Tuesday 4/7/2020 – Lana / Rear Window
A breeze-blown world in the springtime sunshine. Wish the bottom of my window wasn’t tainted with last season’s dried muddy splatter. Wish there weren’t all these child-safe window bars obscuring my view. Wish the best to the cars and bikes sailing down the street. Particularly want to appreciate the thin-boned rangy young woman with medium-brown skin and a wide-flowing mane of kinky black hair, relaxed in blue jeans, windbreaker open at the top to reveal red sweatshirt or heavy duty-T, able to sit up tall because of wide backwards-hooking chrome handlebars with thick plastic handles.
Lana del Rey and some kind of a weakness swaying in the background. We’ve got your melancholic nostalgic vaguely-infinite longing in a bottle, baby. This bottle-feeding has something to do with the info age; something to do with the contactless development of souls lost on datastreams. (No, I think it goes deeper than that.)
The outfit is a flapping white lab coat, a blue paper medical-quality showercap, and oversized white medical mask. The wind whips her open coat around. Is that coat made out of plastic? It looks vanishingly thin. Her light blue scrubs also flatter against her heavy round thighs, stomach, chest.
The outfit is a light gray pedal pushers, open tan jacket, thin light pink sweater layered over withe T-shirt, long black wavy hair, a big white face mask, all but the mask whisked and ruffled against her thin form by the wind.
Lana del Rey says she’ll love me until the end of time, and that I should promise to remember that I’m hers. She doesn’t mean me in particular. We don’t really fit, except as gently enfolding essentially aimless unanswerable longings: she surrounds me with the stuff and I cuddle appreciatively into it. It’s a relationship that works within its boundaries but not beyond. Perhaps, however, I could meet some fellow fan, and we could form our whole everlasting love affair upon this shared weakness for overripe moods. Or would that be as silly as it sounds? But, life being so short and unpredictable, is it perhaps time to reassess silliness? Maybe not really a threat to truly living, after all?
The Bus is a long white box that must go slow between the car and the double-parked white ambulance van. The joggers in black sweatshirts and (him) yellow knee-length shorts and (her) gray sweats don’t need masks. They aren’t going to get close to anyone, and economic depressions make for great air quality. The pigeons are a two and they go everywhere together, the uniformly dark gray and the light gray with the shimmering green head and the dark tail feathers. They go everywhere together, and now they strut shake and bob side by side, getting every little grain of (uncooked? is this dangerous?) rice off the cracked and uneven extra-wide sidewalk. That little tiny brown hop-hop bird is not part of their crew, but they don’t mind if he hop-hops around and gets what few grains his tininess can handle. The nice thing about these two pigeons (Israeli Rock Doves) is that forever — ever since they together tossed themselves off of the white Israel sandstone cliffs, caught the first seaglory gust and tumbled off to their life of wondrous adventure and unquestioned support — they stay together and do everything together and are the very best of friends and tell each other all their secrets, which are minimal, since they stay present and open-hearted all the time anyway and they’re just themselves anyway 100% keeping it real. Their situation is not at all like three weeks of quarantine with a still slightly wheezy chest.
The man in the yellow windbreaker bikes with a huge orange box upon his back. It’s a 2020 Pilgrim’s Progress! That vinyl-over-plastic bright orange box is his burden! Or just his job.
Author: Johnny Onnda Spott
Editorial Team: A. Whistletown / B. Willard
Copyright: AM Watson
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