"bruce wayne campbell interviewed on the roof of the chelsea hotel, 1979" still reminds me of this summer, of sitting in the backseat as my father drives back from carmel, heading north on the freeway with the sky turning pink. first there are the dunes and the seaside pines and the eucalyptus trees and the grubby ground cover with little purple flowers. there's a little airport by the side of the highway and there's a mangled shell of a crashed plane lying in a field, and five different barns ready to tip right over, and row after row of garlic and beetroot, artichokes and strawberries, leafy and green with the sprinklers waving lazy arms of water. and then it's dark and there's a winding line of headlights, coming and going, and i know the hills are all yellow even in the dark, and i hear in my ear will sheff singing, "the warmth from the space lights illumines the sea as the laughingest mouths wetly open, but we set them sighing," and then i know i'm home, the stars hold me in all around, i forget the ground, i forget the crawling way real people sometimes are.
