Nothing ever starts at the beginning. The beginning is a non-descript accumulation of events, controlled or not, a texture of happenings whose echoes somehow fall into recognizable lines in retrospect, a shadow that might announce a presence after the tea has been served. The start is the event that you understand and set your watch by.
A war starts with a bullet and an archduke, but begins with the unnoticed heightening of tensions between vendors in a border town, in a lovers’ quarrel that is not quieted by simple walls or common decency, an inopportune cough in a village church during the wrong hymn.
This all started at 7 am on the day after my 29th birthday with $300 and a ride up to the 5 North. It began when I was misplaced from the womb, a rambling and unacceptable 12 days late 29 years earlier, in the middle of the mild California winter. I imagine I was cold and I was pissed. I think that’s reasonable. It began the first time I ran away from home on my bicycle, unnoticed, mostly enticed by the thought of fresh donuts and living in the trees near Lytle Creek. I am sure that there are thousands of people who didn’t give up early and still live in the trees and shrubbery near Lytle Creek to this day, subsisting on fresh donuts and good vibes, living dreams that most people could not imagine; their unused BMX bikes rusting by the stone strewn creek bed and ignoring the memories of classic rock and Little League baseball. Not me, though.
. . .
It began with the revelation that grandpa Hicks was a casual car thief and pool hustler, nobody knows how many times Uncle Bill has been married, Uncle Ed was a champion motorcycle rider when he was already in his 50’s, Aunt Sissy knew the original Hell’s Angels, pop never told anybody about his secret Army commendations and medals, grandpa Hope raised sea otters and hunted bald eagles, and all of Carl Sandburg’s photos were taken in profile because he had a bum eye.
It began with a love of soccer, girls with big noses, songs that could make me cry, John Steinbeck, intentionally getting lost, Isabel Bishop, the atmospheric music of Brian Stearns, cheap falafel, mistreated guitars, Rebekah’s enigmatic smile, decaying industrial architecture and its implements. Especially decaying industrial architecture and its implements
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2 comments:
These are two bits, with the little dots marking the disconnection and representing some other bits of the first chapter that I've left out.
The poppies are coming, obviously it's about time for you to write some more in here.
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