If you’ve looked at the LA River before, at least that part where the 101 crosses it somewhere near Eagle Rock, you’ll see deep islands of trees and brush growing out of the concrete right in the middle from the bones of the city. It’s there where we could set up camp and unroll our bedrolls and lay flat against the earth and maybe be forgotten by debt collectors and time for a bit. We could hand each other long exhales of whiskey over stories of grand fish catching and stardom, haikus about silver birds (our children) flying away.
We’d talk philosophy and argue about the true color of the sun. We’d measure how long we could hold our breath. We’d kick the fire to make it glow hot against an even hotter sky.
The audience wouldn’t know this of course. They’d see only the green long illusion of land stretching forever into promise. Then the camera, last shot you see, would pull back slowly to reveal that narrow strip holding us together in an expanse of city in either direction.
My Dinner with Andre, the Los Angeles version.