Jacaranda Season

It’s finally been overcast these last few days, and the jacarandas are blooming wild and purple and raining petals on the street. 

It’s funny, these past couple of months have been so big, quitting my job and learning this new life, this new life that feels so unfamiliar and so good just the same, and yet, still, it’s the little moments that stand out the most. Like how Z and I went to Huntington Gardens with our friends Phil and Dama (and I don’t even think it’s called Huntington Gardens, come to think of it, but it should be called that because it’s basically all different gardens spreading around for miles, and it’s just plants and roses and bamboo and sky for forever). We wandered the grounds and sat down and watercolored. Well, I mean, they watercolored. I tried, and then got frustrated. Pretty much I don’t know how to watercolor, and I kind of don’t even know how to try to watercolor. So I just read a book. But being there and meandering around and sitting on blankets under the long shadows of tree branches. That’s the kind of day I like. When you’re sort of just here, with no questions and no struggle, but just breeze and friends and grass under your feet and bags of mangos and spicy almonds. 

And then there was another night where we played trivia at a bratwurst place with our friend Jarred (the rest of the team didn't show up, so we were down a few brains) and there were the most bizarre specific questions. I mean, I guess they wouldn’t be if you knew the answers. Jarred at least knew what most of the questions were referring to, and Z knew a few, and maybe I knew one, so that helped, but we lost anyway. Probably because you can’t really expect to win playing trivia with mostly one team member who seems to know a lot about everything and two who pretty much just know about books. But the veggie bratwurst was kind of amazing, and the french fries, and the dipping sauces, and bonding with our rivals. You don’t always have to win.

Also, we had a slumber party!!!! We spent the night over at Seth and Micaela’s place and something about that was really comforting and good. To be close to people we love and to not have to go home and say goodbye. (Oh, I sound so sentimental. To not have to say goodbye. But it’s true. Things are always leaving us. We're always leaving). And Z and I woke up with dog hair all over us and me sniffling and we were rolling into each other because the air mattress had deflated. So that was kind of fun too. Not something you get to do every day. And we woke up in clothes that weren’t ours and made eggs. Sometimes it feels like these are the ways we live the most. And keep feeling alive and together. When we’re a little bit uncomfortable and so loved. 

It’s a noticeable difference between measuring the days with coffee spoons and actually having coffee handed to you in a cup with someone else’s initial on it when you have dog hair all over you and your smiling friends are standing beside you in sleep shorts. There are just some times when things do not run the risk of feeling mundane. Those are really good times. 

And then even coming back home is fun because it’s like we live in a Parisian cabin. Cluttered and fancy. Not that that’s a thing, Parisian cabins, but if I imagine one, it’s our place. It’s all rumpled striped bed with too many pillows and floral rugs and books everywhere (everywhere) and paint tubes and paintings all over the kitchen. I think I live with Monet sometimes. And the Pulitzer committee stops by every so often and forgets to take their books with them when they leave. And Hemingway secretly places Amazon orders for us that are delivered by drones when we’re not home, just to be funny. 

There's so much good here. Even when everything feels like it’s changing and uncertain and new. It feels like it’s the moments that bind it all together. 

I’m on a new chapter and I still don’t know what this whole story is, but I know I love the small parts, the spine and the words. Like all of those gardens. And trivia that we don’t know the answers to. And dog hair. And air mattresses. And coffee cups. And books. And those purple petals covering the concrete against the grey and the green world outside the window. 

Paper Party Hats and Confetti

It’s New Year’s and I’m thinking of when I was young and how my mom used to take my sister and brother and me down to Poppies, our restaurant, to see my dad every New Year’s Eve. It was so lively there with everyone celebrating and we got all bundled up and fancy and got to blow horns and wear party hats and pop those little plastic champagne bottles that blow out paper confetti. It was warm and happy around that wooden bar in the dark greens and reds and candles and the snow outside with everyone singing and blowing on those whistles that don’t make any noise but just unwind a tube of paper. And I was young and everything felt filled with wonder and safe and life was an adventure. And the confetti from those tiny plastic champagne bottles was exciting. And the whistles with no sound. And paper party hats. And everything was good. 

Now Z’s in Colorado for the holidays and he called me and his mom was walking the dog and she fell and broke her hip and now she’s in the hospital and has to have surgery and all of her kids are there with her on New Year’s. And it reminded me of everything. Of being with your family and being a kid and then a grown up and goddammit how hard it all is sometimes. 

I was thinking about all of these things. About being young and excited about paper horns and hats. About parents and children. About how none of it seems to turn out quite like you ever thought it would and everything feels more fragile than it once did. 

And then I lost it. 

I just lost it, in the kitchen, and just broke down and sobbed. Which is something that just happens when you’re alone and thinking of all of the beautiful things in your life and how hard it is still and how hard it is for everyone and all of the love and sadness. And these moments stringing themselves together. And memories. And you still don’t know what you’re doing or supposed to do or how to make ends meet as it were or what to do with your brave little self who has so much joy and just feels it being squashed sometimes. And you’re just losing it in front of your refrigerator and you have to find a way to pull yourself together and kind of laugh a little at how ridiculous it is to be crying in your kitchen just because you opened the refrigerator and thought of something sad that made you think of everything. And how life is just not going how you thought it would or how you think it should even though you are so lucky in so many ways and so blessed to be loved and cared about and have friends and family. But sometimes you just find yourself all alone in the kitchen and you can’t help but cry. 

Because you’re longing for the delight of paper party hats and confetti. And a world that felt secure. 

Right Here

I wonder sometimes if anyone else feels like we’re all just a bunch of aliens. I mean, that requires there being other aliens, I guess, speaking strictly dictionary. Otherwise, we just are what we are.  But I look at us so often as aliens, walking around and driving and building things on the surface of some strange floating planet. 

And even though I might sound like I’m gazing out of the window of some psych ward, seeing the world like that, I guess it’s just what I do because I get a lot of time to sit and watch the world around me when I commute. Because at this one spot on my drive to work, the view feels like I’m driving over about half of the whole planet. Like the sun’s always in your eyes and the road wraps over a huge curve in front of you forever, and to get form here to there might take a week and you’ll end up upside down (or at least sideways). And there’s some weird all-you-can-eat fish buffet on one side of the freeway and a whole city peeking through smog far away on the other, but that road just wraps over a globe in front of you and there’s just weather patterns in between and endless space surrounding it. 

So you really see where you are. And it’s the proper noun planet Earth, right between Venus and Mars, the one you learn about in science class, floating in sky. And I’m on that planet. And that’s pretty much nuts. And then I look around at everyone else, and then that’s nuts. And then we’re all aliens. 

That’s how that goes.

Which leads me to wonder about what to do and what this is. Or what I am or who we are or what we’re all doing. Sometimes it’s a good thing. Since there’s not a whole lot of pressure being an alien on a planet. That sort of just means you get to be an alien and do what aliens do which is exist mostly.

And sometimes there’s kind of a sadness about it, but that’s more just when it feels confusing being alive in general, even if you’re not an alien, because you want it to mean so much and sometimes the world hurts and those days are hard. Because you feel lost. 

And then I remember something about my Papoo (which is the Greek name for Grandpa, even though he wasn’t Greek, but my Grandma was, she was a real Ya Ya, so we just called him the Greek version anyway). When he was young and clearly lost, someone came up to him and asked, “Are you lost, kid?” and he giggled and said, “No, I’m not lost, I’m right here!” 

Which means a lot to me when I’m feeling lost.

Other things that mean a lot to me seem to be the most simple things. Those make a lot of sense. Like when Z and I order Indian delivery, which is pretty much our favorite thing, besides Bossa Nova delivery, and besides making our own pasta and eating it out of the new pasta bowls that are basically perfect and anything tastes better in those big white bowls. Like the Greek rice from my childhood. And soup. 

And brunch with friends. That means a lot. And going to movies is good. And dancing around at work because you’re bored. 

And when we curl up and go to sleep. That makes sense. Then the world just holds us. This weird planet, we just lie down on top of it. We close our eyes, we breathe, the earth spins, the universe expands.

There will be commutes and sun in your face and Papoos who aren’t Greek. But no matter what we are, and no matter what we’re supposed to do, we’re really never lost. 

We’re right here.

Boomerang

There’s a memory we all have and it’s of my dad and how he would come up right behind you and wrap one of his arms around you. Arms that built our home. Arms that chopped the wood to keep our two sweet fireplaces glowing all winter. Arms that plowed the driveway and made the best steel cut oatmeal every morning that mostly no one ate. Arms that made pancakes from scratch on the regular and whisked milk for cappuccinos and drummed on the tables and hung upside down on yoga ropes and dug out sled runs on the hillside and fixed all the cars and gave you presents and wrapped a scarf so cozy around your neck before you left the house. Arms that pulled on your toes to wake you up in the morning and waved to all of the locals when we would go downtown to get the paper and you could see in their eyes that they felt lucky to know him while you felt so lucky to be able to have him come up and wrap one of those arms around you and hold you close. And in that place, with his strong arm around you, everything was good and safe, and you were loved more than any single thing on the whole planet. 

Christmas and Paris

There are some things that get you thinking.  Like when Z and I went over to visit our friends Phil and Amanda the other night, to see their new place and mostly because we’ve magnetized toward each other as people do who love similar things and for whom life is a similar battle but a similar landscape of meaning nonetheless.  They made the sweetest little home down the street from us and brought us in to this warm, this intelligent, this thoughtful evening with them.  And I thought about how I felt like I was finally in Paris with my Hemingway crew that I’ve always dreamed of.  Because they’re interested in things, like art and writing and poems served with martinis and cheese and jazz.  And it just made me think about how do I want to live and who do I want to be and I hope I’m doing this all right and other things like that.  Big questions, but small. The day to day of making sure you actually live the life you get while you’ve got it.

And today it’s Christmas, and Christmas is always a little bit sad. Z and I were just talking about this, how we always get a little bit sad around the holidays. And I suppose it’s because, well, when we were young, it was such pure unabashed joy and it was before all of the worries and when everything was all right all of the time. Jumping off the roof giggling into the deep fluffy snow and hot chocolate and the warm kitchen and records playing and mom and dad and mittens and knowing that everything was ok. And I guess there’s just something a little bit sad about that. And yet, still, everything’s ok. 

Now, every day on my way to work, I pass the muddy green hills of the cemetery, expansive and rolling, and lately the graves are bedecked with Christmas trees and poinsettias and sometimes I see people just sitting out there on the hillside together. And I think of Christmas and love and how we last somehow, anyway, even when we don’t, I guess. And it feels important to live with a certain beauty and delicate concern for the things that you love and the things that are special to you. And to make moments here and there with your friends, pretending you’re in Paris.

Everything That Makes Us Love

There was something so wonderful about this past week, mostly because of friends and how life moves along and all of these beautiful moments. 

Z and I met up the other night at Umami with our friends Chris and Phil and, later, Amanda, and we just ate delicious food, like truffle fries and too tall of burgers, and sat at that round table on the patio laughing and talking and it was so good, just really good to be with these wonderful new friends in this little life here, so far along, link connecting to link, bringing me, bringing me along. 

Then I was nostalgic because that particular Umami used to be a Cobras and Matadors that sprouted up after the first one got so popular and then it got too popular and then it all imploded and now there are no more Cobras and Matadors. But I walked through that restaurant looking around, remembering how many days I’ve lived and how much love there is. 

I made a toast that night, to friends, and also to the fact that Cat Stevens has a new album out. Because I’m so happy about both of those things, especially about the Cat Stevens album. Because he’s my favorite pretty much and reminds me of growing up and experience and loss and bravery and everything about having to go on this long big journey all by yourself and more beautiful things even than that, like the light in the windows and the wind and staying up all night in Chamonix singing along to the Best Of Cat Stevens tape because it was the only tape in that wooden house in the Alps that one summer so long ago with my family.

And then it was Thanksgiving and I went hiking early in the morning and I passed one of the old Polish guys that I’ve always seen walking up the trail with his six friends every morning.  All of these years hiking up there, the Polish group in the mornings. Just yack yack yacking away. And then the two Polish women would always break off and play tennis together on the rickety, broken court in the hills. So happy and active running around on that court with the tree branches poking through the concrete. I love that group of people. And I used to always try and say good morning to them, a long time ago, and they were so wrapped up in each other, they never said hi back, so I finally stopped trying to say hi to them, but they became a real part of the scenery for me.

I hadn’t been up there in a while and then, on Thanksgiving morning, I was walking down the path and just saw that one Polish guy sitting by himself on a bench down near the end of the trail. And I thought about friends and Umami dinners and the old Cobras and Matadors and Cat Stevens and everything that makes us love.  Maybe the rest of the Polish group had just gone home already. Maybe. But, I just thought, in any case, one day, there will just be one Polish guy sitting on a bench. And all of that love trailing behind him. 

Quiet Slow World

Sometimes, here in this big city, I’ll stop and think about home in Aspen. About growing up and the mountains. About the windows and the moonlight on the ground.  When I would just sit by the fire circling things I liked in catalogues, like gourmet gift baskets, apple baskets with chocolate covered popcorn, from Harry & David. Or maybe sweaters from Eddie Bauer that I didn’t really want but were the best thing in the catalogue so I circled them anyway, while the quiet snow fell outside.  

Now it’s so fast all the time. And loud. Traffic and subway stations where there’s a guy behind my shoulder asking me to help him because he just got out of jail, while I’m the only human being in the whole subway station just trying to buy my fare at the machine and that’s just not the right way to ask me to help you, by saying you just got out of jail and hovering over my shoulder too close. And then I take the slightly wrong train in my panic so I have to get off and wait for the next one and I’m mostly alone again at a stop I don’t know and somewhat worried but keeping myself together because you sort of have to all the time and it’s just the subway even though no one seems to ride it here at night except me and the two people waiting with me.  

I just miss it sometimes. I miss the quiet snow and the fireplace and not having the world beating down on you and your job grading your performance and too many horns honking for no understandable reason and politics and waking up to go make money and being grown up and everything you have to think about. 

Except that it was pretty funny the other morning when the toilet wouldn’t stop flushing and I tried to fix it and it started spraying on me out of the pipes and I woke up Z, not because he would know how to fix it or anything but just to join me in the hullaballoo because it was funny and maybe he would know how to fix it anyway. He didn’t. He just got sprayed too.

I know there’s a lot of beauty in this. And humor. And I do love it, this whole thing. But still, I miss the quiet slow world sometimes. Curled up with catalogues, circling things.

Gathering a Picnic

Z and I went on a trip to Colorado recently. Leaving LA on that early morning looking out of the airplane windows, I told Z that I always get a little bit sad whenever I take off in a plane. It just always makes me think of my whole life. And then I get some distant perspective on where I am, like here, watching LA sink away far below, stretching out. And I think about all that led me there, to that place below, to that one place, and where I came from, everything. 

And then Denver that first night! We wandered out of our wonderful strange decrepit hotel that was pretending to be fancy but wasn’t anymore to go explore the evening streets. It was so beautiful on our walk around the city that Z and I just kept stopping to feel it and take it all in and look at the sky and the buildings. It was the longest walk, getting lost, enamored.  The wind started to blow as we were walking around gathering a picnic to bring back to the hotel. Sweeping leaves up in circles. And then it lightly rained on us out there, in the middle of that city, and half of the clouds were dark and half were in the clutch of a rainbow and then it all turned pink and soft hazy yellow and orange and purple in different spaces between the illuminated buildings. 

My god, world. 

I don’t think I will forget that.

It was a real spectacle out there that night, and we were just so happy, I guess, which is just not something you can say all the time because there’s always something no matter how happy you are. But we were just there, on vacation, delighting in some sort of unencumbered wonder, stopping at intersections and popping into restaurants and little fancy markets and take-out shish kabob in that light, that weather, just us, gathering a picnic to bring back to that funny hotel room.

And So It Is

The other day I found myself driving along, accidentally thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong with anything (oops), my new job, the future, parking garages, the freeways, merging, crashing (etc. ad nauseam), and after a while I just had to laugh a little and say to myself out loud, “God, you can’t be afraid of everything.” 

And for me, after the laughter dies down over how ridiculous I am because I’m always afraid and panicking all the time, I have to remember something. I don’t want to miss out on any of this. Because everything feels like it has some sacred value for being just what it’s been. And somehow, I feel like I need to welcome and protect even the most painful pieces and hold them tight somewhere because they are some integral part of the total beauty. 

So I hold on to it all by finding ways to keep going forward into this world and moving, moving. 

Like last week, Z and I went downtown and got egg sandwiches at Grand Central Market and walked around and took pictures of the buildings and dreamed of buying one of the defunct ones with broken windows that was so beautiful and had lion parapets or some thing or another and we sat out on the sidewalk drinking iced coffees in the sweltering heat.  And I was not afraid of anything.

And the other day we went up to the Getty for a long time letting the art flood into us like it does when it just speaks to you and feeling all of the things there are to feel about the world and life and existence and just being here. And I was not afraid.

And one night it started to rain on our way back from a comedy show and we got home and ran upstairs. And we stood on the rooftop barefoot in the warm summer rain, quiet and happy, just looking around at the city and breathing it all in, and I just thought, here we are, and so it is. And I was not afraid.

Here’s what I think sometimes: I want to remember everything. Palpably. Especially the ache of experience. Because every time, in the moments when I feel so much peace and beauty and happiness, it’s only because I know more than that, it’s because I know the ache of life. In some strange way I don’t want to forget about that the most. And in some way, I’m lucky, because I can’t.  

And here we are, and so it is.

Brunch and Everything

Well, another day, and I still don’t have the answers to the big questions. (So don’t go getting all excited).  Mostly, I just look around and watch everything and I’m pretty baffled still.

Now the park is covered in cotton from the big tree.  And I think about all of these days.  The different mornings and the chapters.  Everything moving by.  What I’ve done.  What I will do.

Sometimes I’ll be wondering what this is, all of this, and then I start thinking so much that I start to miss just about everything. Everything I’ve ever done and everything I’ve ever been and then I start thinking about everything I'm going to have to do but I don’t know how I can possibly manage it all. Well, now, that sure is the kind of thinking that can get you into trouble. How am I gonna pull the rest of this off?  Oh, boy.  

The flower shop next to my store moved.  That’s kind of sad for me.  Even though it’s not really a big deal.  It’s just that, kind of the only two people I've really connected with over in Venice work at that shop and they give me flowers and we chat on our breaks and it’s been nice.  And I don’t even know their names.  And there they go.  And that was that.  Their stories marching on.  All of these lives crossing paths and all of these things.  And you just can’t hold on to any of it, I guess.  I don't know.  

Well, I know a few things. Like, I know there’s kind of nothing like going to brunch. Z and I have decided: More brunch! Here’s our favorite places to go:  Stella.  Blu Jam.  Chateau Marmot. In no particular order, except: Favorite. Second favorite. Special occasion because a little too pricey favorite.

It’s just so peaceful having a nice long brunch.  And then all of my worries are gone and I’m smiling and just enjoying whatever this is and even if I am thinking, at least it feels productive or worth while or something because it’s not bad to think, it’s just that you can overthink sometimes.  Or, well, it’s just that I can overthink.

But brunch.  It feels like something really good carved out of this strange ordeal and all of the little ordeals.  And at brunch we tell stories and contemplate and wonder but mostly just enjoy it.  It’s quiet and close and savored.  And there’s eggs and stuff.  And, for me at least, it’s like you just sort of feel life and being in life, just sitting there, time kind of stopping for a little while and you don’t worry about aging and money and what if you get MERS and where are all the ambulii going and if that one beggar at the corner is going to throw something at you because he’s always throwing things at people or if the overpass is going to collapse when you’re under it waiting for the light to change.  

It’s good, brunch. Just being in the world like that.  Where it’s all pretty nice all of a sudden.  

So that’s something.

What is all of this? I have no idea.  No idea at all.  But I know it’s a small part of this big humungous thing.  And even though we’re a small part of that, we are a part of it.  That’s like scientifically proven.  And it’s a pretty great thing.  

And we meet and interact and we are everything we’ve been and everything we will be and everything we’ve done and everything we will do.  And, for now, I guess, we tell stories at brunch and keep moving and find moments to be still. Me, the flower shop guys.  We just keep doing this.  

So there’s something too. 

Waking up Laughing

The other day was kind of the best day.  Mostly because I woke up laughing and then Z and I were kind of just laughing all day.  And we didn’t really do anything but go to the market and stuff, but still.  It’s just that I woke Z up by telling him about how I used to pass Bob Barker and his dog in the mornings when I went hiking and then I said, “Do you know what Bob Barker’s dog’s name is?…It’s Dog Barker!” only I was laughing hysterically halfway through the joke and could barely make it to the punchline because it was so funny and Z started laughing at me for laughing so much at my own joke and also because it was a really good joke, if you ask me.

Then I said, in defiance of all responsibility, “I’m not doing anything until I go on vacation!”  Even though there is no vacation planned any time at all.  And then we laughed some more.

Then we decided, as we sometimes do, that we were going on strike from everything, especially work.  But sometimes when Z goes on strike by himself, he ends up working anyway, since he’s his own boss and he doesn’t want to throw tomatoes at himself when he crosses the picket line the next day.  When I go on strike, it just means I have a day off.  But that day, we woke up and we were both on strike, which we also refer to as a snow day because we can do whatever we want.  Which means we sometimes just order pizza and watch movies.  Which I guess is kind of just a regular day off. If you're not always thinking about trying to do something important all the time.

But I guess, it’s just really nice to not have to do anything.  Because we’re always asking ourselves such big questions and trying to do so much and life is so heavy sometimes and we think too much and why are we here and how do we do this and what’s it all about and how can I do something that matters and when can we go on a vacation?  And then we start sounding like Woody Allen monologues with all of our existentialist problems and we can get pretty brooding and forlorn so it’s good to just laugh about things sometimes.

And then, another day, we went up to his sister’s new place on a hill.  It was a small gathering in the afternoon and when it got darker and colder I made a fire in the fire pit on the hillside and it was nice to remember how to build a fire and everyone seemed happy and then we went inside and played piano in the living room.  And it feels like there’s so much meaning in days like that.

And then I think, everything’s important. We’re all doing different things and none of us knows what we’re doing. 

And we laugh in the morning, and we play piano in living rooms.

Parrots

Went up to the Getty today.  Which is always kind of the best place.  The grounds, for one, but there’s that one room.  That’s what gets me.  And there was a new Degas. It was so peaceful looking at that, and I felt all of the things I hope to feel.  

Like about all of life and how these things happen and mean so much.  Seeing one of my very best childhood friends the other week and just getting to sit with her, and when we’re together it’s like my life is with me, and something really deeply understanding, and it makes sense, and how Bethany came over to Venice to visit me at work the other day and we went to Gjelina for lunch which is the place to go and it’s no wonder, that was just too good, like how do you make cauliflower make me melt and food nourishes the soul type of good.  Even though I always feel a little bit like I’m-in-sixth-grade-and-not-quite-cool-enough-because-there’s-something-I-don’t-know-but-I-can’t-figure-out-what whenever I go anywhere in Venice.  

And it was just good to go out and eat with Bethany again.  Explorer friend.  

Sometimes, I think, we just don’t have enough time for all of this.  Like, practically speaking, maybe eight times of ten, eighty years.  And then, so, we’re very young until ten.  That’s the first part.  Just being very young.  And that’s the best time.  Pretty much.  Well, for me, because you’re just not thinking about it all so much.  Running around in the yard and trips to Illinois on the train to my grandparents' with that funny basement with a pool table and stationary bike and some big dead fish on the wall with a really sharp pointy long nose sword thing.  Maybe a swordfish?  And the summers in Corona del Mar, beaches and relatives and mom laughing and boardwalks and dancing to jazz with dad.  And ice cream bars melting and falling in love with running around. 

And then the next ten. They go to twenty.  All of the ten to twenty years that are probably the most confusing (you think. Oh lord, but you don’t know.) and pretty beautiful and activity and trees and snow and summers and falls and winters and jumping in the rivers and dancing and birthday parties on the hillside and books and tears and parents and falling asleep by the fireplace and wondering about everything (like stars) and middle school and high school and pizza and running around still and college and stuff.  And thinking you know, somewhere toward the end of it.

And then twenty to thirty.  Thinking you know by now and not knowing anything still, really.  And love.  And everything.  Then just everything.  And questions and sadness and loss and beauty, still beauty, maybe more, because it means more, because you recognize it.  Beauty just to live.  Chomping at all of these things and work and gathering living and I don’t know.

And then it”s cloudy and the little green parrots are chirping in the trees. 

Then it’s another morning and it’s one more day behind me and it’s I get scared again at how fast it's going. 

Little Dances

I misheard a quote the other day as "You agree to die to live" and it just struck me, like, significant business.  Suddenly, all that I really deeply feel about this life came to me in those words.  I've always said that no matter how hard this is, I would never trade it in for anything else.  If I'd had the choice, before living here as this person in this world having to go through this life, I'd choose it.  Even if I knew that I would never really know anything and just have to live and keep going and persevere because it just seems like you've got to.  Even if I'd been told how rough it is at times and how there's no manual whatsoever and so many systems seem ridiculous and how you just get flung into this place and there's no established goal and it's all pretty bizarre and heart breaking mostly, even the most beautiful things.  I'd do it.  Because, well, you agree to die to live, and in that idea, somewhere, is something I love…I get to be here.  I get this.  I get to wake up and feel sleepy and feel the cool cloudy day outside in the early mornings and make coffee and drive to work and even hate the drive and wonder about things.  I get to hold the hand of my lover on the sidewalks and giggle and cry and burn toast and miss things.  

And I don't know if this is the first place or the last place or the only place, but as far as I really know and can prove, it is the only one, and in that, well, in that, everything is kind of amazing and worth feeling and existing in.  And it's weird and sad and so much confusing and somehow always touching.  And I am grateful.  Because there will always be those little moments, just waiting.  

Like my whole childhood. Like dragging sleeping bags across the dirt road to camp out in the trees with my sister and watching meteor showers and running around in the garden of tulips and watching my dad mow the lawn that was a whole hillside and he made patterns and art out there, just for fun, and just because it was him. 

And coming home to Z and we always do little dances together, because we're just happy to see each other and probably also because we're pretty impressed we made it this far at all here in this world and we're still going and for some reason we still know everything's going to be all right even though neither one of us has any clue at all how we're supposed to do any of this.  

That's reason for a little celebration.  Just a small jig of joy.  Blessed are those who do little dances from time to time.

And we made carrot cake and Thanksgiving in August, just because.  And went to the Hollywood Bowl to see Lyle Lovett and Willie Nelson and then, also, we just have the most fun when we're washing the car, spraying each other and smiling. There are so many things, there are so many parts that I love so much, and everything that's hard.  I kind of love that too, in a way, because it means I'm here.  

Pink's

Lately, just, everyone seems so mad and sad.  When I'm driving to work.  I see so much.  Every corner of every light, there's someone with a sign asking for money and help.  And then the rest of the way it's just honking and swearing and shaking of fists.  And that's hard for me.  All of it.  Because I just kind of wake up and am in love with the world for no particular reason except for that there are clouds in the sky and I can feel and laugh and, I mean, even get sad, I guess.  I don't know how it goes.  And I don't know what I'm doing either, ultimately.  I don't know.  But trying to be here.  In the best way that I can. 

Because I know it wasn't what we expected it to be.  But, I just wonder, why did we expect it to be any way at all? That's what I wonder.

This world is kind of pretty crazy most of the time.  To live in and to decipher.  I don't know.  

Well, and so I stick to the small parts of it.  Cling, sort of.  Because I don't know how else to do it.  So I stick to the clouds, and to the laughter.  

And there was the most amazing day when Zooey and I went to Pink's for hot dogs.  Well, now that's certainly something you're supposed to do when you live in LA.  And it's kind of amazing in it's own little way.  Standing in that line at Melrose and La Brea, with everyone else.  No one seems to be thinking about the bigger stuff.  Which, thank god, is so nice.  Those are kind of the best moments.  When we stop thinking about all of this craziness and just go and get hot dogs.  

That was a really nice day.

Intrepid Angeleno

Well, thank god I just went up to the Hollywood Bowl to get my tickets for the season!  I'm feeling inspired.  I've been absent from writing for too long now.  And it hasn't been for lack of words or thoughts or adventures, but I think just for lack of routine.  Being without a job for so many moons can really disrupt the structure of the day to day.  But, alas, I'm employed again, happily so, but that's an adjustment too.  

Funny life.  I had forgotten how it feels to work every day and learn the lives of new people and introduce who I am and sometimes get anxiety in the mornings and other times just want to break down and cry because I mostly don't understand the world too much and then sometimes feel so very blessed to have gotten the one job I actually wanted and come home and feel like I'm really doing this all right in my own sensitive and loving way.  And, for the most part, what I've been thinking about is how this very life of mine is like one of those choose your own adventure books that are most certainly not around any more, only I can't go back and try all of the different options like I used to when I was young and just reading.  Sigh.

But this morning!  It was the rainstorm of the century and, oh, is there nothing more beautiful to me than a good solid rainstorm!  Knowing the delicate disposition of my comrades here in LA, I decided it would probably be the perfect day to walk up to the Hollywood Bowl and procure my tickets without having to wait in line.  So, with boots on and umbrella in hand I ventured up to the box office.  And the only things I was worried about were getting splashed by cars driving through the puddles and getting smashed by a hydroplaning vehicle.  Other than that, I was humming "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" just about the whole walk there.  

Then, there, reunited with my happy place, in the rain, I just felt good.  No line, as speculated, and at the box office I did what I have now realized is my annual goofball routine because I just get so excited and giddy and am kind of jumping for joy and clapping as the tickets are being secured for none other than yours truly and that person on the other side of the window tends to be quite amused.  And this time, I think that person was really quite amused and appreciated my enthusiasm and told me I came on a great day because most Angelenos are not so intrepid when it rains and I said, "Well, mister, this Angeleno is intrepid when just about anything."  And when all was said and done, he handed me two vouchers, because I braved the rain, for two free tickets to certain other shows (which is four free tickets!) and I was clapping and jumping for joy again.  

On the walk back, I was just about the happiest girl ever.  And I thought of my life.  And the paths I choose, and those I don't but get flung down anyhow.  You kinda gotta be intrepid. 

I breathed in the rain and I felt lucky, for everything.  

I felt lucky that I got a break from working for four whole months, because I never would have chosen that path, and it was a true gift in so many ways.  I got to dig in to the city and in to life even more.  I learned to love Rothko with darling Zooey and explored this bookstore downtown called The Last Bookstore that is just filled to the brim and thankfully exists and we spent a long afternoon at El Cid with family and friends on the hidden patio in the sunshine and there were game nights and the Yamashiro farmer's market started up again and there have been days doing absolutely nothing and a lot of contemplation and reading and cooking and I am just thankful, I guess.  By what grace was I given that time?  

I do not know how this works.  That's something I do know.  And I know that I love it.  For all its confusion, I love it.  The worries and heartbreak and giddy ticket window dances and the rain and all of the mundane moments that somehow feel so holy sometimes, just for being.

Hollywood Boulevard

What a funny day, the other day, with Bethany.  We decided that we were due for an afternoon together over here in Hollywood.  Pop into a few stores, go to L'Oteria happy hour, just chill for the afternoon together.  Oh, whoops!  We forgot it was Saturday.  What a mess!

I'm pretty used to Hollywood by now.  Eight years will definitely toughen your skin. There's always bound to be some sort of mayhem or other, but, I can safely deduce, there's more on weekends.  I realized that day that no matter how long I've been here, there is nothing that can quite prepare you for a foray into Hollywood being Hollywood, blazing and baring itself in all of its scuzzy glory.

First, we were walking down the block toward Hollywood Boulevard and I saw that the streets were blocked off by a bunch of cops and it was really loud and there was a huge mass off people in the distance walking down the street and I saw flags in the air or something (a marching band?) and I said to Bethany, "No way, it's a parade!"  Which I was pretty excited about.  I figured this was our lucky day.  What are the chances we'd just stumble on a parade at random?  

None, apparently.

Yeah.  It wasn't a parade at all.  It was a really loud march with signage and megaphones protesting against the abuse of women.  Which is all well and good, but, no parade.  

So, we pushed our way through the crowd and noise, crazy stuttered needing pulse of Hollywood, just trying to get into the safe enclave of a store.  When we finally made it through the doors and I was about to jump up and down in relief that we'd arrived in the holy land of peace I calmed down for a second and took stock of where we stood and it was not peaceful, it was amongst a mob of shoppers and clothes sprawling everywhere, not even in the places they were supposed to be at all, just flung like a bachelor's laundry all around us, and the music was so loud we could hardly hear each other. 

Which was funny too, actually, because from the outset of our journey we had been trying to catch up and we had all of these great things to share with each other and thoughts and deep insights as usual and what we've been up to since the last time we hung out and we were just laughing at every turn because I'd try to talk, "So I was thinking…", and she'd just be like, "What?", and then she'd make an attempt, "You know, it makes sense that…", and I'd be like, "What?", and then I'd try again, "I finally figured out…", "What?", and then we'd just laugh and laugh but, still, by the time we had made one lap of the store and gotten nowhere whatsoever with our conversation or anything at all, we were both clearly over it and a bit frazzled and I just looked at her and said, "L'Oteria, now!"

So, she didn't hear me, but she read my mouth. 

We clutched each other for comfort and bolted from that store and began the obstacle course that was Hollywood that day.  We were both teetering between laughing and overwhelmed and annoyed and amused and ready to pull out our best self defense moves.  Then, a few blocks later, someone was acting/was super crazy in the middle of the street, and about a million cop cars and cops were surrounding him and a huge crowd was assembled and Bethany nodded toward the crazy guy and said to me, "You wanna go say hi to your friend?"  That was a good one, because she knows me.  I flee just as fast as my little legs can carry me from any sort of confrontation, or crazy, or cop.  So I gave her the look, but, still, we laughed some more because that was pretty funny to come up with that when we could hardly even think and finally, I mean, by the skin of our teeth, I swear, we made it to L'Oteria.

Blessed sanctuary.  By now that is such a regular spot for me that I am finally recognized there and it's a very comforting place.  I take the same seats, always, so that we can watch the person making the tortillas and griddle cheese.  And also, they recently started offering a happy hour, so we can just relax and it's not busy and, well, appetizers and drinks are half price, so it's kind of the ideal time to go.  And we got our moment to share stories after all, by the grill, under that extremely massive piñata, figuring out the details of our lives, like we always do.  The only thing it seems we kind of have any control over.

Then, on the way back home, oh man, you should've seen us!  It was like we were walking with bayonets and machetes fighting off everything that came our way.  The guy sitting on a carpet trying to sell us flowers made from palm fronds, the guys asking us to take tours every few yards, bands and bums and peddlers.  Just a barrage of pandemonium for blocks.

The last and final onslaught before we were out of the mob was a guy on a podium with a loudspeaker saying, "…so, embrace God and God will embrace you...(silence…silence)…soooooo…(silence)…" and we just started laughing again and I was like, "Nice oration skills." 

When I came back home, though, I felt so happy.  In a way, to the core of me.  I walked into my apartment and instantly decompressed when the breeze came through the windows and all of that craziness fell away and I felt blessed to have L'Oteria and Bethany and to have made my way into the heart of somewhere so weird in my life at all and to really have seen so much and learned so much and figured out how to take it on with composure and to love it still, just for being what it is.  Even if I don't understand much any of it.

Then again, I'm not really trying to figure it out but just trying to live it as it is.  There's something in that for me that I actually do understand.  Like traveling, but through the whole world, through the whole of whatever life is.  Taking it all as it comes and trying to flex with it and remain upright and curious and somehow to really enjoy it in whatever ways I can that make sense to me.  Usually laughing.

And also, when I came home, the whole apartment smelled of jasmine because there's a huge jasmine tree across the street and every year it blossoms bright white and pastel pink and fills every inch of the air on these few blocks with the most fragrant beautiful scent. So I just stood in my apartment and breathed in the jasmine room and the cool air coming in off the hill and the birds chirping spring and thought of this battle that is life.

Here's what we do. We're on this planet and we invent things, we create things, we feel things, we respond, we try, we rebel, we have protests, we find ways to get through it.  And express ourselves.  However that may be.  All of that commotion out there on that street is just people trying to get through this life in this world that doesn't make much sense and, honestly, is really difficult.  It's a battle for everyone.  

Which is what makes me feel so lucky when I pull up a stool in my same spot at the counter of one of my favorite restaurants with one of my best friends after fighting off the world's angst like champions, blessed to find respite in a Mexican restaurant and talking and old friendship and laughing, and then come back to the little home I've created to find that the air is filled with the sweet scent of jasmine. 

Malo, and Space too

Oh, Malo Malo Malo!  Thank the lord I found ye!  I don't know why it took me so long either, because after my very favorite restaurant Cobras and Matadors closed, I was absolutely intent on checking it out since it's the same owners, but for some reason it just didn't happen until one fated night.  

Zooey was in town again, thank the lucky stars, and when we were invited out to dinner there, I was basically jumping for joy.  

I do that sometimes. 

First off, the atmosphere is perfect.  Dim reddish lighting, wooden tables.  To me, it felt like a bigger Cobras and Matadors, like they may have used the same tables and chairs and everything.  Which is just an interpretation based on distant cloudy foggy memories, from the corners of my mind, but I loved feeling that way, in any case.  I can get sentimental about pretty much anything, though, even chairs.

As to dinner, we started off with the creamy Habanero salsa and soft chips. Wow!  That was something else!  I think they have a variety of salsas to choose from, but I really can't imagine there being a better salsa in the universe, so I'd be hard pressed to try a different one next time.  And soft chips.  Well, now, those things are just a little bit of heaven in a handbasket.  I could have dined on those alone and been one happy girl.  

But, then, all of dinner was amazing.  Mine, squash blossom tacos.  Theirs, some spectacular looking carnitas.  And I was one happy girl.  And we were one happy crew.  And I'm real glad I finally found that place.

Plus, it's just good to get out, in this, the era of my unemployment.  Lest I forget how you don't wear sweatpants all the time.

Then it was a glorious Sunday afternoon and Zooey and I decided to venture up to the Observatory.  I've long loved that place, and usually hike up to it, but this time we drove and, incidentally, still sort of had to hike up to it anyway since the parking lot was overflowing about a mile down the hill.  So we walked up there in that crisp air, the hills and city spanning out around us.

We wandered into the Observatory and did some observing.  There's so much to see in there and it overwhelmed me at times because, well, I think too much is the main reason.  We checked out the panel of existence.  I mean, that's the only way I can think to title it.  Just a long walkway with a small model of time along the wall, the Big Bang and the almost 14 billion years that passed before we people arrived here.  Insane.  Insane.  This universe.

Me, being existence, contemplating its magnificence. And what it is.  It's magnificence, and so are we.  

And then we walked outside and the sun was about to set and the half moon was floating above us.  And we were in space there.  Zooey and I, standing on the earth, circling around the sun, the moon overhead.  I couldn't quite get my mind around it all.  Naturally, I suppose.  That's some serious business to consider.  Where are we?  What is this?  How did this come from an explosion in the middle of nothing?  But in those questions, there was sincere awe.  And my heart so full of gratitude that it could just about break.  And somehow, I knew that it all had meaning.

The hills were spanning off from dark and close to pale and distant and the sky was orange and bright and then the sun just crept lower and lower softly behind those hills and became an enormous red ball in the brightest golden sky and, for a split second, there was silence.  Just everywhere.  All of LA.  It was quiet.  And then the sun disappeared as we rotated and spun around it.  And there we were, side by side, just standing on planet Earth.  

14 billion years to get here.  

And all I could think was, we're in space.  And, also, this is the best Observatory ever!  

Grand Park

Another beautiful detour, just the other day. My friend Brad and I went Downtown to go see an art show at the Convention Center, but it happened to be on a Sunday when there was a Lakers' game so that whole area was bustling like Downtown only bustles when there's a Lakers' game.  We drove around for a while trying to decide if we wanted to see the art show that much, to brave the mayhem and pay $30 to park, and came to the conclusion that we did not.  More than that, we decided we could find something just as fun to do on that clear winter day in a different Downtown area.  So it was decided.  We were off to explore with no particular plan or destination.  And I think we both felt relieved with that verdict. 

As it turns out, Brad had heard of this park that was recently built and we had really been wanting to check it out.  It was supposedly constructed to be like the Central Park of Downtown LA to accommodate, I suppose, the burgeoning, ever so slowly, I might add, populace of successful artsy sorts.  So we got Siri on the mission, circling around looking for Grand Park.  

Once located, we parked near Grand Central Market.  We popped in there for a minute, just so I could show it to Brad.  I've always been fond of that bizarre bazaar.  That's another place I hear rumor is going to be getting a multimillion dollar makeover, which, on the one hand, I'm sure I'll love.  On the other, I've always found a certain appeal and charm in how grubby and strange that place is.  So, I imagine, where once you could get a bottle of tequila, a cheap plastic toy and a slab of beef tongue, you'll be able to get a microbrew and a yoga mat. 

Anyway, after that short stop at one of my favorite little downtown treasures, we walked over to see what that park was all about.  Hm.  Um.  Well.

First, I think I need to look up the definition of park, maybe.  I mean, it's possibly the weirdest park in the world.  It takes up four blocks and is mostly patches of grass in concrete, nary a tree to be seen, and a bunch of fuchsia benches, metal benches, not even wooden, and a fountain.  It was just about the furthest thing from nature that I could imagine.  It might actually be what I would imagine if someone asked me to imagine the furthest thing from nature.  I'm still kind of registering that place.  Maybe it's not done.  That's what I'm hoping.  Because Grand it was not.

But, as we stood there in that peculiar desolation, the clouds and the light and the world were all so perfect that it hardly mattered.  Looking up, we found our nature.  The sky was incredible that day. It really was.  Bright and serene with abnormally puffy clouds perched just so over the Civic Center. And the park was empty, all four blocks of it, and it was quite peaceful then.

After that, we decided to see how much ticket prices were at the MOCA.  We walked over there and up to the ticket booth and for some reason it was free that day so we got to go in and look at all of this modern art that I don't understand (yet? ever?) and it was all really quite beautiful, in its strange way.  The MOCA suddenly being free.  We got our art show after all.  And we whispered a lot.  And giggled.  But every so often, we stopped and were silent.  So, there's always something that gets you.  

And then coming back home, the sky was that quintessential LA sky color.  For me at least.  All golden and white and bright and vast.  And when we were at my door, it began to rain and when I got out of the car and felt the raindrops hit my face, I felt so happy.  So happy for all of the years here and that I have found that I truly love this place and that every day is an exploration.  And I love it for being that.  Sincerely.  

A Small Case for the Magical World

So, I'm testing my theory on how life works.  Unemployed for a month and believing that the right thing will magically come my way because the right thing always comes my way and it is always magical when it does.  I might be a downright proper fool for this theory, but I'm sticking with it. 

I mean, realistically, though, it's pretty incredible how all of this is running and operating and going on along with no conceivable power source, no plug and no batteries.  To me, that means there's obviously something mystical occurring.  How this is here at all.  How we stay moving and think.  So, in my opinion, it's no far cry to assume that mostly everything is working in some mysterious way that I don't understand but kind of have to believe in and acknowledge, in some sort of way.  And the way I do that is trust.  And bravery.  Or, really, being brave enough to trust it.  And to just say, I have no idea how this works, but it's goddamn astounding.  And so my own small life is too.  That's what makes the most sense to me, anyway.  It always has.

Also, I'll have you know, it's no unfounded theory, either.  For me, at least, life has a proven track record of not steering me wrong when I just throw the reins into its hands and say, "Ok, here you go.  Lead the way. I'm at your mercy and, well, I always have been anyway, whether I want to be or not. So do what you will."  

And then I say, "Surprise me!"  Out loud, too.  Just to really drive the point home.  

Oh, and how I've loved the surprises so far, the detours I've been taken on that have led me to things better than anything I could have expected.  It's like that with everything, though, the detours and unplanned are the best, life unfolding in ways that are quite remarkable.  And we could never have crafted it so well ourselves.

Like when Zooey was in town for a week and two of our days were more incredible because of what was unplanned than planned.  First, the day we went to breakfast in Silverlake and decided to walk back to Hollywood, five glorious miles that took us all day long, but it was the most perfect crisp winter day and the best company I've ever had.  And we found ourselves stopping in little shops, getting educated on tea by the most pleasant young English chap, climbing the wall of El Cid, because I've never been there and it was closed but we just had to see what was down there, popping into bookstores and browsing our hearts out, stopping for a Bloody Mary by the Koi pond at Home and learning ever more about each other.  

And then the next day, we had bookend plans, but nothing in between, and we started out at the LACMA for the Stanley Kubrick exhibit, which was amazing and breathtaking and so much of what I expect of the LACMA, and then decided to walk a few blocks and discovered the craziest most jam packed antique store I've ever been to and there was so much to see and we just looked around and played in there together with all of these interesting artifacts and paintings and swords and masks and sculptures and I don't even know and then I remembered that there was this little wine bar called Sheddy's in the area and we found it and crept in and sat in the tiny beautiful red room and got sangria and the strangest appetizer of chips and manchego and jalepenos and avocado and it was all just delectable.  The ambiance of that place, the whole day.  Feeling how much I love this life and that there are so many wonderful things and unexpected moments and how good it is to find someone whose hand you could take and just walk through the world with forever.

And so it is that I've found the wonderful little hidden secret of just seeing where life takes me.  And so it is that I have learned to say to myself, wait for it.  Something beautiful is going to emerge. Something real.  The right thing.