Wild
I just read this poem and suddenly knew that I HAD been riding too long in cars and that I SHOULD probably get a horse and that I NEEDED to be full of public joy much more often and that it was HIGH TIME to be riding through orange groves in the dust and heat of southern Spain. Do you ever feel like that?
Wild
By Stephen Dunn
The year I owned a motorcycle and split the air in southern Spain, and could smell the oranges in the orange groves as I passed them outside of Seville, I understood I'd been riding too long in cars, probably even should get a horse, become a high-up, flesh-connected thing among the bulls and cows. My brand-new wife had a spirit that worried and excited me, a history of moving on. Wine from a spigot for pennies, langostinas and angulas, even the language felt dangerous in my mouth. Mornings, our icebox bereft of ice, I'd speed on my motorcycle to the iceman's house, strap a big rectangular block to the extended seat where my wife often sat hot behind me, arms around my waist. In the streets the smell of olive oil, the noise of men torn between church and sex, their bodies taut, heretical. And the women, buttoned-up, or careless, full of public joy, a Jesus around their necks. Our neighbors showed us how to shut down in the afternoon, the stupidity of not respecting the sun. They forgave us who we were. Evenings we'd take turns with the Herald Tribune killing mosquitoes, our bedroom walls bloody in this country known for blood; we couldn't kill enough. When the Levante, the big wind, came out of Africa with its sand and heat, disturbing things, it brought with it a lesson, unlearnable, of how far a certain wildness can go. Our money ran out. I sold the motorcycle. We moved without knowing it to take our quieter places in the world.
Two Weeks Ago
Not last weekend but the weekend before, we had a perfect summer weekend. Were you here? Did you feel it? Everyone knew in advance—weather apps had warned us all. You had to choose your happenings wisely because you only had two chances to get it right—Saturday and Sunday.
I drove out to the coast and laid in the sand. I mowed my lawn wearing flip-flops and my feet turned electric green. I laid on my belly reading and letting the warmth from the deck soak into me. I ate all my meals outside. I went to a barbecue and skated a backyard mini ramp. I opened all my windows to let the sun-toasted air of, like, mid June carry into my house on this late March weekend. It smelled very good outside.
Now here we are, back in early April Portland. And there's no way to rewind—it's gone.
Favorites April 5
Christopher Walken: His humor-based stuff, specifically. There's a kind of senile genius about him, isn't there?
Perrier: Cold, pure, filled with bubbles of joy. It's like regular water, only more uplifting.
75 degrees: Arguably the perfect temperature. Warm but not hot. Sandals weather, but not pit-sweat weather. Pleasant. A non-invasive summer milieu.
Dogs at the beach: A specimen of happiness. I defy you to feel depressed or sorry for yourself watching your little friend peeling out every which way and nipping at the surf.
Positively Waikiki
I'm a human animal in need of a vacation. And lately, my mind's been on Waikiki. I went there around this time a few years back and it was an effortless trip that kinda just stuck with me.
I'm not saying I'm gonna go again—all I'm saying is that I've been thinking about the place, about the way the pineapples tasted there—perfumey, about how the sun felt all over my skin as I lay there on my towel listening to the waves roll in, about the sunsets with the soft sweet air, and about those open air restaurants with the teak ceiling fans slowly turning—circulating the sea breeze just like they did back in the days of the Tokyo Rose.
It's nice to think about that stuff, isn't it?
