Who drove those cars? Who built that house? Who lived in it? Did the owners drive those cars? When did they move from Missouri to Montana? Or was it Montana to Missouri? Who took the photo? Is the photographer alive? Is the house in Missouri? Is it in Montana? When was the photo taken?
One, two, three; the transformers blew in succession down the road. For a moment we watched fireworks, washed blue and white across the hillside. The lights flickered then died. The stars of Hollywood Hills dim for the night.
When you look out over Los Angeles from the Hollywood Hills, the sun long since sunk over the western horizon, the pin-pricks of light stretch on until infinity. Greens and reds in orderly rows, with yellows and whites and blues scattered on top, a glittering layer of space dust rained down from above. It all pulses in the rising currents of air, warmth emanating from each body, in every direction, for as far as our eyes can see. The sky is slate gray; we’ve blocked out the heavens.
There is a poison in the manner with which a youthful person sees an elder. I’ve noticed it within myself, and I will wager it resides in many of my peers.
This weekend I’ve been reading Virginia Woolf’s classic essay A Room of One’s Own. Originally begun as a series of speeches on the subject of Women and Fiction, the essay builds on the thesis that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”. I’m only a third of the way through, but so far Woolf’s essay has covered far more ground than might be expected given the piece’s simple premise.