22 April 2020. Laurel Lane.
Not really a street, but neither an alley—a passageway, maybe, between the quiet houses—I remember the Berkeley professor years ago who lived at one end—a Japanese-American man, with kind face and lively eyes—you could peak into his study from over the fence. There’s a slight curve towards San Pedro, in the other direction, past the edge of a garden, and then the row of trees with houses tucked in behind, a hint of a German roofline, cars two by two, and the walk up the hill.
An adventure really—even if it’s not Kenya of old. No elephants, no lions—just the sidewalk over to Solano, past the two rabbits in rusting metal, caught in mid-flight--the head of one attached to the hind leg of the other, poised on a cut-out metal spiral--a strange way to achieve continuity—but then who’s continuous? It’s contiguity, actually—one thing happening after the next. And no stopping it…
I remember when my friend Lars first discovered the word metonymy—elements juxtaposed side by side—not metaphor, but a spatial sense, crucial to the builder, even if sometimes misunderstood. The question (for me) being always the story—how we get there—along a main street, with its hotels and bars, or an almost-alley, leading eventually to the two rabbits…
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Note: In the drawing we see the view up San Pedro, just as I'm leaving Laurel Lane...
