In Spring, the jacaranda tree across the street blooms. I sit on my little balcony 10 feet off the ground and watch the purple petals – so beautiful on the branch – flutter to the street and become trash.
Once a week, street sweeping machines come and scrape them away. Parking Enforcement uses the occasion as an excuse to write tickets. In the morning, I rest my coffee cup on the railing. From my balcony,
I see drivers ignore the stop sign. I watch people praise their dogs for shitting – “That’s a good boy. That’s a good boyyyyyyy!” – and scoop up poo. As darkness settles, I watch the lights come on in Century City three miles away. I hear the rockers on Sunset Boulevard and the gays on Santa Monica. Sometimes I hear the squeal of tires trying to stop and then that sickening boom of metal hitting metal. When it’s windy, I watch the trees sway and I listen to air I cannot see as it rushes past.
It should be loud here in the city, but it’s not, at least not in my slice of it. Mostly, I hear church bells and conversations and birds and helicopters and trucks that groan in protest as they make their way up the shallow incline that is my street.
