Monday, 20 July 2015

Yellow Lines

At a cafe on the edge of a parking lot, retired men in Hawaiian shirts, middle aged hipsters on bikes, and all the mainstream twenty somethings lifting Starbucks paper cups to their mouths with tattooed arms. Cars are everywhere. Parked and polished, or being driven to box stores. They've done a good job at this shopping center of making sure no plant grows wildly. Every seam between each slab of concrete has been scrubbed; every bit of detritus swept up. Green things only grow up from islands in the asphalt demarcated by a thick coat of industrial yellow paint, or from planters hanging in front of the mega stores. Next to me a tiny baby gums its mother's iPhone like it is a pacifier, covering it in drool. For a few minutes I linger here, my own paper coffee cup on the table, sitting in the sun, feeling the highland wind move across my arms and bare legs, looking toward the pine covered hills rising to the east–so dry from the drought and record heat. Smoke is in the air. Fires are burning all over the territory–hot tongues of flame reducing what was to ashes.