Griffith Park
Aug. 22nd, 2006 09:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
un_fallenThe Griffith Observatory is even more deserted than usual at this time of night, the renovation crews long gone and the few lights at the windows having little point other than as a deterrent for burglars. The construction lights are off, and while signs scattered around the hilltop fence proclaim this a HARD HAT AREA, no one would take note of the solitary figure in front of the planetarium even on a dedicated search for intruders.
This place has a crowded memory. Millions of eyes, staring at the heavens through a single set of lenses. Tiny points of light projected over and over on an inverted bowl. Raguel, of course, isn't here for the the lights and stars and magnification of places so distant their light was generated at the creation of the universe. The only object of his focus is the city below. It's not quite the same. It's not even close to the same, actually. It's undeniably beautiful, though, towers rising triumphantly from their bed of lights. Granted, the giant HOLLYWOOD sign does kill the atmosphere somewhat.
He's become used to the silence here at night in the last few years, but the place will soon be open again and thousands of kids will pound through - all demanding wonders and a few, possibly, even finding them. When the place closed down he assumed he'd be around to see it open again. Looks like he's going to remember it in the end as still and mute, and there's no good reason to find anything wrong with that.
Silence is relative, though; the sound of traffic is muffled but present. The roads up the mountain on this side are winding - irresistible, given enough guts and horsepower. He follows the headlights crisscrossing the darkness for a while, letting his thoughts drift.
Finally, Raguel caps his bottle and stretches. He's more and more aware that he's playing out yet another LA cliche, one ragged pilgrim looking out at the view from Griffith Park with a bottle and a cigarette, but what the hell. He'll be gone soon enough. Maybe the only surprise left for him here is the unexpected sense of nostalgia.
This place has a crowded memory. Millions of eyes, staring at the heavens through a single set of lenses. Tiny points of light projected over and over on an inverted bowl. Raguel, of course, isn't here for the the lights and stars and magnification of places so distant their light was generated at the creation of the universe. The only object of his focus is the city below. It's not quite the same. It's not even close to the same, actually. It's undeniably beautiful, though, towers rising triumphantly from their bed of lights. Granted, the giant HOLLYWOOD sign does kill the atmosphere somewhat.
He's become used to the silence here at night in the last few years, but the place will soon be open again and thousands of kids will pound through - all demanding wonders and a few, possibly, even finding them. When the place closed down he assumed he'd be around to see it open again. Looks like he's going to remember it in the end as still and mute, and there's no good reason to find anything wrong with that.
Silence is relative, though; the sound of traffic is muffled but present. The roads up the mountain on this side are winding - irresistible, given enough guts and horsepower. He follows the headlights crisscrossing the darkness for a while, letting his thoughts drift.
Finally, Raguel caps his bottle and stretches. He's more and more aware that he's playing out yet another LA cliche, one ragged pilgrim looking out at the view from Griffith Park with a bottle and a cigarette, but what the hell. He'll be gone soon enough. Maybe the only surprise left for him here is the unexpected sense of nostalgia.
