moonlight reflected off the broken cement path and rain soaked roofs. in the distance we saw the silhouette of 3 grand trees forming an arch over the path. the trees seemed to be pressed against the purple dawn sky, their branches curving and intersecting in a pattern that was unfathomably beautiful. as we walked toward them donna said "there are these places that are from a dream, they are a dream. and when i find them, and walk into them, what does that do to them, and me?" we walked slowly, and the scene held its breath as we came under the trees and looked up. after we passed the Dream, we kept looking back until a few blocks later we came to the end of the alley. as we lost ourselves deeper in the strange land of our neighborhood, the Dream remained in our minds. so today i found it again and took pictures as the sun was setting.

then i found Heaven, and tried to figure out if the stories s. told about it were true. i think the clerk at the neighboring convenience store was suspicious of me, lurking and taking pictures of the buildings at this particular corner. i felt like a spy. torn canvas is falling off the rickety metal awning frame, which is folded above the window on the dilapidated building. on the glass "The Past and Present Shop" is painted in ornate letters. in the lower left corner of the window, in tiny black letters, is written "DOLL REPAIR." the inside of the building is obscured by white paper covering the window. across the street is a nostalgic building with a vertical sign on its corner that reads "n. modun's main street hotel." the lower level is occupied by "derby deli," but i couldn't find any hours listed or any signs of life within. ["the place with the best view of Heaven," said s.] daylight did not take away the awe i felt at this place, forever stamped in my mind by s.'s inscrutable (possibly invented) urban enigma.

in the blue gloaming i rode to hawthorne in the most indirect way possible, taking a tour of 9th, 12th, burnside, 30th, and morrison. i drank tea and read "the people of the sierra," which is an ethnography of a village in andalucia, spain. my affection for that country is endless, and i read with an uncomfortable mixture of pleasure and pain, hoping that imagining the place could bring me there.