Along the walking trail, highlights of a conversation about the new movie Sex in the City II waft my way like those piped in smells at supermarkets. One of three ladies, leading, describes the movie as, let’s say, fluffy, yet endearing.
“I like Chris Noth,” she says. “I like the chemistry of those four women.”
I like Chris Noth, too. I like the chemistry of those four women. I like to continue on the theme of the Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
It is a really pretty day along the creek. Sunshine, leafy trees, and cool flowing water make it simple, simple, simple. Herons, none. My mind quick-links to the ocean.
If there are light years, can there be water-current years for the time it takes for this water to reach the sea? Right now I see the scene including throngs of holiday beachgoers, each with provisions, accessories, memories, hopes and dreams. Down to the shore with hat in hand, combing away.
I am far from the madding crowd, yet I carry a madding crowd in my head.
The madding crowd, Thomas Hardy, Carson McCullers and I drive home. The fellow in front of me waits at a red traffic signal. His truck is a small pickup. His truck is medium blue. the vertical rear window contains a maddening crowd of blue and black target decals (not the store: target with a small t).
They splay across the glass. The result is a travelling billboard of marching circles and inner circles. His input is out there on the information superhighways, byways and backwoods roads. A small dream-catcher dangles from the rear-view mirror.
My attention is in the crosshairs of a blockish sticker. This sticker, plastered on the tailgate at an angle, aims and fires back at me: “Hunters Do it With More Bang.” Would that I could smell gunpowder residue with salt-water around my ankles.