| dewy decimal |
2003-02-21 - 5:06 p.m.
I am here. Drizzle floating through the temperate climate reminds me of mom walking down the driveway with the newspaper under her armpit. She uses her forearms to balance herself on the steep, grooved slope. The tempo calms. My tempo is calming. A variety of greens, embellished by wetness, bathes around me. But in my room, there is only blue. A blue that will always remind me of the foyer between deep sleeps, of reading, and of music. Blue makes music equatorial. Sade in slippers.
I can see the old ruins of my treehouse. Now it is the house for fat Bobo birds, prematurely exposing mango flesh, levitating over mulch. Their red tails are specks in the shadows of their houses like little red stars hopping in the periphery.
Down the gulch that my house sits above I can see the tiny stream that forges into an overgrown bug market. The ladybugs haggle over parasitic tea leaf lots.
My crazy, old neighbor works diligently, nursing his crops of lavendar crownflowers. Grandfather used to accuse him of stealing our shovels and stuff, until we�d find them tucked cozily under canopies and tools.
This is where I grew up. Where my grandfather bought land and built his modest, cement house. Where my father built his moss-green house. A place I will one day leave. This is a place that I love.
But difficult Dustin, prefers the more creased features of the city --skyscraper corners, gutteral mechanisms, punk rock hair do�s and such. I will not ruin the charm of my childhood. So it is my duty to part with this place I love so much. But not today. Perhaps on another Friday when I can forget the mild drizzle that envelopes the sounds of Aiea.