Our precarious present, where we invite people to light campfires under power poles.
Our near future, lifting her skirt.
We are an unfinished mural.
We are poised between decaying mid-century cool and someone else’s postponed development scheme. We reveal unintentional beauty on a gust of wind.
But mostly we are too much of this. For we are a ragged outpost of City Hall and Sacramento and Brentwood, mute, dependable and too disorganized to complain.
She won’t save us. We can put the comic books down and save ourselves. Merry Christmas, one and all.
To walk the sidestreets of downtown Van Nuys on a weekend afternoon is to not understand what decade one is living in.
Part noirish, part Western, part mid-century time capsule, part zombie movie. I don’t understand why it hasn’t been put to cinematic service more often.
We don’t deal with weeds, but we’ll damn well tow your car. We don’t care what decade it is.
Van Nuys, simplified: Nature and utility at war. Beauty is forever encroaching upon blight here.
Inscrutable dogs park their disembodied heads atop concrete block walls and stare at us as we walk past.
Funghi popcorns from tree bark to announce an early spring.
…and people leave their bees nests in a box by the sidewalk.
The bees don’t stay in the box, believe it or not. They move five feet to the utility pole, and begin a new hive. They wiggle furiously into the seams. Unless I’m mistaken, these are honey bees, a diminishing natural resource. Are they queen-less now? Will they survive to re-pollinate the neighborhood, or collapse?
In Van Nuys we say ‘meh’ to nature, and nature ignores our indifference in return.