omens

A scene from my morning run:

Across the street, a sprinkler showers golden mist, the water like sparks or liquid gold. Everything is early morning sun tinted, hazy, dream-like. The lawn is flat, sloping, with wet grass covered in tiny droplets. Behind it, a huge white house looms, pristine with two American flags and a car shining in the driveway and flowered bushes lining the windows, neatly trimmed. Suburban idyll overlooking smooth asphalt.

Up ahead, in the direct center of the sidewalk, is a dead cat. Completely gutted, insides bright cherry red like the stripes of the flag and spilling out a little onto the sidewalk. It's flat on its back like an offering, arms raised above its head, eyes closed, jaw unhinged. It's unclear whether it’s the work of a coyote or a speeding car.

The whole scene feels very Lynchian. The opening of Blue Velvet.

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Of course now that I am thinking of Blue Velvet, I am also thinking of rewatching it last February, in the theatre near Tirso de Molina — back when it rained for an entire month straight and the sun still set around six pm. The rain had just started up again when we left the theatre, and a man was crouched in the doorway of an alimentacion, wailing. I still remember the reflection of the streetlights on the dark, wet asphalt, and the sound of the man sobbing, guttural and loud against the steady drone of the rain. It all felt very appropriate for the mood.

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It seems like there have been lots of these kinds of omens lately. Dead cats and crying men and rain that never stops.

For instance, there are the dogs.

July began with a desert dog attacking me in the dunes, growling and lunging at me as I tried to stumble away, tripping over the sand. I was alone; I’d risen early to see the sunrise, which is when the dog approached me with its teeth pulled back. I had climbed a little for a view, which meant I was marooned in the sand. On one side, the Sahara loomed wide and vast, a bright orange and perfectly circular sun slinking up from the horizon. On the other, the dune sloped downwards and the tent sat at the very bottom, flapping in the breeze.

The dog nipped at my ankles and clawed at my exposed legs as I stumbled backwards down the hill. The sand was slippery and I was afraid to anger the dog even more by intimidating it, so I kept my movements as steady and smooth as possible. It wasn’t very big but it wasn’t small either, and its claws and teeth gave it the advantage over me.

For a few moments I was sure that I would not leave the interaction unharmed. On a stroke of luck, there was a noise from somewhere beyond the hill and the dog paused, turning its head to listen. I took the opportunity and ran, lurching into the tent.

Inside, the silk scarves fluttered over the entrance, filtering the sunlight bright orange. Claire and Eli slept. It was like nothing had even happened. When we left for breakfast a little while later, the dog was sniffing around the camp. I braced myself, but it didn’t even look at me.

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Four weeks later, in Galicia, I took a shortcut.

The road was long and flat, and I saw the dog from afar. It was waiting to meet me, sitting on its back legs in the center of the path. As I approached, it would turn and run a few steps, and then turn back to watch me, repeating as I continued to advance. Wait, turn, run, sit back and wait again.

I kept my pace steady and my eyes on the pavement in front of me, clutching my hiking poles under one arm to appear unthreatening. On either side of me, farmland stretched out far and wide. Yellow fields, wire fences, and the dog guarding the road, which had stopped its methodical retreat and was rooted in place, baring its teeth and growling.

Another dog emerged from the farm gate up ahead, much larger than the first. Its bark was angry and loud and very deep. It stood tall in the entrance while the first lowered itself to the ground to pounce. I brandished my poles, making it angrier. It lunged at me; I fended it off.

Another stroke of luck — right as I began thinking I was in serious danger, a truck backed out of the gate. The man waved to me and scolded his dog through the window; I walked quickly away, my heart pounding hotly. Periodically, I looked back to ensure they weren’t following me. I could see the silhouette of the smaller dog in the center of the road, but it was unclear if it had its back to me, resuming its guard position, or if it was watching me go.

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There were others, too, at least three others this past month. A huge gray pitbull with pink eyes, throwing itself against a metal fence as we walked past, frothing at the mouth with a deep angry snarl. Or, rounding a curve, a big brown mutt lunging at us out of a shed, narrowly missing Eli’s backpack as it lurched against its metal chain and fell back, jaws snapping against empty air. Or, a red-eyed black dog stationed at the edge of a churchyard, barking and growling as I hurried past, avoiding eye contact.

I’ve never been afraid of dogs, but I’ve also never had any reason to be until now. What’s that thing called when you start noticing patterns because you’re already looking for them? Like that story about the professor whose wife got mauled by a bear, and then he couldn’t stop noticing bears everywhere. The law of attraction, or confirmation bias — or maybe just a series of omens.

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Adding to my general feeling of unease, the sun has been setting far too early. Nine pm and it’s already black.

On the side of the freeway is a huge American flag blowing in slow motion. It’s not actually in slow motion of course, but its enormity and the visual of the fabric rippling all the way down itself, gives it a slowing, unsubstantial effect. It’s stark against a dark sky and the astigmatism seep of one streetlight becoming a thousand.

I shudder. Everything feels so strange. Just a few days ago, the moon was a hair’s breadth away from full and illuminating a bone white cathedral. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the echo of the tuna band, accordion on cobblestone and marble, church bells spilling into the plaza behind us.

But imprinted against my closed eyelids is not the moon of that night, pearlescent and nearly full; instead, it’s the car dealership bright in the late evening and the red wash of the traffic lights.