sketches from the anti-mall

this moment is
as my eyes graze the lab & counter culture vying for the valet parking or grooving to the tunes being spun by the dj who's camped out amidst shady trees and rusted-out oil can waterfall painted all shades of orange, goldenrod and scarlet.
she's got on sunglasses, a macy-gray-facade sucking on a drink from the den. dark skin sharply offset by a white wifebeater and a smooth white bracelet. & here i am, w/ my green apple purse and wistfully tan legs, knobbly dry kneecaps and red mules, my moleskine doesn't make me a star, nor any amount of exercise.
the shade is cool and a man snaps gum loudly on a padded concrete bench to my left. i want to stay here and soak it in, let the beats fool my brain into thinking time stood still just long enough for me to write it all down.
for a second it does, as a singular beat threads through the air to my ears. i pause to close my eyes & then i remember- I'm going to London, to Paris. Will I experience something close to this? where you enter the pulse of a miniature thriving of people condensed into a particular place? a chance to be absorbed into Babylon and inspired to write just because i can and because i want to but mostly because
to stop whatever my previous agenda included, stop & write & hope that i've married w/ my surroundings enough to compel you
to move you
with simple words
phrases long enough
well enough to help
you put your finger
on the pulse as well.
it's been too long since words have called me & i am relieved to take pause in capturing
my mule slips off my left foot part way & the cacophony of native drums distantly disrupts the DJ and my thoughts flutter and flop. time to go, it says. But, Can't I stay? No, Time says, I'm up.

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