Robert (gurdonark) wrote,


Lately I visualize a kind of Norman Rockwell moment. An open field. A sunny afternoon. Deep grass, punctuated by the tasty-yet-poison fronds of jimson weed. Warmth as if the world were a hot plate, a process of slow but pleasant baking. The lifting of weight--up from shoulders, up into the sky. A Cold War sky, a sky that will one day rain bombs but today features clouds. Endless clouds. Clouds punctuated by blues. Blue clouds punctuated by whites. Last night the sky had red fronds--sailor's delight. I visualize lying in a yard, staring up into clouds, as surely as I'll later stare up at the moon or the constellation in Orion through a plastic reflecting telescope purchased from a J.C. Penney catalog. The quick sliver-whisper of a fighter jet on maneuvers. The sound of barking dogs, chasing cars. The fellow across the street, a little older, who hoarded fireworks like kruggerrands. An era when Jonny Quest was truly frightening and global war was merely inevitable. The taste of pecans which fell from huge trees, thick non-paper-shell specimens from a time when good things required work to discover. Drainage ditch creeks with mosquito fish. Bats on July nights. Baseball games in Babe Ruth Leagues with concession stands in which mustard competed with chili on the hot dogs. Men named Dub, boys named Tiger. Mini-skirts and letter jackets. Soul music oozing from car speakers. Keys left in cars overnight. The plastic-wonder feel of a cheap football. The smell of burning trash, burning leaves. The thermonuclear explosion of aerosol cans burning. Bacon-fishing for crayfish. Bicycle rides on banana seat flyers. The sound of flipping baseball cards as bike wheels spun. The barber passes out Bazooka Joe bubble gum. Twenty five cent milkshakes. Clouds--blue, and white, and gray, and black--and always tinged with a kind of moving joy and sadness all combined, pulse-red.

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