Already, I'm growing restless. Listless and agitated. My braced foot, elevated, is laughing at me, at everything. My brash stupidity. My immobility. This ill-begotten beard tickling my face and neck, only present because of a disinclination to standing long enough to see it off. I hate sprained ankles. They bring about a certain laziness. A laziness and a stressed unfocus from living in this house that seems to have too much of everything and at the same time, nothing. It takes the wind out of your sails, then brings anxiety as the moth-holes appear so that should the winds ever come again, I fear not going any further. It's horrible. I'm rotting. Handicapped on a hot summer's day. I'm like still water, waiting for the mosquitoes and parasites to breed and to eat me alive.
To it's credit, I will say this: nothing eases a rueful mind like reading aloud. And to this, I relegate myself, with a voice and a distant eye to make Steinbeck proud. The doctor said I should prop my leg. "Ankle above the heart," he said. And so I prop my leg a hundred years and hundreds of miles south of John's fair Eden. In the sweaty city, where the sharp cool summer air of the North is but a dream, a far off wistful memory, and I can't take off enough clothes.
And so it is, that I sit in the sun, shirt-off, leg propped, but not so high as it should be. And it's not the only thing. Mine eyes are notably whiter than most days as my dearest John leads the way, weaving like a meandering stream through the Salinas Valley. Personally, I've always been one for drawing similarities, be they good or bad. Let's say it's an alertness of others' perspectives, even though it's probably not. But the words are strong enough, and the comparisons creep up slyly from the back of my mind.
As I read, I can't help but wonder as to the true identity of Steinbeck's Cathy. His Eve. That beautiful dark horse that he chased for oh, so much time in his life. I wonder so because when I close my eyes, and I look back mine stands out blaringly. Her face is as clear as day, disarmingly beautiful and alight with evil seduction. And as she dips her chin and smiles, her eyes always flare, and they're never faulting. I have to look away just to save myself. Come back to reality, you. Back to the present. The here and now.
There's a decent breeze, and it fills the ear and the air with a rustling of trees and leaves. And the birds are singing too. How lovely. But still, it can't completely mask that forever hum of the freeway. The engine accelerations, the car horns. The low, far off rumble of planes on approach.
"You have to breathe it all in, the beauty of it all, because the beauty gives life. It gives energy, and it warms the soul. It can fill the void. All you have to do is recognize it and appreciate it."
A boy, not a year over nineteen, had told me that as I drove him down through John Steinbeck's green valley of Eden. Down the 101, the hillsides splashed green and the sun was glaring so mine eyes squinted. It was that time just before sunset, and a spliff roach simmered out in one of the cubbies on the center console. The boy had told me his name was Lennon and that he had been raised a sorcerer, and so he talked of my spirits, of existence, of ego, of everything and all of it as we rattled South, from Santa Cruz to LA going 80 mph. It seems like so long ago now.
I breathe deep.
