Driving home from my nephew’s birthday party CN and I drove up the boulevard as the sunset was proving to be cotton candy pink. It was one of those moments that are rare for me now. First of all CN and I were OUT OF THE HOUSE and second of all we were about to join a band of collective souls. Third, as we steered up the serpentine boulevard toward the sunset Jeff Tweedy was singing the Billy Bragg and Wilco version of California Stars on the radio. I mean really, how perfect.
People were walking from their houses like zombies, walking toward the boulevard in bare feet, robes and lounge wear all variety of cameras in hand. Something not to miss, hurry, put babies in car seats down on the grass and hoist the older onto shoulders. Pretty girls in skimpy summer clothes giggled, leaning in to one another like clusters of armless paper dolls.
Sunlight shining up on the pre-storm clouds created flat, satin ribbons of light across the sky. Everyone faced the sun, everyone was painted pink in front while their backs were ultramarine blue.
Meanwhile, to the east, up rose a full rainbow, that great candy handle of the world. No matter which way we turned we were lucky and amazed, insignificant and mortal.
Big drops came down and the earth smelled like old wet wool, every odor that had held close its cards during the scorched, dry week now eased and let go a heady leak of earth, dog urine, gasoline and rotting bloom smells. Which only mesmerized us more.