Girls are giggling dumb high noises into the phone machine. I want to complain. Why don't they leave a message or their name, but I guess I know who it is and that's the point? It's summer in Hollywood, the heat is bordering unbearable.

My name is Allison McKenzie, May Camille O'Fitt, Bernadette Kalleckta, Running Deer, Stoner Mom. Crawling around in the back garden deciphering undiscovered mysteries, Holmesian steps are required just to get the back fence. It was the return of the wild parrots, screeching overhead, when I realized I hadn't catalogued the newest mushroom specimen under the rotting grape vine. Yr right, everyone knows it's too hot for a mushroom spore to gather one iota of moisture and multiply. That's what was so amazing. And it had a mango mustard dusting in the inner spore cap at that. I didn't want to pick it yet, so I went back inside, giving the parrots a last laugh, to fetch Miller. Not that Miller is the best to verify with, but it's a good beginning. It helps clear the smoke outta yr head.

Instead I decide to peddle up towards the Hollywood sign on my bicycle. The air is heavy with smog and I don't think I'll get up to the top. Ride over to the video store instead, drop by the library, see if the head librarian is gone so I can apply for a library card. Do normal stuff. Let events unwind themselves, dust collide in the nostril.

There's a public menace growing in the nature strip. One of those date kind of palms, no one even considers to harvest them, the seeds become the fruit, plopping to the ground. Riding a bike over them is tricky, either they ricochet in all directions at speed of lightning, or they cause a spill. Either way, it's a menace to deal with as I peddle out into the street. I'm looking down at the orange pits, instead of oncoming hunks of steel and acrylic. Ready to eat me alive.

Eat it Raw. I stand in the bathroom, looking at my feet in the tub in the dim light. We used to live in rooms smaller than this. It was more than ok. It was life. Soaking.

Eat it Raw.