Since moving to this block, near the beach, I have made habit of watching a summer morning ritual in play at the neighbor's house. Each morning in the half risen sun, my neighbor carries three ceramic pots to her porch railing. Having set them, she scoops a careless grip of dirt from the porch planter and whips it with a dash of water in the bottom of her pots. Occasionally she drops in a dandelion or a green bean or a bite of basil from her garden.
And then typically it's while she's giving each pot an easy swirl that three young boys come out of the blind alley between the houses opposite ours and skip to her yard. She smiles and leaves the little vessels, retreating to her white rocker in the porch corner nearest me. The boys mount the porch fence, each barely stretching their chins o'r a pot rim, and look inside. But they look deep, far deeper than a pit of dirt or coffee, deep like somewhere down there there's a secret or mighty process to be seen. Each cups his jar to peer better, wedging his elbow against the rails so for many minutes he can balance on tip toes to see inside.
Then, one will lift his head and silently wait for the others, floating small smiles to the cross legged young woman rocking and smiling in the corner. When the third is finished, they linger a moment and concede themselves back to the grass, to slink to the street full of bash and smiling. They bicker, a little. I think, over which had the better pot. Each's laughing and dissent is rooted in the others' certain foolishness. He feels right about what he sees, each looking boy, and that his friends, while lovely and not blind, are wrong. And he believes it a little more all the mornings he looks.
And then typically it's while she's giving each pot an easy swirl that three young boys come out of the blind alley between the houses opposite ours and skip to her yard. She smiles and leaves the little vessels, retreating to her white rocker in the porch corner nearest me. The boys mount the porch fence, each barely stretching their chins o'r a pot rim, and look inside. But they look deep, far deeper than a pit of dirt or coffee, deep like somewhere down there there's a secret or mighty process to be seen. Each cups his jar to peer better, wedging his elbow against the rails so for many minutes he can balance on tip toes to see inside.
Then, one will lift his head and silently wait for the others, floating small smiles to the cross legged young woman rocking and smiling in the corner. When the third is finished, they linger a moment and concede themselves back to the grass, to slink to the street full of bash and smiling. They bicker, a little. I think, over which had the better pot. Each's laughing and dissent is rooted in the others' certain foolishness. He feels right about what he sees, each looking boy, and that his friends, while lovely and not blind, are wrong. And he believes it a little more all the mornings he looks.
SO cool. I could see this being a short film...in fact. I might just see what comes out if I try to adapt it for such a purpose.
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