Back home there’s this mobile of red dots in my living room; shadows follow each dot like dark matter dogging stars. In storm gusts, the mobile becomes a wind chime, the dots striking the ceiling ringing, their usual translucence gone, or transferred to sound. The mobile is in my mind, the red dots swirling, as I negotiate the hiss and onrush of traffic sweeping toward the Presidio. My body races across streets like a sandpiper when the low wave crests and releases. The mobile is just one structure but has a hundred shapes. I’ve seen hundreds, there may be thousands…. Now it is Robert Artisson’s “stupid, staw-pale locks,” demon-struck hair gone everywhere, now a palmful of tiddlywinks going back into their sack, the drawstring wincing shut like an eye at what it doesn’t want to see. I get to the water’s edge where a deep chill invigorates dogs and their owners, the dogs leaping the snowlike dunes, running as far as they can, and then looking back with a questioning whine at their owners–for the OK to go on, to keep playing.
Their people are indulgent, distracted with their own thoughts, their models and mobiles, the gas left on in the kitchen perhaps, and they throw stick after stick over the sandy hill, out into the bay, a safe pocket of ocean. The distracted, indulgent people talk among themselves as they saunter, unconcerned should the busy dogs find each other, their heads lowered, nostrils wide, tails wagging energetically.