heavy metal thunder blaring

Cookies delivered, packages processed. Seems a long way to go to assuage some manageable moments of foolhardy abandonment, but the propellant is enough for me. Now I’m waiting for James to arrive in his spiffy vehicle I look forward to snapping a picture of. I’m glad the thing is finally fixed, in time for the rain to vanish and the roads to open up on the way to his Laurel Canyon home. I’ve cookies for him too, payment and thank you for spending time with me in this unfriendly conglomeration of small towns. This place is made for travel, not people, and I get lost in it. Carried away with the belief that pedestrians are on even keel, I sit for hours on transit, devouring books and deflecting looks from those who find me unwelcome on the bus for my skin colour. I want to smash some of the pre-projected stereotype here, but I don’t know how. There’s no place for we on foot to go but from bead to bead of dew water on this decaying concrete coil of road. It’s possible to walk from neighborhood to neighborhood, or more honestly, town to town, but there is naught between. There are lengths of decaying concrete, little shops with boarded windows.

Soon I’ll meet people.

Just in time to leave.