Hanging out in Long Beach, awaiting dinner with booksellers in L.A.
Walked down Ocean Avenue in the midday western sunlight. Were I a perfumer, what the French call Le Nez, I would say the air here has an aroma that mixes tropical leaves, hashish and barbeque. Delicious, but I’m not going to dab it on for dinner.
Saw a man riding a bike while carrying a bike. Bikes are big here, so are old people out for a salt air cure.
I saw health care vans picking up cripples under towering palms.
There’s an uneasy amalgamation of homeless zombies (attracted by the sun) and babyfaced managers in shirtsleeves (ditto).
If I lived on the west coast I wouldn’t write, I’d just brine in the sunshine.
Jean Zimmerman 