novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the land without peripheral vision/ in the sunshine speaking of music in public places, forcibly narrating your thoughts; the 9th & broadway oakland farmer's market, every friday. walking past the rain-streaked, dusty white awnings hanging over card tables piled with dirty produce, i heard baby, it's you. sha-na-na-na na-na and i near about died. bottoms up, the dark sweet notes tingling where hair meets scalp. i fed the street guitarist a dollar and his eyes didn't meet my smile but his sweet voice wavered a little. i walked the length of the market, past MOCHA, remembering hauling the autistic wonders there on sporadic field trips. i had taken my hair down in the morning, its thickness curtaining my view on each side like blinders on a clydesdale. i felt the sun's heat on my hair before i saw its rays shine through. there was a stall devoted only to tiny handmade deities, chinese luck charms and little plastic cartoon character dolls threaded between lotus blossoms and silk tassels. i bought fuji apples, dirty, each a different size. the men selling chicken roasting on spits smiled at me. the punk girls hawking almonds did not. i left when the rubber on my shoes' soles had heated thoroughly from the sun on the pavement. (it felt like i was walking on flat, hard, hot and slightly yielding blankets, if that makes any sense.) i always feel alone in crowds. sha-na-na-na na-na 1:18 pm - 10.17.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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