You eye your shoes on the way out the door but think, Nah. You hit the driveway with a trot, feet find board, slash in the corner of the driveway, backside bottom turn on the sidewalk, wheels barely hanging in there, a light drift that could easily end in face plant but of course it doesn’t, it sticks, things just stick. There’s some loose gravel in front of the Wildermuth’s—you go light, making little hops that are more mental than physical. You do a similar thing with the dips and rises of driveways down the block.
You pick up speed, you slash a line of grass, once, twice, three times, chucking heaves of spray. Then there’s that divine spill of bougainvillea, a curling lip, a watery cocoon. You trace it with your fingers. Touch it a million times, it always feels new.
So easy to turn concrete to liquid. So human, this dance of projection, this abracadabra afterglow, the ocean washing into the mind, onto the land. You think about none of this as you emerge from the tube, push hard on the tail, slide all four wheels, the roar, the rock ‘n’ roll of it all.
And then you pop into Vons to buy that stick of butter and loaf of bread your mother asked for.