SATURDAY BREAKBEAT (8/27/2011, 12.19PM - 1.06PM)

Slowglide lakefront wanderlust. Shorthair tattooed blackhair white woman and middle aged gray-goatee black man in Pakistan teeshirt heartbeat out a lazy tom-tom afternoon rhythm. Monochrome communication vibrations slip gently through the grateful displaced air. Strategically placed shadowsoaker tents and barbeques decorate the park grass. A black helicopter momentarily waspbuzz-disturbs an angry cloud-choked sky. A red birdlike kite flies further down the beach, static-anchored in the everblowing warm breeze. A man rows and flows effortlessly by in a rowboat. The mischievous wind laughingly ruffles the bookpages of a glasses-wearing lassie sunbathing and word-drinking. An unstoppable napkin blows by like manmade garbage tumbleweed. Far-off boatsails cut the horizon like sharkfins. Jaws associations grip my mind for a moment, evil unforgettable John Williams killerfish theme tune, Amity vile horror, Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss and Robert Shaw (huh three R first names) all at sea no-landshocked unsteady sealegs drunk and singing show me the way to go home, Quint-death, oxygen tank explosion, scattering splattering red chunkrain of dead great white shark. A small white Cessna-type plane chugs merrily by, and the bottle-green lake must be quite a heady skimmed liquid sight from that low almost-splashed height. Sometimes I think I glimpse a familiar Scottish face or hear a Scottish accent but of course I’m always wrong and don’t know why I even think it. Sudden brief nostalgia stab and grab at nothing but Chicago's warm thin air. A young couple in lockstep love walks happily by arms and charms and hearts wrapped round each other in perfect-partner-found pheromone bliss. Beardo riff from earlier sporadically licking and kicking the inside of my aurally assaulted skull, Fight a Revolution, sad song mad song but not bad song, nice one son, been freebassing on that album for a week now and loving it. Middle-aged woman eating nice ice cream, sunbathers lost in shut-eye UV dreams, gulls caw and glide and beachcomb in ever-shifting-pattern aerial wingpacks. Two young black kids, maybe three and five, furiously cycle by on training-wheel-stabilized bikes. The day when those wheels come off and they pedal by themselves will be a giddy ecstatic barely-believed moment of earthbound flight they will never forget. Gentle soothing Spanish guitar from behind me gives way to The Archies doing Sugar Sugar over a muffled-thump P.A. The sand bears the historic fossil footsteps of every race and nation on the planet. Two young helmet-clad women bike by, legs slowly pumping in clockwork tandem rhythm. A Hispanic church meeting broadcasts fictional ancient news from eternity. I trap a too-hard-thrown dirty tennis ball with my foot as it rips my way and throw it back to a thank-you boy of around seven. Spanish announcements occasionally change into English, strange bilingual life-meaning-searching pronouncements as the Henry Mancini Pink Panther theme plays slinky and raucous in the misunderstood religious air. Teeshirt slogan: 100 SEMBRADOR; who knows? The afternoon vision peters and fizzles out as human life remains as unsolved and unresolved as ever forever and never to part from the unexplained atom-body script with no words or meaning or tune. Then sit, sand from shoes as usual, and home again home again jiggedy jig.