I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.
- Louis Armstrong, "What a Wonderful World"
Friday night on a bus to Venice, to Venice, to Venice. Trolled the bars of Abbott Kinney and made a new friend named Juan. I ended up at a hipster bar where no one has a normal hair color and the drinks are strong and cheap. I danced with a black guy who kept saying, “Damn girl, you got energy!” only it sounded more like: “Daaaaayeeeeem GIRL! You got Inner-G! Day-em!”
Bought some new clothes on Saturday (because I’m shrinking! I really am!) and went to see one of my closest friends try on wedding dresses so she could make a final decision. I caught myself off guard by crying in the dressing room when I saw her step through the doorway, all in white and glowing.
Beautiful and vibrant.
Walked to sushi in Brentwood on Saturday night for dinner and beat two guys into the restaurant. They ended up sharing a table with my friend and I and we did saki bombs like I was still in college. They bought us dinner. We had plans to go downtown to scare of some shenanigans but promptly canceled and hopped a cab on Wilshire to an Irish bar down the street. There, we danced to 80s rock and made friends with the bartender.
Got up this morning for a pilates class and climbed the rock wall at the gym. The sky here looks like it’s holding its rainy breath; I wish it would just pour already. It’s a gray day, this last day in May.
I am happy; I am strong. Life is good.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Venice is calling tonight
I want to know what became of the changes
We waited for love to bring
Were they only the fitful dreams
Of some greater awakening
I’ve been aware of the time going by
They say in the end it’s the wink of an eye
And when the morning light comes streaming in
You’ll get up and do it again
Amen
~ From “The Pretender,” Jackson Browne
We waited for love to bring
Were they only the fitful dreams
Of some greater awakening
I’ve been aware of the time going by
They say in the end it’s the wink of an eye
And when the morning light comes streaming in
You’ll get up and do it again
Amen
~ From “The Pretender,” Jackson Browne
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
And we are no longer
“C’mon! Everyone up!” screams the man in front of my brother and I at the baseball game this past weekend. “It’s our turn!”
We are doing the wave. I turn to my left and squint up into the bleachers next to us, and see the crowd rise and fall with spirit. Our turn. Though my body feels as though I’m wading through mud, I stand up. Fling my arms over my head. Smile. Sit down. Turn to my right, see the wave start all over again.
And then it comes back to us, and I rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.
And that’s how it works. Things keep going on and you keep moving. I marvel at this concept.
But what other choice is there?
**********
The night prior, Infatuation had come over and I had greeted him with the biggest, longest hug I could muster. Little did I know that 15 minutes later he would tell me he didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t know how to do all the things a boyfriend should do. Worthless, in his words.
I was lying on my back on my bed and I sat up when I asked him if he wanted this, and he said, “I don’t know.”
I swallowed hard. Fought that urge to panic, to gasp for breath. Just nodded.
*********
This is unlike all the other times. All the other times, I was the one saying, “This isn’t working.” I was the one in charge, the one ending it. And there’s always been a reason, some sort of fact that I can gnaw on for a bit, savor and think, “Oh yes, this is WHY we don’t belong, this is it. Of course.”
But this time was different, and in so many ways it’s sadder than a long relationship and I can feel the weight of “Might Have Been” on my shoulders. We had just about six months; a time period that even I would just shrug at. But we didn’t have the fights and the resentment. We didn’t have the “this is the same old thing” a relationship of several years can sink into. We had the newness and the excitement and the wonder; we had hope and the curiosity and chemistry.
But I don’t hate him and I am not angry. I will place our memories together into that soft and velvety spot in my heart of No Regrets. I will tuck him away into the file of “A Reason” because he was not for a season nor for a lifetime. I will consider him a good person and wish him great fortune because I respect him and care about him.
I will try to understand.
*********
There are no goodnight calls to miss. There are no pictures for me to take down; barely any mementos to tuck away into a shoe box high on a closet shelf. There are no toothbrushes for me to throw away. No great plans to cancel or rearrange.
Just Jo.
*********
I will think of him when I go downtown and walk among the old Los Angeles buildings and sit in a corner wine bar. I will consider what his ideas might have been when I read a business article. I will think of him when I shop for groceries and flip through cookbooks. I will think of him when I read Hemingway or Steinbeck; eat pizza; walk barefoot outside; when I am in the sunshine and feeling wonderful.
Tucking it all away, tucking it all away. That quiet, velvety box of memories long spent; often recalled with light laughter and underlying weight; the undercurrent of mysterious reasons that I have yet to understand.
Tucking it all away…
We are doing the wave. I turn to my left and squint up into the bleachers next to us, and see the crowd rise and fall with spirit. Our turn. Though my body feels as though I’m wading through mud, I stand up. Fling my arms over my head. Smile. Sit down. Turn to my right, see the wave start all over again.
And then it comes back to us, and I rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.
And that’s how it works. Things keep going on and you keep moving. I marvel at this concept.
But what other choice is there?
**********
The night prior, Infatuation had come over and I had greeted him with the biggest, longest hug I could muster. Little did I know that 15 minutes later he would tell me he didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t know how to do all the things a boyfriend should do. Worthless, in his words.
I was lying on my back on my bed and I sat up when I asked him if he wanted this, and he said, “I don’t know.”
I swallowed hard. Fought that urge to panic, to gasp for breath. Just nodded.
*********
This is unlike all the other times. All the other times, I was the one saying, “This isn’t working.” I was the one in charge, the one ending it. And there’s always been a reason, some sort of fact that I can gnaw on for a bit, savor and think, “Oh yes, this is WHY we don’t belong, this is it. Of course.”
But this time was different, and in so many ways it’s sadder than a long relationship and I can feel the weight of “Might Have Been” on my shoulders. We had just about six months; a time period that even I would just shrug at. But we didn’t have the fights and the resentment. We didn’t have the “this is the same old thing” a relationship of several years can sink into. We had the newness and the excitement and the wonder; we had hope and the curiosity and chemistry.
But I don’t hate him and I am not angry. I will place our memories together into that soft and velvety spot in my heart of No Regrets. I will tuck him away into the file of “A Reason” because he was not for a season nor for a lifetime. I will consider him a good person and wish him great fortune because I respect him and care about him.
I will try to understand.
*********
There are no goodnight calls to miss. There are no pictures for me to take down; barely any mementos to tuck away into a shoe box high on a closet shelf. There are no toothbrushes for me to throw away. No great plans to cancel or rearrange.
Just Jo.
*********
I will think of him when I go downtown and walk among the old Los Angeles buildings and sit in a corner wine bar. I will consider what his ideas might have been when I read a business article. I will think of him when I shop for groceries and flip through cookbooks. I will think of him when I read Hemingway or Steinbeck; eat pizza; walk barefoot outside; when I am in the sunshine and feeling wonderful.
Tucking it all away, tucking it all away. That quiet, velvety box of memories long spent; often recalled with light laughter and underlying weight; the undercurrent of mysterious reasons that I have yet to understand.
Tucking it all away…
Monday, May 18, 2009
How we are
We are in my kitchen, his back is to mine and we work at opposite counters to do one of the things we love most: crafting simple and satisfying meals. The air is on and it’s as though summer has hit Los Angeles too soon: the high was ninety degrees that afternoon. The air conditioning hums along but it’s not enough; we’ve pulled back the sliding door, the large kitchen window and flung back the blinds in every room. A soft evening breeze saunters through.
We are quiet. Miles Davis is heard from my notebook, soft and soothing and it’s just Us. The scent of raw garlic and the chop-chop sound as he slices bell peppers and zucchini. The curling crisp crunch as I peel an onion.
We move quietly and in tandem to fetch spices, wine glasses, a fork. He places his hand on my stomach and his arm curls around me in a halfway hug as we swirl and switch places.
Outside, my neighbor laughs. Someone walks by the open window and glances in. And there we are, humming about inside like two lightning bugs in the glow of the tiny galley kitchen.
Chop-chop.
**********
We are on our way to a show at Troubadour. The night is an ink black and we are surrounded by the city lights of West Hollywood. I flip on the seat warmers in his car.
“I knew I was going to like you the night we met,” I blurt out.
“You’re just drunk,” he teases.
“Nope.”
There’s a long pause as he maneuvers through an intersection.
“I can still remember the way you smelled. That night,” he says.
“My perfume? That night?” I didn’t realize we were still talking about it.
“Yeah.”
And then he tells me to look for parking, his voice nonchalant.
In the darkness of his car, I shine.
*********
“You truly are a simple creature, aren’t you?” he observes.
“If you can’t enjoy the simple things in life, what else have you got?”
We’re shopping for food. Pizza supplies and vegetables and beer. We are walking through the dairy aisle and he grabs chocolate milk.
He casually opens the milk as we shop and stroll the aisles, passing the bottle back and forth. We look wild and disheveled, both wearing torn up jeans and sneakers, him in a hat, his face tan and tired, a reminder of long days spent beachside. Tonight was my first night riding on his scooter through Brentwood, zooming across the expanse of apartments and condos, among the yuppies walking at dusk.
We get to the parking lot and he puts my helmet on and I feel like a child. He buckles the strap tight underneath my chin, though we’re going just three blocks. My hair sticks out from the helmet and I stand there with the chocolate milk. He laughs and I give an impish grin.
He snaps a cell phone photo and we’re off.
Back at the Brentwood Chateau we feast on bruschetta with just one light on, we’re too tired to turn on any more. Our fingers are greasy with olive oil and we devour the mess of tomatoes and garlic and basil.
“What would our time together be like if we didn’t cook?” he asks.
“I am not sure.” I say.
And then: “I am pretty sure I will always think of us and think of food.”
********
I am on a swing and pumping my legs and it’s as though I am eight-years old again. Higher and higher I swing, I can’t go high enough. The night air is heavy with traces of salt water and in front of me a gray-black mass roars and gurgles: the ocean. To the right of me the lights of the Santa Monica Pier shine and I hear cries from the tourists riding the ferris wheel. The electricity of it all spills over, onto the beach, into the waves, pumped into the sand, through my body and into my legs.
And then I let go of the chains and push my body forward. My hair flies back and I am plunged into the night darkness. I catch my breath just before I land on all fours in sand.
He is already there, lying on his back about five feet from me, panting and staring up into the night sky. It’s hard to tell who has flown farther. I crawl his way and look down at him.
“Again.”
And again we sit on the swings and we swing in unison. Two silhouettes swinging at night on the same pendulum. We do this over and over and later and later until we drag our bodies back to Third Street and realize we’ve missed the last bus home.
We are tired and happy, with sand in our toes and on my dress.
We are quiet. Miles Davis is heard from my notebook, soft and soothing and it’s just Us. The scent of raw garlic and the chop-chop sound as he slices bell peppers and zucchini. The curling crisp crunch as I peel an onion.
We move quietly and in tandem to fetch spices, wine glasses, a fork. He places his hand on my stomach and his arm curls around me in a halfway hug as we swirl and switch places.
Outside, my neighbor laughs. Someone walks by the open window and glances in. And there we are, humming about inside like two lightning bugs in the glow of the tiny galley kitchen.
Chop-chop.
**********
We are on our way to a show at Troubadour. The night is an ink black and we are surrounded by the city lights of West Hollywood. I flip on the seat warmers in his car.
“I knew I was going to like you the night we met,” I blurt out.
“You’re just drunk,” he teases.
“Nope.”
There’s a long pause as he maneuvers through an intersection.
“I can still remember the way you smelled. That night,” he says.
“My perfume? That night?” I didn’t realize we were still talking about it.
“Yeah.”
And then he tells me to look for parking, his voice nonchalant.
In the darkness of his car, I shine.
*********
“You truly are a simple creature, aren’t you?” he observes.
“If you can’t enjoy the simple things in life, what else have you got?”
We’re shopping for food. Pizza supplies and vegetables and beer. We are walking through the dairy aisle and he grabs chocolate milk.
He casually opens the milk as we shop and stroll the aisles, passing the bottle back and forth. We look wild and disheveled, both wearing torn up jeans and sneakers, him in a hat, his face tan and tired, a reminder of long days spent beachside. Tonight was my first night riding on his scooter through Brentwood, zooming across the expanse of apartments and condos, among the yuppies walking at dusk.
We get to the parking lot and he puts my helmet on and I feel like a child. He buckles the strap tight underneath my chin, though we’re going just three blocks. My hair sticks out from the helmet and I stand there with the chocolate milk. He laughs and I give an impish grin.
He snaps a cell phone photo and we’re off.
Back at the Brentwood Chateau we feast on bruschetta with just one light on, we’re too tired to turn on any more. Our fingers are greasy with olive oil and we devour the mess of tomatoes and garlic and basil.
“What would our time together be like if we didn’t cook?” he asks.
“I am not sure.” I say.
And then: “I am pretty sure I will always think of us and think of food.”
********
I am on a swing and pumping my legs and it’s as though I am eight-years old again. Higher and higher I swing, I can’t go high enough. The night air is heavy with traces of salt water and in front of me a gray-black mass roars and gurgles: the ocean. To the right of me the lights of the Santa Monica Pier shine and I hear cries from the tourists riding the ferris wheel. The electricity of it all spills over, onto the beach, into the waves, pumped into the sand, through my body and into my legs.
And then I let go of the chains and push my body forward. My hair flies back and I am plunged into the night darkness. I catch my breath just before I land on all fours in sand.
He is already there, lying on his back about five feet from me, panting and staring up into the night sky. It’s hard to tell who has flown farther. I crawl his way and look down at him.
“Again.”
And again we sit on the swings and we swing in unison. Two silhouettes swinging at night on the same pendulum. We do this over and over and later and later until we drag our bodies back to Third Street and realize we’ve missed the last bus home.
We are tired and happy, with sand in our toes and on my dress.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
It's Tuesday, let's celebrate!
Why must conversions always come so late? Why do people always apologize to corpses? ~David Brin
Every day is an opportunity to make a new happy ending.
~Author Unknown
Today was a good day, a productive day. Let the death of a loved one serve as a reminder that days are limited, that time is always later than we realize.
If I could squeeze out the happy moments within a day, I would. I’d ring out the wishes and the breaths and the laughter and the sighs like droplets from a sponge.
I strive to live a balanced life. It’s not worth it to work so hard that you don’t sleep well at night. You need so much sleep, so much food, so much work and so much friend and family time. I’m thinking of a big gorgeous pie, cut into a million perfect slices.
Tonight, perhaps I’ll drink some sparkling wine.
Simply because it’s Tuesday.
Every day is an opportunity to make a new happy ending.
~Author Unknown
Today was a good day, a productive day. Let the death of a loved one serve as a reminder that days are limited, that time is always later than we realize.
If I could squeeze out the happy moments within a day, I would. I’d ring out the wishes and the breaths and the laughter and the sighs like droplets from a sponge.
I strive to live a balanced life. It’s not worth it to work so hard that you don’t sleep well at night. You need so much sleep, so much food, so much work and so much friend and family time. I’m thinking of a big gorgeous pie, cut into a million perfect slices.
Tonight, perhaps I’ll drink some sparkling wine.
Simply because it’s Tuesday.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Almost taco time
How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in life, you will have been all of these. ~ George Washington Carver
Happy Cinco de Mayo! This day and the above quote are not linked in any direct fashion, I just saw this quote and thought I would share.
Today I am feeling energized and optimistic. For two to three weeks now, my insomnia has been hiding! I wake up well rested and could sleep nine to 10 hours every night, easy. I’m getting spoiled!
And perhaps the economy is taking a turn in the upward direction: my company seems to be doing quite well these days.
I also cleaned out my closet this past weekend and threw away lots of jeans and things that no longer fit me anymore, it feels great! To wear clothes that I have not worn again in several months—it’s as though I’ve gone shopping. It’s getting warmer and warmer here in Brentwood and my winter coats have been packed away for good for a while now. It’s fully sundress and tank top weather: time to indulge my sundress fetish!
Last, tonight I feast on homemade shredded chicken tacos and margaritas with good friends.
Things are good.
Happy Cinco de Mayo! This day and the above quote are not linked in any direct fashion, I just saw this quote and thought I would share.
Today I am feeling energized and optimistic. For two to three weeks now, my insomnia has been hiding! I wake up well rested and could sleep nine to 10 hours every night, easy. I’m getting spoiled!
And perhaps the economy is taking a turn in the upward direction: my company seems to be doing quite well these days.
I also cleaned out my closet this past weekend and threw away lots of jeans and things that no longer fit me anymore, it feels great! To wear clothes that I have not worn again in several months—it’s as though I’ve gone shopping. It’s getting warmer and warmer here in Brentwood and my winter coats have been packed away for good for a while now. It’s fully sundress and tank top weather: time to indulge my sundress fetish!
Last, tonight I feast on homemade shredded chicken tacos and margaritas with good friends.
Things are good.
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