Secret Pop

Mar 2, 2003

Sun kissed. Freckle splattered.

It was the most beautiful day. The very most beautiful possible day. The sky was perfectly clear and the shade of blue that is probably a crayon. But only if you get the boxes of 64 or more. I never had those. And today, I've learned, they come with metallic colors as well as the luxurious built-in sharpening device. That makes me feel cranky and underprivileged. But I digress.

It was picnic weather. And the marathon had the streets nearby closed off, so I could stroll out across what is usually a treacherously busy thoroughfare and take stock of the runners and walkers and stragglers and policefolk. And then have lunch. Sometimes I wish I had a pool to sit beside. Or even a David Hockney painting.

The boardwalk at Venice Beach is good for a stroll. The canals are pretty. Ducks let you walk right up to them. The parking is hard to come by, pricy when you get it. Sometimes it feels as if all the world is a street fair, and the old lady at the shaved ice stand overdoes it with the syrup.

There is this theory that every time you go to sleep, it's like dying and you wake into a rebirth. If it's true, I died early today. And was reborn an hour or two later, in time to take stock of the extra freckles on my cheeks and the pinkness on the tip of my nose. There are days when I wish I never had to go home. And there are days when I wish I never had to be anywhere else.

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