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real late. zero dark-thirty.
4am, sun rise.
clem, rooster-type -- crowed like a champ.
ellroy, pooch-type -- growled back.
now it is quiet. little fan oscillating, just humming.
smoke gathers @ the ceiling.
a bank of fog rolls in off the water.
thick fog.
heavy, moist.
and you can hear the tankers offload their goods.
sometimes a big ole container falls.
BOOM!
i can hear that too.
pin it on some longshoreman.
midnight hotbox on the docks.
can't blame 'em -- they work their asses off.
get smooshed;
slashed;
lumbar hurting and it's time to drive a UTR.
but now it is quiet.
reminds me of the road; clammed up and silent.
doing everything you can to keep awake along those long expanses.
asphalt and a yellow line.
especially @ dark -- it can get interesting.
nodding off all by your lonesome.
pull off and walk into the chaparral -- step into the wild.
keep your eyes peeled for diamondbacks and mojave greens
mojave greens are the worst.
crotalus scutulatus
-- born without rattles and warnings.
and the camps which dot these large expanses.
forget the name, but they're all the same. real cheap and nobody bothers you.
-- my kinda place.
gotta find a spot in the back.
spot where me and Ellroy can do our business.
me: write.
ellroy: dig.
in the back, where it's quiet.
btw, found these great pix @ san pedro daily photo.
