San Jose and Santa Clara are sprouting glades of woodland

2 X 4 sticks, tended by strong-arm building cranes. As if exceptional drought didn't matter, high tech investors are cultivating money. So, though it's out of sync with reality, apartments are springing up like mushrooms. Here we have an instance of planning for the 20^th century.

The In 'N Out needs of dwellings are: water in, sewerage out.

And who would be monitoring the overall demand being created?

Raise your hand.

I thought so.



A water brush dipped in the painted desert comes up with grains clinging, gnarly reds, greys, blues and purples. Amazing. It's a Van Gogh palette. A fetal stage mandala. The very absence of a coastal forest for its present appearance leaves out totems routinely bulldozed in a drive for missile silos. Were it down to a mandala, there would be a risk of lightning. An otherwise idle piece of land would swell in case of rain.

More likely a hot dog stand. They pop up quickly. Like mushrooms. From then, traffic over the hill would increase, calling for a new road. And an extension of the counter. And because sight seers need to eat, yet another wing to the left, in a premonition of the endless Winchester Mystery House. It is content, however . . .

To remain a diner. The whole kit and caboodle. With salt and pepper shakers. Little plastic squirt bottles of mustard and ketchup, a rotating fan perched on the refrigerator, with a wispy haired woman taking orders. One might imagine a stack of orders, hung from a clip on the wire over the stove, fluttering as the screen door opens.

No painted rocks are there. It is a still life in perpetual motion.

A very careful spider lives near the sliding door. It inhabits a cubby hole, tucked in between the sundry shelves and the molding. My comings and goings through the bathroom are a concern.

Like the captain of a fishing boat it perches on top its web, peering out the wheel house. From its vantage, a sliding door is a massive threat. Bare feet are not a threat.

I like to keep the steam in. At the first sign of a rumble, the captain scrambles into sundry shadows, being less fearsome than fearful. No matter how carefully I slide the door.

When I'm done, everything goes back. The captain returns to the wheel house. We are still friends. And next, what with all the play on words, some clever finale might be expected. This is a slight temptation. But it would be presumptuous.

When planting succulents, a good rule of thumb is, watch the shadows. Where they go, go the other way. Let the light of day rule. Other profundities are possible with which to spatter the page. But they must go with the rhythm that moves me.

I think it is true, will be recognized, that this has no discernible use. For a subtle mind able to pass without scarring through concrete, no rescue is needed. And what is the use of that? It mumbles all prior to mathematical deployment, enjoying a sort of freedom that can't be explained. Herewith, in absence of any scale of teeter totter justice, or of a sun dial in its universal certainty, please accept this handful of fresh cherries.