L.A. Remembers this Pueblo

How could I ever forget, the magnificent breeze brought by the wind when roaring heat passes, or the way my whole body galvanizes at the start of another golden morning.

Even if I’m just like a bird passing through a chasm of time and space amid dry earth, I treasure the opening for another flight through. I love its span of daydreams and jamming; together we’re reflections of each other, bound for glowing warm hues, each filled with a light of our own to make even more colors as one.

And how could I ever forget, a place where I can lose myself only to recover more of myself later. Each part I leave at every intersection is not just the same when I recover it, it’s more; it’s born again, wrapped up in the old days as much as it’s open towards new days. I can be a million bodies in this way, like any one of the strangers who color the crosswalks.

I am the helicopter pilot churning through the sky, searching frantically to ground myself. And I am the motorcyclist, racing out of wrecked road to make my own way.

I am the writer who is celebrating at the sight of another vision brought to life on the screen. And I am the student, whose backpack is a time capsule destined to save the world, or at least to give it more time.

I am the ice cream man, playing my song to the avenues no matter how heavy their silence weighs on me. And I am the store owner along the boulevard, opening my doors for yet another miracle to waltz in.

All of it is only the traffic of myself, soaring or slugging forward to finish what’s started. It is the pueblo of the people of Los Angeles, from every part and parcel of the world. We dream and daydream and live in these dreams, together.


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