THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

Time is the quotidian commute of the sun, the month-long striptease of the moon, the lazy hammock sway of a metronome that sits like a Buddha high atop the lace-covered crest of a Baby Grand— in a splash of sunlight where specks of dust whirl like dervishes. Time is the only thing we want when we’re in love. And the one thing we cannot bear lying awake on the observation deck of our nighttime bed, counting the pink dahlias in the wallpapered meadow of shadows that what won’t  let  go. Time, in the daylight hours, is my friend— the only one who can take me back to anywhere but here, to the threshold moment of 1970, when the doe-eyed girl with late August skin answered the door, sopping wet hair, a shirt barely snapped, a Hula dancer’s smile whose beauty hit— point-blank, And I was gone falling  backward like Capa’s fallen soldier.

Despite the empty seat across the infinity of a quiet table, I can hear you above the chatter and clatter of the everyday cafe. As Sinatra sings, “All The Way" from the piped-in great  beyond, your hand journeys past the tiny civilizations of sugar and salt to claim mine. My food delivered like an offering sits - still as a Thiebaud. I close my eyes to go to where you live now and watch moments spin by in a swirl of creams, golds and soft pastels like the Carousel de Saint Pierre whose horses all tell a different tale Some rear. Some gallop. Just like we did when you said I love you too  for the very last time.