Kathleen Fraser
California College of the Arts
San Francisco
 

Romney Steele
Monument of
DIMOND PARK CREEK,
Oakland (2003)
 –After Robert Smithson’s “A Tour of the Monuments of Passaic, New Jersey”
 
 
 

I   Trickling water, scrub oaks and rock. Where light enters the ring of trees. Settles on the rock where I sit. Circle of stones. Blackberry bush. (3 boys passing a smoke at the top of the path.) Underneath shade. Contemplation. A low flying plane. Bird cracking. Butterfly. Native garden  The grinding sound of a saw or jackhammer.  The whirling sound of a motorbike passing. (Children’s laughter echoing from behind.) Here the tree leans from one edge of the creek and crosses over to the other side,  pale green leaves hang down over the large rock––a flat space for sitting, square ledge for leaning back.  Tuft of grass. Dangling branches falling through. A Blue Jay sits at the top of the tree. Nest, brown and wet looking. One singular branch, brief hammering noise, extending arms into the ground. Where a long metal tube or shaft crosses the stream.  Vines, ivy, oak and dirt, the sun slowly lowering, light moving to the right.   II   On this side of the creek a path leads up to an area with even more trees. There is a road. It seems quiet there.  I wonder if that is where the creek begins.  Blue sky. Thin scrubby oak. Singular. There is a telephone poll up near the road. I hear a car drive past. Faint sound of people talking. Here it is an oasis and yet strangely close to all the city noises. Blue sky turning with hazy late afternoon clouds, flies buzzing about. One leaf falling to my left. A white cat with a square shaped gray patch on its back walks down the trail opposite where I am sitting.  It begins to cross the iron tube that stretches across the creek, stops then walks back. It scratches its chest, then runs back up the trail. Vague remnants of a porch on the other side of the hill. Dog barking. Light hitting the tips of red leaves.   III   I left my apartment on a slightly overcast Monday afternoon, got into my car with my daughter and drove down the hill past the college gate guards and out through the arching college gates, made a right onto the street and passed the gas station to my left, then proceeded under the freeway and onto the main street that would take me to my daughter’s class and to DIMOND PARK.  Past the faded lime color apartment building. Past the girl leaning against her car.  The 7-11 store where someone was murdered two years ago. I dropped my daughter off in front of the sunny yellow building with a black-gated door next to the tattoo shop that doubled as a skate shop. JUJITSU FOR GIRLS. The yellow walls were bright and cheery against the steely gray street and worn looking buildings––across from the CHINESE RESTAURANT with red trim next to the abandon lot. I continued on past our favorite neighborhood market and the familiar group of kids hanging out in front of the liquor store across from it. Past the TACO SHOP. Past the health food store and what used to be a cheese shop. I know this because of its faded sign. Past the non-descript buildings with boarded up windows and faded entryways. Past the little boy who was running down the street. His mother running after him. I turned right past the bank and the small library on the left. Hit the fork in the road then headed up the hill and parked on the slope. On my left was a hill shaded by Pines and a sign announcing the entrance to DIMOND PARK. I had never been there before. The ground was covered with Pine needles and there was a grassy park below with even more trees and a pathway leading into a large grassy area with a brown, flat-roofed building and what looked like an outdoor amphitheatre with wooden benches. There was a man splayed out on his stomach on a patch of grass at the bottom of the hill.  There was a group of teenagers dressed in blue running shorts and white t-shirts standing in front of the building listening to another man who seemed to be their coach.  I followed the path past the brown building and past the teenagers in blue shorts. They began to run as I passed them. There was another grassy area and a playground where kids were playing, a swimming pool with flagged swimming lanes, a wall of Pine trees and a road leading out of the park on the other side. There were cement stairs in front of me and I followed them and they took me past the swimming pool and up to another parking area.  The kids in blue shorts were now running past me in this lot, up and around they ran and then they disappeared. I walked past a red truck, down another short set of stairs, past an official looking building and down yet another set of stairs to yet another grassy area. This one was smaller and sort of tucked away from the main play area. I was standing in front of the NATIVE GARDEN so I walked a few feet into the area and followed along a foot-wide path for just a few feet. I ended up at the far edge of the grassy area. The grasses in the NATIVE GARDEN were dry and parched and looked like nothing more than weeds. At the edge of the grassy area was an opening with a path that lead to the creek:  DIMOND PARK CREEK Water dribbled. There were a few stones next to a sludgy bank. There were houses behind me across a road and up on a hill.  There were houses across the creek at the top of that hill.  Voices echoed.  A woman walked her dog.  I edged my way into the area and then sat on a large stone in the circle of trees next to the creek. It was slightly eerie feeling even though it also felt very peaceful. A woman followed a small blonde boy into the bushes next to me. He seemed to be looking for something, exploring I think. All the while he talked and asked her questions. She had an English accent and seemed to be his nanny. Three people walked up the trail behind me.  I thought maybe that I would follow them and later I did follow the path for just a short way. I crossed the road and looked for the beginning of DIMOND CREEK. I walked along a path covered by trees and it seemed to follow the creek. It was a wide path edged by a wooden fence with signs posted on it that talked about the creek. But I turned back before I got to the top.  I walked back down the path and through the park. The sunlight was falling/ was no longer falling through the trees. The ring of trees was dark on the bottom, light on top where the sun hit.                      (c)Romney Steele 2004

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