2003-08-08 - 8:50 p.m.
From the window of the cafe, I see roofs and satellite dishes. Trees, clothes lines, telephone poles, antennas.
A rusted trashcan leaning against a water pump. It is a gust of wind away from tumbling over into the street. But there's no wind. No movement. Terraced gardens, brick, green stone, crumbling stucco, chipped paint, stark walls, flat roofs, empty flower pots, an abandoned tricycle on its back.
Somewhere beneath and between these things are cars, people, dogs, bikes, moving, but it is a static scene.
Except a rhythmic flash of red. Half way up the hill. In the middle of a white hacienda.
It is a hammock, Woody Woodpecker red, on someone's patio.
It is a kid in a hammock. He has folded himself up in it like a taco. Little Red Riding Hood Hammock. A Cardinal flying monk, completely covered from head to toe in red mesh, flinging himself forward and back like mad.
