Je t'aime.

July 4th.

A red convertible is sitting in front of a blue house with pink shutters. Bret points at it and says something about how it reminds him of an old movie. Something hurts inside when he says this, and there is that fluttering acknowledgement that life is what it is. We like referring back to projected art, because we like comparing everything to small moments that are only ever created to be perfect. Even the conflict is something controlled and shaped by someone that just wants to make it seem real. But isn’t life just one large film in itself? Isn’t that reason enough to love it? Isn’t there some sort of adrenaline in the knowing that you have the ability to pick any path you choose? And even so, why does this scare us all? Why do we repeatedly stand blindly and say, “No, no, I couldn’t possibly. I can’t. I’m too weak?” Why not just YES?

A girl at the beach is seen embracing a muscular guy that looks just like her. They are the same person, just blended as one rumbling entity, that shakes dust and spits fire. Seven minutes later, after switching streets, I see them again, playing basketball in the driveway of a small church. On the front lawn there are chairs set up and old people sit in them with large plates of food. Everyone is holding a red cup. I can only imagine that there is soda in them.

Further down the road, two gentleman with graying hair and dirty overalls, sit in front of a shed with stairs leading to an underground cellar. One of them looks at me longingly, and I return this exchange with a very audible “Hello”. They both say the same and then continue their conversation. One uses the word “football” and throws it outwardly, like he’s getting ready to kiss a pretty girl or something. His voice is strained and he keeps tapping his big feet.

The boy with wolflike desires calls just as I’m heading to the park with my brother Kekoa. There are the sounds of fireworks, but I’m not in tune with any of this. About ten feet away, there is a tree that is blowing heavy in the wind. What’s sad is that I know just as well that a branch will fall. As I answer my phone, some textured sadness penetrates and I scream my brother’s name so that he might stay close to where I’m standing. As this scream is channeled true, there is the voice of the lover and his failed notice of the way I’m talking. The tree makes me sad and he doesn’t understand. Ten minutes later, I get my teddy bear Bartholomew out of my back pack and tell my brother we will have to attend a funeral in the morning. He looks at me and nods. He names the tree Phil and we both smile knowingly. He is most definitely family.