On the BART, Beauty

The hills after the storm smell like bay leaves and roots. Justin and I walk in the cool dawn along the Bay Area Ridge Trail (BART), through a eucalyptus grove and up onto a ridgeline. The sky rises, infinite and too-high and pale as ice in sunlight; blank as snow. A dim moon refuses to set.

If I ever live in a house, I want it up on this sunny ridge, built of metal and concrete. Huge windows, a view of beehives and ivy and city lights. And moss. No curtains. No rugs. I want it, in a hundred years, to look exactly the same.

No maintenance.

I think of Bridget Bardot. 

Her face. I’ve thought of her since I learned of her—since I started modeling. It’s thrilling: the moon, sunlight, Bridget. Me. Beauty, forever. Artists can’t paint a picture as beautiful as Bridget is.

The moon fades into snow-sky, and, in the sunlight, the burnt grass looks like golden roses. And now she looks like this:

I want the house to keep like a photograph in darkness.

But in sunlight.

I want the ivy to grow, wild and intricate, and honey to drip from the hive and glitter in the gold light.

If nothing gold can stay, I want the walls to be bronze.