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Jan. 14, 2010 There was a great energy there, and the waves lapped against the shore but nobody could ever tell for sure whether they did it loudly or not. This was because the sky was so vast and the wind was singing and the room, which was the cosmos itself, was grand, without echo or acoustics. There was a large area by a vacant lot where people dug for something but outsiders didn’t know exactly what. Someone once said that there were special shells there. A superintendant and some people had large lead pipes, and they stood up the way, up a corridor by a building. They dropped firecrackers into the pipes and shot them up to the trees, watching the birds rustle and scatter against a dark blue sky. Sometimes in the afternoons the world became overcast. Anoles found shelter, agile and alert as they were. The thick blades of grass felt large and somehow deep humid raindrops. There were two piers, one to the north, and one to the south, both infested with sharks. The rain splattered on them and if you looked between moments you’d see the old fishermen gather their buckets and gear and go. It wasn’t often that you got to look between moments... Behind it all, about half a mile, was the intercostals. That is where the water never got too perturbed, and turtles lived there, large ancient turtles, quiet and somehow foreboding. If you walked the streets you’d be under the sun, blessed somehow by the sun then, and see old ravaged bookstores, full of salt smell and stagnant air, old stucco walls, and a bar is next door. Teenagers, the ones with such deep tans, - the true natives, might drive past in jeeps, and they all seemed jaded or cruel somehow, but the sun glistening off the side of their jeeps was for anyone, for any poet or mystic or passerby to observe. The newness of metal foiled or intermingled with what was in comparison an ancient star. There is a lady on street drugs in the middle of the road. She is showing her middle finger to the vehicles. There is a shooting range, where a blue snake-shot is on the floor, a bullet with a hundred small metal bbs under the blue covering at the top, .22 calibre- the idea was that you shoot it at a snake’s head. There is Mexican American female, sitting at a motel chain smoking cigarettes on her porch by a white used Cadillac. The Catholic Church has services at 8:00AM and 11:30 AM every Sunday. The priest’s voice is monotone but the parishioners are happy. Trucks roll past, and there is a sun shower.
Beyond there, past the road and along a bit, the waves still lapped against the shore on and on and on.
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