I went to the park.
On the way there, I saw a man on Taylor Boulevard, driving a Model T — it was that kind of a day. Heading through the gate on the road to the lookout I saw a woman riding a butterscotch horse, she was there on the road, and then dipped down the incline into the cut and was gone. Once I hit the first pavilion, I saw an ‘88 hard-candy Chevy Caprice, whose body was fresh out the cooker, but whose rims were wack as if the owner couldn’t resist the urge to show off his creation a little too soon. I saw in the grass, on the outer rim of the lookout a pile of hawk feathers. Something had gone down. I was interested in this spot of war, and so was a little boy and the woman he was with, as he exclaimed, “Damn what happened?”
I saw two youthful men on a slick, black Japanese motorcycle, without helmets. The passenger had his arms around the driver’s chest in a tight x-hold, the right side of his face planted firmly in the driver’s back. I saw a Cuban couple in their church clothes, their two children running zigzag on the walkway, pointing at dogs and giggling, picking up sticks and tossing them, kids acting silly. Once on the lookout, looking out over Louisville, I saw all the trees that cover the city, our canopy buds and blooms, a lot of purple and its thin spots, and I looked for my brother Aaron’s house, which I am convinced I’ll see one day. There were two women to my left, sitting, talking about work, work in the morning, work from last week and work everlasting. They, too, seemed to be dressed up, as if they had come from somewhere important, or were headed there. Directly in front of me was a man and a woman. Only their heads were visible, as they were sitting on the ground, their backs up against the small horseshoe wall. They seemed sad and tired and were not speaking, just looking out and resting. To my right were three men, two college age, and one a bit older, and they seemed to be practicing dialect, a foreign language I couldn’t deduce. They would ask each other things like, “Do you like bananas?” and then respond in a broken, yet confident-filled manner. They were learning something and enjoying the methods.
At a certain point, I went and sat in my truck. I listened to Howlin’ Wolf, alternated between coffee and Norwegian tap water and wrote a diatribe on faith that I later deleted. We had watched Scorsese’s “Silence” the night before, Shelby and I, and I was heated, and I was feeling confused. I’ve known Jesuits, heard their spiel and then called their bluff.
The wind would hit in a big gush and then back down. I saw people on bicycles sucking goop from weird little packages, that health-food, corporate, hippy shit, people walking dogs, people hugging, smoking hay, and one poor soul pumping “Ice Ice Baby” as he drove by. I saw some sort of bee, and I saw a wasp, and I saw an acorn that resembled a quail egg. I saw an older man walking alone who looked exactly like Pete Rose. “Put Charlie Hustle in!” I said to myself.
I drove home and found Shelby in the backyard getting her bonsai and moss in order. The redwood is looking good and healthy. She showed me a tiny millipede, the size of a watch battery, shiny, coiled up on a bit of bark. The dogs were wandering in and out. Wata had her Frisbee in her mouth looking for someone to take the bait.
I walked into our bedroom and closed the door. It was cave dark. I laid down on the bed and briefly thought about a friend of mine who is currently incarcerated downtown. When I get paid, I’m gonna send her some money, something to get her through until her court date next month.
I could hear my neighborhood. It was beautiful outside, and folks were living it up. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
