Fleetwood Mac - "Dreams"
We looked at James Dean's head. It was on a plinth. His statue didn't have eyes, but he had his back to the view anyway. I pretended I could see as far as the sea but really, I just saw The Angels as a profusion of lights. A low-lying galaxy. Later, we looked through the Zeiss telescope - an action requiring step ladders. Supposedly, they had pointed it at Saturn but all we saw was a white dot on a dark blue square inch. It could easily have been drawn on, we said, and wondered if Saturn existed. You slept through the show in the planetarium, missing the lady proclaim that we are all made of stardust. Bullshit! we said afterwards: We're 90% water. And, what with e equalling mc² and all that, the other 10% must be little balls of energy, or light. Or something. So we drove down Sunset into the sunset and queued for a hot dog. Celine Dion had been to the same restaurant, her photograph was on the wall. I tried a root beer and felt bilious at it's soapiness. Back in your car, the fans blew out cool leathery air. At some point that evening we careered into a tunnel. It looked like a nostril in the hillside. We were listening to Fleetwood Mac and I've not forgotten that evening. Not yet anyway.