Driving through Lincoln Heights the other evening, in search of a large box of crayons, I came upon this dusky street in the deepening evening–lit for blocks with the incandescent glow of jacarandas in full-on violet bloom.
Jacaranda season always brings back memories: summers so hot it seemed the sidewalks would buckle upward with the heat & the burgeoning roots of the jacarandas, their instant burst into bloom violent and sudden; hot nights and more hours than I care to (or can) remember in the Rustic, living carefree and half-assed off the dregs of student loans, some money from teaching art, Pop-Tarts, & vodka.
I read a lot of Bukowski.
I don’t know if I remember it fondly or with regret; probably both. But the jacarandas still bloom this time every year, as the days get long and the night skies blur with heat.
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