First day of school

“It will be interesting to see who is in my writing class,” I muse. “Last time I had a sex addict, a news anchor, a guy who waxed on about pornography. I had a rebellious 18-year old, who got grounded by her parents every other week. I had a doctor.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she says. “All writers are a bit screwy.”

“Yup.”

She just stares at me.

it's tuesday

I fell asleep last night, laughing at the memories from this past weekend.

remember your soul is the one thing
you can't compromise
step out of the shadow
we're gonna go where we can shine
we're gonna go where we can shine
we're gonna go where we can shine

- David Gray

Where did the summer go?

Autumn is ever so subtle here in Los Angeles but now in the mornings when I wake it’s ink black outside, aside from the street lights sprinkled throughout Brentwood like stars, the stars themselves and the warm yellow glow, across the way, of a neighbor’s light on.

And in the morning when I go up and down those stairs in Santa Monica (up and down, up and down, up and down), the ocean fog lingers around and dips within the canyons.

And when I drive to work, a handful more shadows line the streets. The slightest of changes from the sunshine-white light of summer, but noticed nonetheless.

I’m in the mood for butternut squash soup, turkey and jackets. For boots and sweatshirts and hot steamy cups of tea. For crunchy vibrant red leaves and socks. I want cold air on my walks, holiday lights and the spirit of giving and love. The empowerment of renewal that fall brings.

Wednesday bit

Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running the streets trying to find you.


- Haviz

Friday bit

Remember that happiness is a way of travel -- not a destination.


- Roy M. Goodman

Jo vs. Chocolate

I am home from a perfect date. Wait. It’s more like this: I am home after devouring the perfect dessert. Mom and Dad, please turn your heads in shame, as I was not such a lady tonight but more like a rabid rottweiler, attacking a velvety, rich, dark chocolate mess of a dessert, a pot of chocolate at a little Spanish tapas joint off of Santa Monica Blvd, where the legendary run of asphalt meets the ocean.

It was like this. It all started innocent enough. We were staring at the tapas menu. Tortillas Espinola? Patatas Bravas? Whatcha Maccallit? We pointed at sweet-looking delights in the window at the bar and asked, “What’s this? What’s that?” and at the end we ended up inhaling small bites of white asparagus and yellow squash. But when it came to the platos, I hesistated. Not like me to be quiet, so I wasn’t.

“I think…” Pause. “I think we need to leave room for dessert.”

I knew I liked him when he didn’t flinch at this suggestion, didn’t talk about calories or a morning run, oh-so common in Los Angeles. He just said: “Well, why don’t we get two?”

I protested. Weakly. Oh, it was so fake, why am I living in the shadow of Hollywood!? Oh no, I deplored, that’s far too much….okay….alright. Okay, yes. Yes!

The waitress downplayed the whole affair. If she were a cat and I were a cat, I’d take her out to the alley and outright fight her, swipe my paws her way for lying to me about the damn goodness of the thing.

“It’s dark chocolate. It’s rich. It’s good,” she said. Simply. Her voice flat and dull and carrying an air of nonchalance, longing for her shift to be over.

“I’m in, all in,” I said. When did I start playing poker? Wasn’t this a dinner date? We ordered the pot of chocolate and bread pudding.

The desserts came, side by side, passed to us over the food counter by the chef himself. The bread pudding looking more like a tart or crème brulee, square and carmelized and pretty on a little white plate. And the pot of chocolate, it…well, it was just that. It was a sassy chocolate filling, pudding-ish, in a mini mug of sorts with the faintest brush of fresh whipped cream kissing the top.

We dived into the pudding and exchanged pleasantries about the smoothness. He was used to more goo. More pockets of happiness and cream and chunks of bread. I get it, I get it, I shrugged it off. I was thinking….chocolate! Come to me!

I went for it, and it was so thick and stiff that at first I panicked, thinking my spoon wouldn’t return to me. Simply, it didn’t want to come back to me. It was stuck in that velvet ocean, that dark undertow where fat doesn’t exist and you just want to turn over and scream to the whole world that you found it. That you found something exquisite and extraordinary and happy in a tiny little pot.

And then I did it. I groaned in the restaurant and slapped my right hand down on the bar top, accidentally hitting the woman next to me. But all is fair in food and wine and so be it: man down, who gives a shit, because I was in heaven! And then I took another bite, and another, and another, and just ate the entire damn thing. My date gave me looks of surprise. Of delight, the occasional glance of admiration. Like he didn’t think I could do it.

Well, that just goes to show: he doesn’t know me yet.

Because when it comes to me and chocolate, I can always take it down.

I used to know you

I remember.

Riding bikes with you in the sticky Maryland summer
Our faces painted bronze
And the smell of cut grass stained into our shorts and elbows
Our feet black from asphalt and simply not caring.
Oh, old friend, where are you now?

You used to be my secret keeper.
Whispers and wishes that floated like bath bubbles
And drifted like unicorns, crashed like our matchbox cars at birthday parties.

The world is wide and you are out there, somewhere
Your heart beating among the millions
And I am here,
Wishing you well.