Scattered about like musical notes, blackbirds randomly rest upon telephone wires, chirping out a morning ditty incongruent with their positions. Distantly, traffic snores. A sleepy sun pushes its way northward into a boy-baby blue sky. Morning addiction gurgles from the kitchen as something aromatically South American drifts into my bedroom.
Two hours from now, I will sit inside a rolling fishbowl surrounded by hundreds of other frustrated souls hoping to conquer L.A.s overpopulation issue. Fist-banging, finger-raising, over-aggressive lane changes – sans gratuitous wave – from high-finance cowboys hyped up on triple espressos and hoping to eke out four figure commissions before the sun reaches vertical, desperate pleading squinty-eyed gazes from constipated housewives who’d be ever grateful if I could find a way to slow down enough to let them stick in their SUV’s noses, the 1974 Toyota pickup – top end speed 37mph – whose unbelievable level of landscaping refuse pushes skyward like a distended Jiffy Pop bag (Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout reference almost avoided), and me, choosing to entertain myself with the dawn’s dramatis personae rather than succumb to the internal angst such circumstance demands. The velocity of this city astounds.