I thought of you on my way home last night. It was the part of the road that is constantly moving due to our arrogance and the Earth’s wrath. We call it “The Bumpy Road.” There is this one hill at the very beginning or the very end, depending which direction you are driving. I like to drive fast enough so that I feel my heart jump a little bit. My sister once criticized me for this. I go slower when she is in the car now.
Yesterday, I wrote a sentence about you. I wrote about a man that I once loved. I guess it was less about you and more about the idea of love in my past. You were part of that. You are part of that.
As I passed the century plant in the median I remembered once telling a friend that they are called that because they only bloom once every century. That seems extreme to me. Only blooming every century. How do they exist if they only have the ability to reproduce once every 100 years? I could have sworn somebody told me that once.
My yellow headlights moved on as my radio played only static. This part of the road eats all the Los Angeles radio stations and spits out the fuzz balls. I try to figure out whether silence or fuzz is better. Tonight I chose silence for a moment. Hence the memories of century plants and you.
In college I used to enjoy going to coffee shops and stare out the windows. This may be why my grades suffered. For the first time life felt so alive. All I wanted to do was live it. Go talk to the man with the painted finger nails or go dance in the rain. Not the romantic kind where you still look presentable after and twirl around in your graceful, twirlable dress. I mean the kind where you go out and look straight up as though daring God to make you feel this way always. Your make up runs. Your movements are hard and awkward, with many right angles. People look. You know they aren’t judging. You know deep down they want to join in that jagged rain dance.
It just rained here. I didn’t dance. There is a hill on Western Ave. that should have sheep on its side. Or goats maybe. I like goats. It’s weird how agile they are. The rain has convinced the hill to imitate those of Ireland or Scotland or England. The UK in general. It’s a crisp green. Not the green of palm trees or pine trees or broccoli. It is young and fleeting. It does not have the luxury of lasting and so it has to be memorable now. Sometimes I feel this same urgency.
I continued driving. The ocean was to my right. There was no moon. It looked like a black wall at first, but then transformed into a deep abyss once your eyes adjusted, deciphering distance again. There are large mansions to my left. They have a good view. Some have told me the one on the corner has a bowling alley in it. This I find extreme just like the Century plant. I guess extremes need to exist, so that we can define our boundaries.
Love is hard to write about. Not the friend kind or the family kind, but that other kind. That other kind is hard to put into words. I’m not sure I understand it completely. You I loved I think. Despite my talk of century plants and dancing in the rain and silence vs fuzzy, I think I probably loved you. If for no other reason, than you loved me too.