underblob

We are in a speakeasy in Hollywood. There are several starlets sitting at a booth sucking on lollipops and drinking liquor from short heavy glasses. Dapper men in tuxedos stop by to chat and flirt. The starlets do not seem interested.

“Those girls are the first proliferators of syphilis in Hollywood during the roaring twenties. See that man over there,” she nods toward a very dark black man in a waiter’s uniform with a tray full of glasses. “He is patient zero. He just arrived from Ghana and will infect each of those starlets this very night.”

I realize that we are watching this scene on an old postcard that Celeste is showing to me as we are driving through the hills of Silverlake. The road is winding through the valley and there is a lake ahead. The houses are peeking down from the hills over the valley and the pink and orange sunset is reflecting on the lake. “It’s so beautiful here. Let’s live here,” I say.

I pull the car over at a tall, narrow three story house on the lake. “I want to show you this house. We should buy this house and live here,” I say to Celeste. We go inside the house to look. The rooms are small but the windows are big and the view of the lake is breath-taking. We go from room to room through each floor. When we get to the basement, we find a little baby boy wearing diapers.

“Oh look, the house comes with a baby!” The baby is happy and smiling and making goo goo gah gah sounds. We hold the baby’s hands as it clumsily walks around the basement. The baby stumbles and starts to fall. I see it’s face is filled with fear as it is falling to the floor. I catch the baby and break it’s fall, resting it gently on the floor. I tickle the baby and it starts to giggle gleefully. It is the cutest baby.

Cursive L
Looping recursive
into helix
on horizon

I live in an apartment building in London. The flat is dirty and disheveled. There are anonymous roommates and my room is full of expensive electronics and equipment. The back wall of my room has a window that reveals a view of the internal wall. We are moving out today. Everyone is packing up their stuff and I go into my room to pack my belongings. In the window that views into the wall, there is a fire. I start to panic and call 911. The line is busy. I call back and get an operator and tell her that my apartment is on fire, send the fire department. “My fucking apartment is on fire! Help! Send help!” The operator is uninterested and annoyed that a Yankee doodle is bothering her.

I go outside and cross the street to wait for the fire department and see president Obama on the sidewalk.”My apartment is on fire and the 911 operator doesn’t care. I’m not sure the fire department is going to come,” I say.

He looks into my eyes and earnestly speaks, “we must intercede in these times of crisis.”