split by the concrete expressway along which whizz rollerskating and bicycle riding ants (or so they seem from here). People power-walk through the park, listening to their ipods, stretch in leotards against pristine park benches or talk hip-fisted on wireless headsets. I have to ask – doesn’t anyone work in LA?
Everything seems new, everything fake, as if this city and all the people in it are acting out some massive play. Is it all here for my benefit? I like to think so.
(Why are the lampposts numbered?)
A man lights his pipe, sucks one, two, three puffs, and strolls on. A tall man behind a long lense snaps some towering palms. I crunch down on the small, organic Pacific Rose I just bought in the farmers market. The sun shines – people worship her or hide from her in the damp shade of the palms. Strolling past me waft multi-lingual vocalisations; people power by in walking shorts and bras, unashamedly underdressed in this human zoo; men meander in matching hats; middle-aged women walk their dogs, young women walk themselves; the smell of burning rubber (from where?); the burn of sun on skin (where is my sunblock?); the irony of a coldsore (wasn’t it just 3 days ago that I threw out the Zovirax?); shadow of bird skirts the grass at my feet; tickle of unseen creature on my exposed lower back (ants?); everybody is blond, taut, sweat-gleaned, in running shoes and skin-tight lycras…
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THE FIRST DRAFT 