I walked down the mountain
To buy grapes
in brown paper bags
as if they were covert
Nothing was yet legalized in Los Angeles
so everything felt contraband
even fruit
and stars
When I lived high up a mountain
men kept me on a pedestal
And I could pick out each constellation
like characters on a network cable soap opera
I pitched a soap opera to a cable network
and when they asked what it was like
tonally?
I said it had the narrative drive of
Ursa Major
crossed with the playful spirit
of the Seven Sisters
And that the sisters could be cast colour blind.
(They bought it but it didn’t go to series.)
That was the same week
The cleaning lady broke down in tears
of shame and isolation
because her husband was divorcing her
How tight I held her
so high on the mountain
which we walked because she was Spanish
and I was English
neither of us with driving licenses
or second languages
Only her with a belief system
Which was how I came to study the stars
how anyone does
or did
Before there were religions.
I had no boundaries then
I didn’t lock my door
or even close it when I went out
A heavy book from my lover
holding the screen open
so my cat could wander at will
(After the lover and I broke up
I used it to kill a hideous spider
And threw the spider in the trash
And the book too)
After he was gone
I doubted my own eyes
And went home.
When you think about eyes too much
you lose your memory of where
Exactly
they’re meant to go
But the constellation, Orion
falls in place perfectly
Viewed from my London attic flat
I fantasize, if we were to make love:
Would he remove
the three stars that make his belt
Or keep them on?
Returned to my home city after so long
I commissioned elaborate locks and keys
researched the Victorian art of plaster cornicing
spent cable sitcom money on
Beautiful entrances and exits
To celebrate boundaries
But there is light pollution in London and
I’ll occasionally meet through work
men
who ask me for lunch
only to mention they have a wife
And I’ll look across the table and notice
a band on their ring finger
or that they have no left hand at all
Grandma is gone but
her budget supermarket still exists
at the end of the road
With grapes in plastic containers
Whose waxy sheen reminds me of
old acquaintances
newly marred by excess filler
spotted in cafés
(I politely look away)
But I never liked grapes
And I seldom think of my Hollywood decade
Except on full moon nights
Of epic clarity
When I dream of being seen
Photos by Wyatt Troll taken in Silverlake, Los Angeles 2017
The rug was rolled up in the garage a year and when we opened it, it had black widows inside. Had it professionally cleaned, and they told me I had accidentally purchased at the flea market a museum level rug that should never be walked on. This reveal alarmed me as much as the spiders. It was time to go home.
“When you think about eyes too much
you lose your memory of where
Exactly
they’re meant to go”
Love this.
This leaves so much to the imagination...
But I never liked grapes
And I seldom think of my Hollywood decade
Except on full moon nights
Of epic clarity
When I dream of being seen
I love imagining the idea of how you felt seen in Hollywood.
Thank you for sparking something I can't articulate.