Bring Your Cart

*a revision of an older piece*

She's taken to washing her hair in city sprinklers. Long strands of it, in public view. What's next? A fireman's hydrant? The next-door neighbor's dog's hydrant? Where'd she come from, pushing her cart along the streets. Life in a cart, how odd: but not-so-rare. I'll give you this dollar, she said, if you would go in and buy me some fries. They wouldn't let me in, she said, looking this way. Nevermind the look, I thought. Besides the sprinkler, when did you bathe last?

Downtown San Francisco, south of market, home to the homeless: the reality pitted against dreams. On the other side, the streets were filled with corporate creeps, sipping their lattes and espressos, catching buses to nowhere and somewhere--somewhere where economics grew. Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, radio-controlled. Speaking on static, frantic cellular phones. Nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore. Not me, especially. But then this woman, having a sprinkler walks up and does just that. With a dollar for some fries.

Back then, she said, we were artists. With our beat poetry and psychedelic trips. Have you been to blue? Where is blue, I asked. Blue is a state of mind, man. The home Dorothy talked about in Oz. But no ruby slippers clicking. Man, it's fingers snapping, tapping, raspy voices pontificating truths still existent but now somewhat dim. In blue candles drip their tears unlike your post-modern dripless candles that do not drip in shrines built to everything with plastic painted faces. Nowadays, even tears are manufactured from techno-sweat.

I looked around and began to see what she meant. Across the street the people metamorphosed into Mr. Suit and Mrs. Coat, 21st century lords. Blue sold out to multimedia guilches to manufacture uniform experiences: uniform non-conformist, individual experiences. Of instant gratification images. Monochrome colors and khaki weekends.

And then she interrupted. I really want those fries. That's right: fast-food fries for fast-track lives. Man, she said, can you stop long enough to put down your latte and step into my sprinkler bath? With a twinkle in her eye and a sneer on her lips. Refreshing. Have a show, go on exhibit: my life-in-a-cart IS performance art. Except nobody's going to look you in the eye. They're too busy watching screens and graphs on iBooks, listening to iPods and talking on iPhones. All the iWalls are up. No more moon-watching. Hurry, hurry, hurry bring your cart!