After the Christmas lights, after a Texas gloaming, we see a dog who is not a swamp monster playing catch with a ball in the backyard. There is another backyard where someone plays catch with a swamp monster — there’s another yard where David Lynch is getting ready to film the beginning of Blue Velvet — but this is mine.
Distant train whistle sounds try to find their way out of a stereo speaker like fake snakes looking to make an aspirational pop out of a jar. I think of Sinatra-era ‘almost fedoras,’ Big Sur, and one or two other things before picking up the ball and throwing it once again.
America’s jostling Veteran’s Hall elbows make kinetic contact at Joe’s Bakery. Come in, get some food, and hop into the back of a truck in the parking lot that will pull away into a field of rivers and Japanese Weeping Willows. Listen to the families as they accept car engine-like refills of coffee delivered with a piston’s regularity.
Caramelized banana jam. Quiet flashbacks to North Carolina. A discussion involving how to pull off a soccer game involving 1200 people — how many would link arms, who would drive (if they decided to drive), and so on. The invocation of a museum of the future where visitors are shown how humans used to drive before self-driving cars became the norm. A walk around the corner to get coffee.
Fill the day with Turneresque light the way you might fill a turkey with stuffing. (Use gloves.) Fill them with Marfa Lights. (Use binoculars and a sextant so large you have to call the neighbors ‘round.) Fill the day with the light Cubans might finally take over here once relations finally change with the United States, the kind of light that — if I’m recalling what I read correctly — one old man once joked that they — that is, the islanders — had no use for. (Then use it.)