On those days when I just feel like walking briskly non-stop without indulging in the distractions of sea winds and ducks slip-slap-slapping their feet against waves as they attempt water take off without traction, I go to Emeryville where the sidewalks are long, very nearly always empty, and reach all the way to infinity. There's nobody talking and nobody walks along the sturdy nearly 1/2 mile-long fence separating the magical kingdom of Pixar from the rather more mundane outside world of concrete and gravel. Nobody but me, that is, me and Mr. Earnest, the wonder dog.
At this time of year, it is still possible to peer through the black iron bars into the inner sanctum, and I do. Those bars are too wide for my hands to grasp without stretching uncomfortably, but I can lean against their immobility and almost taste the lush green lawns within, imagine being barefoot in all that grass, walking next to star creatures and six-foot caterpillars. A lovely dream, a distant impossibility, close but as far from my world as are translucent glaciers under an arctic sun.
Soon, however, the thorny canes bound to those massive bars will be in full green growth, budding and stretching and concealing. The secret Kingdom of Pixar will once again disappear. New canes thick with buds will swell through the bars and burst into pink bloom. The street will be flushed with roses, the air perfumed . . . and that blue sky, resting now so sensibly on that sturdy triangle of black steel, will suddenly and inexplicably be propped up by a most outrageous froth of hot pink.
I can't wait.
Different types who wear a day
coat pants with stripes and cutaway
. . . putting on the Ritz.