I’m traveling. I’m in a city I’ve never been in. I leave a motel filled with bohemian people in various states of undress. Everything is cream colored and the carpet pile is very deep.

Outside, I find a peculiar roost. It’s as if I’m in a photograph on a book jacket. I’m sitting on the left according to the golden proportion. I’m sitting on a small island or rock in a giant lake. I’m looking forward into the scene but I can see everything too. It’s a summer scene. There are a hundred boatlike vehicles. But they are more like floats in a parade. Everything is a parade float boat made out of plastic. There are giant heads skimming the lake’s vast surface. All of the floats are also sprinklers. They spew forth shimmering bows of water streams. I try, from my perch, to note all of the different heads. I also try to make a note of exactly where I am so that I can find it again. I don’t know the name of the lake or the city. I try to make a mental note of the landmarks. The islands. The cliffs. The buildings.

As I sit in the vast lake tableau, it gets colder. The floating fountain heads disappear. The quality of light changes. The surface of the lake flattens. All of the happy summer people disappear. The skies turn November grey.

I leave my perch and march back to the motel. All of the bohemians still sleep and lounge about. All of my attempts to wake them up fail. I want to escape. I want to get back on the road. Who are these people?

SS