fiction 

kanan dume

 

is a coursing river of power that bisects malibu with a flume of evaporative gasoline and a vein of pulsating steel. pistons pump with the force of thousands of horses, and kanan dume pulses with innumerable internal combustions per second. The internal combustion engine is the nucleus that holds sheer force, sheer power, upon which this utterly serene suburban society is draped. In stillness, our world’s steel heart pounds. 

 

A bonsai salesman yawns and strokes the tips of a jade tree. 

 

The dj on 91.5 selects a morceaux de fantasie- this afternoon’s track to quell road rage. My speakers crackle serenely. I alternate between the hypnotic pulse of 50 cent’s hate it or love it and the piano fantasie. 50 Cent is the true sound of kanan dume; an unflinching declaration of presence and power contained by an even, rhythmic time signature- or is it the piano composition- whose every chord is laid witih a deft precision and languid timing, where negative space is fraught with potential energy…

 

birds of the hunt twirl lazily through air to perch in Italian cypresses.

 

I stand on a boulder in the slipstream of the highway, and feel the rhythmic whip of aftercurrents against my face, feel my hair rustle and twist in wind-drawn strands against my neck, then flow out again behind me in the current.