He walks. He is not the dark-coated man on a dusty road. But still he walks, he walks with determination. He has a goal unlike many who walk on these beautiful California streets. The sun here is warm and embracing, calling to it’s worshippers to come and enjoy. Not like the sun from where he has come from. Not burning and ravaging, singeing the hairs from his head. Withering him to the form he has now. Bleaching bones and reddening noses. The sun has made him half a man. As he walked beneath the searing sun the sinews and veins on his body grew as his flesh shrunk. His inner workings of bone, muscle, tendon becoming noticeable.
He is not noticeable here. Here with vegans and vagabonds, eyes pass over him without a second thought. When he was in Oklahoma, the eyes lingered. A woman, a fat woman, glanced at him with loving indignation. “How could anybody let themselves go like that? Not taking care of himself. No one taking care of him.” Not here on the sunny welcoming streets of California. Here he walks with the throngs on Venice beach. Skin and bone, no different from any of those he walks with.
Except his purpose. His purpose is dark but not his clothes. His clothes are pastel. He bought them here on the beach. Sleeveless light blue shirt with a surf board splashed across. His small arms no different than the vegans and the vagabonds. Not noticeable here. Orange shorts, the kind that are slit up the side and show off muscular thighs. His thighs are muscular, they’ve walked. They walk still, with his purpose to bring his gift to those he meets at his destination. His thighs are white, garish against the orange of his shorts. And strikingly different from the purple red of his face and forehead. These legs have walked but they haven’t been in these shorts for long.
But, he’s not noticeable to the passersby. Just a nobody who laid on the beach far too long. The sun has called all of them to bask and bathe in her warmth for one too many hours, too. These people understand. His shoes are the same as they’ve always been, possibly if anyone looked down at them they would notice the incongruity. He doesn’t notice, he walks, purposefully toward the house he can see in the distance. It has less walkers in front of it, further off the strip with the tourists and freaks.
The house, bright and lightly terra cotta. This house knows this pleasant embracing sun. It is a house with windows to call the sun into her. Not like the houses from where he came. The windows there are dark with grime to defend themselves against the scorch. This house sports flowers, bikes, and oh of course money. The understanding that all who see it is: this house is money. Its inhabitants are money, too. They are the very manifestation of money made real and concrete. They are noticeable here on Venice Beach outside of their own home. Noticeable for their brightness, only tanning sprays brighten their faces and arms. Not the warm embrace that their house clearly knows.
He walks toward this house with a malignant goal to match his malignant appearance. Not simple death to the inhabitants, but more. His purpose pulls him into its embrace, warming and soothing his burning face. Soothing his weary feet, soothing his muscles, tight and sinewy. He walks. Feet pounding pavement pocked with unwanted gum. Pushing to the right and left of men with more outrageous than his. T-Shirt stalls selling shirts more outrageous than his. Bums more sun burnt than him.
This purpose allows him to find himself at this front door. The sand and ocean and sun to his back. The door, he takes the time to notice is hand carved. The door begins to represent to him the money, the money his targets earned to buy this door, this wall of windows, this house. He rings the doorbell but doesn’t wait, he just walks in.
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Walking on Venice Beach
He walks. He is not the dark-coated man on a dusty road. But still he walks, he walks with determination. He has a goal unlike many who walk on these beautiful California streets. The sun here is warm and embracing, calling to it’s worshippers to come and enjoy. Not like the sun from where he has come from. Not burning and ravaging, singeing the hairs from his head. Withering him to the form he has now. Bleaching bones and reddening noses. The sun has made him half a man. As he walked beneath the searing sun the sinews and veins on his body grew as his flesh shrunk. His inner workings of bone, muscle, tendon becoming noticeable.
He is not noticeable here. Here with vegans and vagabonds, eyes pass over him without a second thought. When he was in Oklahoma, the eyes lingered. A woman, a fat woman, glanced at him with loving indignation. “How could anybody let themselves go like that? Not taking care of himself. No one taking care of him.” Not here on the sunny welcoming streets of California. Here he walks with the throngs on Venice beach. Skin and bone, no different from any of those he walks with.
Except his purpose. His purpose is dark but not his clothes. His clothes are pastel. He bought them here on the beach. Sleeveless light blue shirt with a surf board splashed across. His small arms no different than the vegans and the vagabonds. Not noticeable here. Orange shorts, the kind that are slit up the side and show off muscular thighs. His thighs are muscular, they’ve walked. They walk still, with his purpose to bring his gift to those he meets at his destination. His thighs are white, garish against the orange of his shorts. And strikingly different from the purple red of his face and forehead. These legs have walked but they haven’t been in these shorts for long.
But, he’s not noticeable to the passersby. Just a nobody who laid on the beach far too long. The sun has called all of them to bask and bathe in her warmth for one too many hours, too. These people understand. His shoes are the same as they’ve always been, possibly if anyone looked down at them they would notice the incongruity. He doesn’t notice, he walks, purposefully toward the house he can see in the distance. It has less walkers in front of it, further off the strip with the tourists and freaks.
The house, bright and lightly terra cotta. This house knows this pleasant embracing sun. It is a house with windows to call the sun into her. Not like the houses from where he came. The windows there are dark with grime to defend themselves against the scorch. This house sports flowers, bikes, and oh of course money. The understanding that all who see it is: this house is money. Its inhabitants are money, too. They are the very manifestation of money made real and concrete. They are noticeable here on Venice Beach outside of their own home. Noticeable for their brightness, only tanning sprays brighten their faces and arms. Not the warm embrace that their house clearly knows.
He walks toward this house with a malignant goal to match his malignant appearance. Not simple death to the inhabitants, but more. His purpose pulls him into its embrace, warming and soothing his burning face. Soothing his weary feet, soothing his muscles, tight and sinewy. He walks. Feet pounding pavement pocked with unwanted gum. Pushing to the right and left of men with more outrageous than his. T-Shirt stalls selling shirts more outrageous than his. Bums more sun burnt than him.
This purpose allows him to find himself at this front door. The sand and ocean and sun to his back. The door, he takes the time to notice is hand carved. The door begins to represent to him the money, the money his targets earned to buy this door, this wall of windows, this house. He rings the doorbell but doesn’t wait, he just walks in.
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