everything is illuminated

As I sit against my railing, I am reminded simply by looking up why I live here. The ground gives way right in front of me, sloping down the steep drop coated with tall, thin-stemmed dandelions amidst a forest of weeds. It falls into a sandy parking lot, loitered with old pickup trucks, Volkswagon Jettas and a run-down motorcycle that leans against someone else’s railing, bent and misshapen as it is. From there, it appears to run into the traffic mayhem of 15th Ave; but that is only because I cannot see what lies against the next drop off.

Cars speed back and forth across the picture plain that is my view, running into the trees which comprise the frame. Their noise is all the same, increasing and fading as they come and go. As the sun peaks through any break it can find in the dark gray clouds, it radiates through the veins of leaves waving back and forth in the slight breeze. Everything is illuminated.

Across 15th, telephone poles strung with electric wires drooping in between lead my gaze up to the tree-covered hilltop. To the left of them is the driving range, with its poles and netting separating the haven within from the constant movement of the city outside. As I look the right, a soccer field is spread out before me, accompanied by the whistles and sounds of screaming and cheering. Both are aimless, while the wires in between still point straight on. They cross the perpendicular tracks of the train whose whistle I fall asleep to every night, and run overtop the many different styles of houses and condominiums that remind me a city has no boundaries, forcing their presence into the trees’ domain.

As it nears sundown, it gets surprisingly brighter, and the sunlight bounces off the tops of cars parked up and down a street leading to the top of the mountain, itself serving as the top of my picture plain. With my arms outstretched, index fingers and thumbs forming a less abstract frame, I can’t help but smile.
The combinations of seagulls screaming at each other, the conversations of neighbors I have yet to meet- probably never will, car alarms and jazz music makes up the soundtrack which accents my picture. The rich scent of clove cigarettes mixed with coffee comes in waves as I sit against my railing, and even as I close my eyes against the sudden breeze, I can still feel the city.

As I walk back to my apartment, I am surrounded by flowers pouring over the side of balconies and overhanging trees that I like to call “canopy trees”, simply because I don’t know what kind of trees they really are. Someone is throwing a dinner party across the street, and their laughter fills my apartment. I sit by myself at the kitchen table except for the single rose in a glass vase and my laptop. Such a city girl. I play my own jazz music as I sit in front of a blank sketchbook. A cool breeze seeps in through the tattered screen, bringing with it a symphony of tires scraping the gravel, which mixes perfectly with the tempo of the piano.

I love this city; the smell, the lights, and the constant rush of eclectic people and environment-hating cars. No matter where I am, inside or out, it seems to always follow me. All the lights inside are off, yet the small dots of city lights still manage to provide enough to brighten the room. Everything is illuminated, and all I feel I can do is relax, perfectly content.