I noticed as I turned the corner…
A gentle yet strong voice belonging to an unsuspecting middle-aged man was wafting thru the near-empty garden. He wore a black velvet vest over a fiery orange shirt with white sleeves, and a scarf to accompany his worn, faded dreadlocks.
The dreadlocks, like his voice, were laced with a subdued silvery gray. Weary colors but not quite grieving. A signal perhaps, hinting to fellow travelers that we too, have seen the world.. Long winters and brilliant summers, vain glory, cosmic brutality— the siren call of love, the lull of emptiness, dancing souls known only by mystery. All of these have been our companions, and we hardly mind shifting faces.
His voice wavered then faded. The dreadlocks sighed as they swayed. We will easily outlast them…
From Paris to the grave
I sat in reverence and read M Train and drank chamomile tea with lemon. The Garden cafe was my temple, offering refuge from a bitter tempest brewing at home. The steadfast weatherman in my head provided unwelcome updates in his low nasal-y voice that dripped with cynical wisdom. His warning was repetitive: “Rough Weather Ahead”. I did my best to ignore him. He never shuts up.
My mind wandered backward down the path of my day and stumbled upon the basketball court. I had went to shoot hoops with a friend— a sacred ritual. We were surprised to see our tabernacle had been assaulted by a four-legged fiend; a fresh pile of feces obstructed the basket. After flicking them away with a stick and commenting on the carelessness of the owner, I noticed there was also a piss stain shaped in the likeness of a swimming koi fish. In the curious california sun, the aquarian shimmered as it swam, taking on an iridescent saffron. A good omen, I thought.
Swish
Only a week prior, I encountered the same species of fish with my mother while walking along a manmade lake in Texas. These Koi swam on concrete, teleported there by a deft hand, tiger stripes lily pads golden scales cow patterns, all enclosed in grainy squares. The artist designed the grounded mural so that children could hop from lily pad to lily pad— my mother and I happily obliged. We share a similar sense of childlike wonder; I think we both recognize that we aren’t here very long.
One day you will smile for the last time
It was a fall day in Los Angeles when the ancient creatures first appeared in this tryptic of accident, this time in their natural incarnation. My dear friend from Texas was visiting town and I was obliged to show him around the Huntington Gardens and the mystical Chinese eden within.
As we walked the lazy maze of Koi, the aura of the pond hovered like mist around our shadows. We spoke, we laughed, then we were silent. Peering into god’s mirror, I beheld our two forms and contemplated our long friendship in gratitude and curiosity.
We aren’t alike in many ways, but most of the important ones. We like to laugh. We try to be kind. We are flawed. We are perfect. We recognize our futility and continue regardless.
In Chinese and Japanese legend, a great number of lowly Koi swam upstream, fighting against the current in an attempt to summit the roaring waterfall known as “Dragon Gate”. Many carp tried, many carp failed. After a hundred years of jumping, one finally surpassed the top of the waterfall. The river spirits recognized the Koi for its perseverance, instantly transforming it into a golden dragon, a symbol of power and strength. KABOOM!
Dear reader, I don’t quite feel like a golden dragon yet, but I do know one thing:
Like the Koi, we don’t swim alone.
For that, I am grateful.
A hundred years of jumping could get a little lonesome.
‘Given the way the human mind works, it does tend to be small, sensuously specific details that get remembered over time -David Foster Wallace
What’s up party people? As I was writing this, I recanted a few more experiences with Koi fish that now seem mildly interesting…
Namely, a first-hand tour of an odd billionaire’s obsession— a koi fish hatchery, other expensive-looking facilities, and the Taj Mahal of ponds, an exquisite labyrinth abundant with priceless fish, curated to the last detail. All of this is nestled in an extremely private wooded enclave in Connecticut.
This experience seemed more fitting as a premise for a psychological horror though. Why is this man so passionately and privately curating these carp? Boredom? Love? Or is there a more nefarious reason lurking beneath the layers of fat, salt, and luxury? A long forgotten trauma, an event locked in an indestructible well, a secret shared with only the fish. Ayo A24 hit me up.
All to say humans weave meaning out of chaos in very weird fucking ways. See here and here and here and here. We are excellent at doing this. Maybe it’s what we are here to do, or maybe it’s our only option.
I wish you all the strength to leap waterfalls.
_____________________________________________________________________
Thank you for reading Playground. Hit the “like” button if you liked this post and feel free to send this column to like-minded goons. And of course, consider a paid subscription below.
Cheers,
Abe