I've been thinking a lot about the novel I want to write, to the extent that I paced the dark living room at 2 this morning, talking to myself, trying to figure out why one of my two main characters wants so badly what he wants. In that half a chapter I didn't even know I wrote, I have what he was like in high school with his passion. The other main character, the narrator of this novel, saw him in action in high school, watching in awe how he didn't seem to be there. It's like he was one with what he loved. It may be the reason why the narrator decides to join him on this vast road trip. It's something he can't see himself, but he wants to understand it. In idle moments, the narrator has occasionally thought about this guy, and here is this chance to see firsthand perhaps why he is what he is.
Vague, I know, but I'm still working out countless details. Last night, before the pacing, before talking myself through different scenarios, I looked up the website of a mall here in Southern California that I want to use for my novel. Before a certain restaurant closed in the town where this mall is located, we used to go to that restaurant and then to the mall. That mall retained the heavy historical feeling of that area, like the ghosts of the past were always there, and I loved that because the mall was honest. There are few frills to it. There were no outlandish decorations to try to attract people (perhaps during Christmas, but I've not been there then, and from what I know of this mall, I think they'd do a few things for the holiday, but not everything), no gigantic signs pointing to this side of the mall and that side of the mall, no enticements beyond what the stores sometimes offer in sales. There's also a pizza place/arcade/amusement center in that mall that replaced the whole downstairs area, which included a uniform store. Strange as it is for these two men to be going there without any kids with them, the obsessed main character has his reason and he thinks it might be in the arcade there.
Whenever Mom, Dad, Meridith and I went to that mall, it was always either in the late afternoon or in the evening, after it got dark. That's when I want these two to be there. The restaurant I mentioned has been closed for a while now, but I'm thinking of setting this novel in a time when it's still open, or keeping it open anyway, which reminds me that I should get its old address from Yelp.
Before thinking more about this novel that's been in mind for two years, I never realized how much an author puts him or herself into a novel. Obsessions, curiosities, past pain, favorite things, it can all be there unless the author decides to write a different novel entirely. But even then, even in another genre, you still find pieces of the author because what they've written has obviously interested them enough to spend a few years with it alone.
It also got me thinking about why nighttime is my favorite part of the day. I don't need a lot of night. I just need enough before I go to bed. But in thinking about that restaurant and that mall, I thought about them at night, seeing the streetlights, the lights in the parking lot of that mall, the lights inside the restaurant seen from the outside, how brighter they are at night.
I don't think I could have my characters living entirely at night, but I do want those moments where they're looking at the lights around them at night, thinking about something, thinking about this search that they're on.
When we lived in the apartment in Valencia, when I walked Tigger at night, I always took him to the edge of sidewalk next to one of the apartment buildings that faced the closed and locked maintenance shed, where the golf cart was kept in the garage there, the one that the women in the sales office would use to take prospective renters around the property to empty apartments. I stared at this maintenance shed, with the same mindset I have whenever walking through a Walmart or Target or strip mall or outlet mall or outdoor shopping center: I wondered who the electrician was who installed the light above the maintenance shed's office door. I wonder who installed the hoses that allow people to wash their cars inside two separate stalls next to the maintenance office. I thought about how amazing it was to me that this maintenance shed, and those two car wash stalls just sit here, totally still, while the rest of Santa Clarita and Los Angeles rush about, doing whatever they must because this seems to be the only time to do it. I think I went to that particular spot at night because it felt like the calmest place in the universe, the zen-like center of the whirlwind.
My lights at night do include the Las Vegas Strip, but to a lesser degree. It's only part of my life in Vegas and Henderson. On our most recent trip to Henderson in January, I remember us driving through Victorville at night, and at the far end of one side of the road, where you could see buildings lit up, there were trees in front of all that and it seemed like fairies were flitting about, or just a deluge of fireflies. To me, there's a kind of magic in the night because during the day, everything is exposed. You can see the roads, you can see the houses, you can see where you put your garbage and recycling bins for pickup. But at night, you can imagine that the roads lead to new lands hitherto undiscovered in your state, perhaps those of a different dimension that's only accessible by making a specific wrong turn.
It's why I only keep the light on in the kitchen that's above the sink when it's my night to wash the dinner dishes, and I keep the blinds open. When it's dark enough that you can see all the house lights on the mountainside above us, I look below that, past the rail top iron fence that's at the back end of the pool, down to a neighborhood below us where there's one bright white light on, attached to a garage. I of course think about the electrician who installed it, where their job has taken them now, if they're even still an electrician. But I also think about the darkness in that neighborhood, of the trees so still, of the flowers sitting there, of there being some adventure out there in the darkness, something to see that you can't know in the daytime. It's there.
I don't think I'd have my characters roaming the darkness all the time, but I do want to put in there those memories of nighttime being so fascinating to me. It's that mall, and also that motel we stayed at in Alabama when we moved from South Florida to Southern California in August 2003. It's that maintenance shed in Valencia, and it's those late Friday afternoons at College of the Canyons after my once-a-week cinema class ended. It's so much I'd want to include in whatever night scenes I produce for this novel, and what I can't, lest it be overkill. But it's all about seeing what I can use, what would be good for the story I want to tell. That's why I talk to myself at 2 in the morning, and why I sometimes act out my characters, getting to know them and understanding what they want. It's my adult playground.
Showing posts with label night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label night. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Spontaneous Evening
Usually, I never go out on weekday evenings. I've got to write, I've got the newsletter, I've got enough to do. But when there is the promise of books, I remember that the evening also exists in later hours, and I make sure there's some cash in my wallet.
Mom had an old walker to give to Goodwill. She started using it a few years ago and it's given her back problems all this time. Last Saturday, we stopped at Saugus Drugs, which is nothing like your Walgreens or your Rite Aid. No shiny tile floors, all carpet, and they also sell windchimes and figurines which sit in vertical glass cases. While Meridith and I were playing with recliners that moved up and down by remote, near the pharmacy counter in the back, Mom and Dad looked at the walkers behind us. I didn't listen to their entire conversation with the manager who eventually emerged at their request, since I was seeing how far up the recliner would go before I'd fall off, but the manager went in the back and found a walker Mom wanted. It was slightly defective, something about it not fully extending, but Mom took it, and the manager also gave a discount of about $20-$30.
There are two Goodwill locations in Santa Clarita. We only knew that one, a truck on Soledad Canyon Road, took dropoffs. The other, on Bouquet Canyon Road, a few minutes from our house as it turns out, is a full-on store with racks of clothes, recliners, golf clubs, mattresses, trinkets, coffee mugs, TVs, videotapes, CDs, and, most importantly, books. I woke up close to 3 p.m. today and hadn't planned on going out. I needed to get back to work on the book. But after Mom found out that to-be-discarded items could also be dropped off at that Goodwill store, I shaved the noticeable beginnings of an always-annoying-feeling beard and got dressed. And I had a spontaneous evening.
I thought it would be a little bit of a drive through the valley to the Goodwill store. I'd forgotten that Bouquet Canyon Road is a right from the exit of our development (we're in entrance 2 of Mountainview Estates), then straight on past La Petit Academy and the corner Circle K, keep going through two traffic lights, and finally across from 7-11 in a very cramped shopping center. Then a left turn in, past Rite Aid, a right turn, and there it is, not quite on the edge of the property, because of some sort of medical building next to it, but you get the feeling that the abyss must be nearby.
Just a few feet from the entrance to the Goodwill store, I spotted the books, to the far left in the store, facing shelves of coffee mugs, glass things, figurines too. I carried in Mom's former walker, left it at the counter, as the person at the register said to do, and I walked to the books, first looking at the VHS tapes, marveling at how much time had passed since I owned The Lion King and other Disney movies on videotape. I browsed the CDs as well, finding nothing that I wanted to own, and what might have interested me, such as a CD of Lenny Kravitz's hits (I used to own a copy), looked more scratched than I find reasonable. Then, the books.
I'm very discerning about what I want, but I don't know exactly what I want until I see what's available. As my eyes pass each title, there might be a word in the title or an author's name or something about the cover that trips that command in my brain to reach out and take that book from the shelf. Also the prices: 99 cents for softcover, $1.99 for hardcover.
Thus:
Fahrenheit 451 ($0.99)
Topdog/Underdog by Suzan-Lori Parks ($0.99)
Love Letters and Two Other Plays: The Golden Age and What I Did Last Summer by A.R. Gurney ($0.99)
Damon Runyon by Jimmy Breslin ($1.99)
Tinsel by William Goldman ($1.99)
Old Songs in a New Cafe (Selected Essays) by Robert James Waller ($1.99)
And, before we left, after a final look at the books:
The Agenda: Inside the Clinton White House by Bob Woodward ($1.99)
I don't remember going to Goodwill in Florida. I remember a few thrift stores, with instruments inside glass cases, and racks and racks of clothes nearly taking up the entire space of one store, and even then, I still gravitated to the books in those stores. I didn't notice anything else about those stores beyond my cursory glances, but I noticed a lot about the items in this store, such as the tiny Alaska ceramic cup my Mom bought to put bathroom cups in, in honor of Kitty, our beloved part miniature pinscher/part terrier, who we adopted from Alaska. The cup has a design of the state, blues and greens all around. But looking closer at what else was for sale, I saw a coconut-shaped storage container from a Catamaran Cruises company (I know there are many, but I forgot the name of this one), a coffee mug from the Ramada Express Hotel and Casino in Laughlin, Nevada, a coffee mug from West Virginia, and big candles with wicks far too low to be effective. These things really travel. As I walked those aisles, I wondered where these items had come from, where they had been in the houses they had once sat in. I looked at the house figurines, made in the United Kingdom, and wondered who had once loved these items, if they had spent time looking at it from all sides, staring at the windows and wondering about the kind of people who might live in such an abode. These things contain so many stories, yet mostly, previous owners cannot be found on any part of them. There are some stains, some chips, but it's not always enough to sense the person who owned the thing. The only commonality among all of it is that no one wanted them anymore. Either there was too much to move with from one state to another, or it was a gift someone didn't want, or someone had died and their family members, already deciding what they wanted from what remained of that person's life, brought those items to Goodwill. Looking at all those items, I don't see the people that brought them to Goodwill or even the people who owned them. Only shadows, really, and speculation.
However, I found part of my childhood there: A particular set of stencils with letters, numbers, shapes of airplanes, ships, and some animals. Living in Florida at that time, I never thought about California or any other state in the country, except the one time we all flew to New Jersey in 1994 to visit Dad's grandmother, who was in the hospital. When I saw those stencils this time, I was surprised they existed anywhere else. Here they were, with "Gina" written in crayon on the front of the box, which looked ragged. I wonder when Gina outgrew them.
Dad decided to drive to Newhall before we went to the 99 Cents Only store, and there, amidst the narrow roads and aged buildings, we found the Newhall library, which looked like a Wayne Szalinski-designed building. The parking lot couldn't possibly fit everyone who wanted to go there, though judging by how many people live in Newhall, and thinking of those who are apt to go to the Canyon Country and Valencia libraries, completely ignoring this section of the valley (and there are thousands), the parking lot might very well be adequate. But looking inside from the car, wow. Those shelves looked like you'd have to insert yourself into a stick figure maker before navigating them. I could already smell the must that had to be lingering in there. Not sure now if we're going there on Saturday after we leave the Canyon Country library, though I wouldn't raise a fuss if we didn't. Mom thought the Newhall library we'd see was the one to be built. She thought it had been built already, but that's not going to happen for a long time, and by the time it does, we'll likely be residents of Nevada.
The 99 Cents Only store presented a bounty of Minute Maid fruit punch in an overgrown juice box, small boxes of granola cereal, Lipton Brisk Tea in big bottles, and Best Foods' Honey Mustard (Hellmann's for those of you living east of the Rockies), which might be interesting for a change since I always buy Ralph's-branded honey mustard. Typical stuff shipped from Inter-American Foods in Cincinnati, Ohio. Of the many things I miss about Florida, I sorely miss the Publix supermarket and the items they'd make on their own in Central Florida, such as eggnog, milk, and ice cream, though I'm not sure if they ever made their own mustard. It's possible, but growing up in Florida, I was always keen on mayonnaise for ham and cheese, ketchup for beef bologna. I never noticed if one of the brands of mustard sold there was their own.
Then, In-N-Out. Wonderful, wonderful In-N-Out. I didn't care that it was getting close to 7 p.m., that I still had the newsletter, that many essays in the book still loomed, that I'd forgotten to Tivo Jeopardy. I loved the evening so far, and a 3x3 burger (3 patties, 3 slices of cheese) was the best way to continue my uninhibited happiness. French fries and a strawberry shake, too. Fries for Meridith and Mom as well, and I think Mom just had a cheeseburger, while Meridith had a double-double (2 patties, 2 slices of cheese). Completely satisfying. It's what all the days of one's life were made for.
I'm nearly done with the newsletter, having started late, yet I don't feel like continuing to read that Carole Landis biography. I don't feel like organizing the essays I still have to write. I want to scoop up all the books I bought at Goodwill and figure out which to read first. But it's 2:04 a.m. and reality has set in again. Less than three hours before I extract myself from the online world and my work on this computer and try for a few pages, or 20 or 30, in the latest library book I'm reading, which is The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2009, always reliably edited by Dave Eggers. After I'm done writing my share of this book, I'm going to begin signing up for online courses through Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in pursuit of a bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics, but I'm also going to make sure I spend a lot less time on here. It's convenient to put my thoughts down here, but sometimes I miss keeping a journal. That should be concurrent with this, and I do bring a composition book with me in the car, but the books I bring, the New Yorker issue I haven't read yet (I'm all the way back on November 9), I don't feel compelled to pick up my pen and write a few thoughts. The last time I regularly used a journal was in early February 2006 when Dad and I went to Sacramento to tour the state capitol as part of a group from a business education organization. On a highway there, I jotted down my observations of a truck carrying an open-air load of carrots and, on the way back, touring part of Hearst Castle, and picking up two pies from the bakery at Casa de Fruta in Hollister, facing stunning dark green hills. Couldn't and wouldn't forget any of that.
I'd like to have many more evenings just like this one. But for now, it's impossible to simply throw off whatever I have to do in favor of pure pleasure. Maybe after this book is done.
Mom had an old walker to give to Goodwill. She started using it a few years ago and it's given her back problems all this time. Last Saturday, we stopped at Saugus Drugs, which is nothing like your Walgreens or your Rite Aid. No shiny tile floors, all carpet, and they also sell windchimes and figurines which sit in vertical glass cases. While Meridith and I were playing with recliners that moved up and down by remote, near the pharmacy counter in the back, Mom and Dad looked at the walkers behind us. I didn't listen to their entire conversation with the manager who eventually emerged at their request, since I was seeing how far up the recliner would go before I'd fall off, but the manager went in the back and found a walker Mom wanted. It was slightly defective, something about it not fully extending, but Mom took it, and the manager also gave a discount of about $20-$30.
There are two Goodwill locations in Santa Clarita. We only knew that one, a truck on Soledad Canyon Road, took dropoffs. The other, on Bouquet Canyon Road, a few minutes from our house as it turns out, is a full-on store with racks of clothes, recliners, golf clubs, mattresses, trinkets, coffee mugs, TVs, videotapes, CDs, and, most importantly, books. I woke up close to 3 p.m. today and hadn't planned on going out. I needed to get back to work on the book. But after Mom found out that to-be-discarded items could also be dropped off at that Goodwill store, I shaved the noticeable beginnings of an always-annoying-feeling beard and got dressed. And I had a spontaneous evening.
I thought it would be a little bit of a drive through the valley to the Goodwill store. I'd forgotten that Bouquet Canyon Road is a right from the exit of our development (we're in entrance 2 of Mountainview Estates), then straight on past La Petit Academy and the corner Circle K, keep going through two traffic lights, and finally across from 7-11 in a very cramped shopping center. Then a left turn in, past Rite Aid, a right turn, and there it is, not quite on the edge of the property, because of some sort of medical building next to it, but you get the feeling that the abyss must be nearby.
Just a few feet from the entrance to the Goodwill store, I spotted the books, to the far left in the store, facing shelves of coffee mugs, glass things, figurines too. I carried in Mom's former walker, left it at the counter, as the person at the register said to do, and I walked to the books, first looking at the VHS tapes, marveling at how much time had passed since I owned The Lion King and other Disney movies on videotape. I browsed the CDs as well, finding nothing that I wanted to own, and what might have interested me, such as a CD of Lenny Kravitz's hits (I used to own a copy), looked more scratched than I find reasonable. Then, the books.
I'm very discerning about what I want, but I don't know exactly what I want until I see what's available. As my eyes pass each title, there might be a word in the title or an author's name or something about the cover that trips that command in my brain to reach out and take that book from the shelf. Also the prices: 99 cents for softcover, $1.99 for hardcover.
Thus:
Fahrenheit 451 ($0.99)
Topdog/Underdog by Suzan-Lori Parks ($0.99)
Love Letters and Two Other Plays: The Golden Age and What I Did Last Summer by A.R. Gurney ($0.99)
Damon Runyon by Jimmy Breslin ($1.99)
Tinsel by William Goldman ($1.99)
Old Songs in a New Cafe (Selected Essays) by Robert James Waller ($1.99)
And, before we left, after a final look at the books:
The Agenda: Inside the Clinton White House by Bob Woodward ($1.99)
I don't remember going to Goodwill in Florida. I remember a few thrift stores, with instruments inside glass cases, and racks and racks of clothes nearly taking up the entire space of one store, and even then, I still gravitated to the books in those stores. I didn't notice anything else about those stores beyond my cursory glances, but I noticed a lot about the items in this store, such as the tiny Alaska ceramic cup my Mom bought to put bathroom cups in, in honor of Kitty, our beloved part miniature pinscher/part terrier, who we adopted from Alaska. The cup has a design of the state, blues and greens all around. But looking closer at what else was for sale, I saw a coconut-shaped storage container from a Catamaran Cruises company (I know there are many, but I forgot the name of this one), a coffee mug from the Ramada Express Hotel and Casino in Laughlin, Nevada, a coffee mug from West Virginia, and big candles with wicks far too low to be effective. These things really travel. As I walked those aisles, I wondered where these items had come from, where they had been in the houses they had once sat in. I looked at the house figurines, made in the United Kingdom, and wondered who had once loved these items, if they had spent time looking at it from all sides, staring at the windows and wondering about the kind of people who might live in such an abode. These things contain so many stories, yet mostly, previous owners cannot be found on any part of them. There are some stains, some chips, but it's not always enough to sense the person who owned the thing. The only commonality among all of it is that no one wanted them anymore. Either there was too much to move with from one state to another, or it was a gift someone didn't want, or someone had died and their family members, already deciding what they wanted from what remained of that person's life, brought those items to Goodwill. Looking at all those items, I don't see the people that brought them to Goodwill or even the people who owned them. Only shadows, really, and speculation.
However, I found part of my childhood there: A particular set of stencils with letters, numbers, shapes of airplanes, ships, and some animals. Living in Florida at that time, I never thought about California or any other state in the country, except the one time we all flew to New Jersey in 1994 to visit Dad's grandmother, who was in the hospital. When I saw those stencils this time, I was surprised they existed anywhere else. Here they were, with "Gina" written in crayon on the front of the box, which looked ragged. I wonder when Gina outgrew them.
Dad decided to drive to Newhall before we went to the 99 Cents Only store, and there, amidst the narrow roads and aged buildings, we found the Newhall library, which looked like a Wayne Szalinski-designed building. The parking lot couldn't possibly fit everyone who wanted to go there, though judging by how many people live in Newhall, and thinking of those who are apt to go to the Canyon Country and Valencia libraries, completely ignoring this section of the valley (and there are thousands), the parking lot might very well be adequate. But looking inside from the car, wow. Those shelves looked like you'd have to insert yourself into a stick figure maker before navigating them. I could already smell the must that had to be lingering in there. Not sure now if we're going there on Saturday after we leave the Canyon Country library, though I wouldn't raise a fuss if we didn't. Mom thought the Newhall library we'd see was the one to be built. She thought it had been built already, but that's not going to happen for a long time, and by the time it does, we'll likely be residents of Nevada.
The 99 Cents Only store presented a bounty of Minute Maid fruit punch in an overgrown juice box, small boxes of granola cereal, Lipton Brisk Tea in big bottles, and Best Foods' Honey Mustard (Hellmann's for those of you living east of the Rockies), which might be interesting for a change since I always buy Ralph's-branded honey mustard. Typical stuff shipped from Inter-American Foods in Cincinnati, Ohio. Of the many things I miss about Florida, I sorely miss the Publix supermarket and the items they'd make on their own in Central Florida, such as eggnog, milk, and ice cream, though I'm not sure if they ever made their own mustard. It's possible, but growing up in Florida, I was always keen on mayonnaise for ham and cheese, ketchup for beef bologna. I never noticed if one of the brands of mustard sold there was their own.
Then, In-N-Out. Wonderful, wonderful In-N-Out. I didn't care that it was getting close to 7 p.m., that I still had the newsletter, that many essays in the book still loomed, that I'd forgotten to Tivo Jeopardy. I loved the evening so far, and a 3x3 burger (3 patties, 3 slices of cheese) was the best way to continue my uninhibited happiness. French fries and a strawberry shake, too. Fries for Meridith and Mom as well, and I think Mom just had a cheeseburger, while Meridith had a double-double (2 patties, 2 slices of cheese). Completely satisfying. It's what all the days of one's life were made for.
I'm nearly done with the newsletter, having started late, yet I don't feel like continuing to read that Carole Landis biography. I don't feel like organizing the essays I still have to write. I want to scoop up all the books I bought at Goodwill and figure out which to read first. But it's 2:04 a.m. and reality has set in again. Less than three hours before I extract myself from the online world and my work on this computer and try for a few pages, or 20 or 30, in the latest library book I'm reading, which is The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2009, always reliably edited by Dave Eggers. After I'm done writing my share of this book, I'm going to begin signing up for online courses through Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in pursuit of a bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics, but I'm also going to make sure I spend a lot less time on here. It's convenient to put my thoughts down here, but sometimes I miss keeping a journal. That should be concurrent with this, and I do bring a composition book with me in the car, but the books I bring, the New Yorker issue I haven't read yet (I'm all the way back on November 9), I don't feel compelled to pick up my pen and write a few thoughts. The last time I regularly used a journal was in early February 2006 when Dad and I went to Sacramento to tour the state capitol as part of a group from a business education organization. On a highway there, I jotted down my observations of a truck carrying an open-air load of carrots and, on the way back, touring part of Hearst Castle, and picking up two pies from the bakery at Casa de Fruta in Hollister, facing stunning dark green hills. Couldn't and wouldn't forget any of that.
I'd like to have many more evenings just like this one. But for now, it's impossible to simply throw off whatever I have to do in favor of pure pleasure. Maybe after this book is done.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I Should Go to the Laundromat More Often
There's no remote, no wall-mounted dial, nothing that can change the channel on the flat-screen TV at the "18 Min. Wash" laundromat to "Jeopardy!" I'm stuck with Entertainment Tonight and the only interesting parts thus far have been the segments on "Star Trek" and the "Meryl Streep Exclusive" featuring her on the set of her new film with Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin. The cotton candy-head who's narrating the segment says that tomorrow, there'll be an interview with her and Baldwin and Martin from the "secret" location of "The Untitled Nancy Meyers Project." I won't watch. I haven't watched in years.
Then the program switches its focus to Elizabeth Edwards being interviewed about the kind of marriage she either has or had with John Edwards. I don't know whether they're going for the halcyon days before he cheated on her, or the aftermath. But, knowing "Entertainment Tonight" by reputation, it's got to be the latter.
I'm sitting on a light green plastic chair bolted to the floor, against floor-to-ceiling length glass windows with the standard view of parked cars in front of the laundromat. My dad is sitting on an orange chair one seat down, gabbing on his cell phone. I hear the names "Herrera" (former principal of Silver Trail Middle) and "Melita" (I think she's still an assistant principal at Silver Trail) and automatically know that he's talking to someone in South Florida, as Silver Trail was in Pembroke Pines, the middle school I went to for 7th and 8th grade. My dad taught computers and business education there. I look up at the TV again, mounted on a wall near the first two (one above and one below) dryers in this laundromat. Whoever is narrating the bit about Edwards is getting embarassingly breathless about it.
By this time, we've already loaded the comforter from his and my mom's bed into a free washer, plugged a few quarters into the slot, poured powdered detergent into the hole on top of the machine, and started it. The washer and dryer we have at home is not big enough to handle comforters. It wasn't an oversight when we were looking for a new washer and dryer to replace what the previous owners had left behind. There's little room in the garage as it is, and the only space available was between the door that leads into my parents' bedroom, and the space heater. To have a washer and dryer that could handle a comforter would require the dryer to most likely sit in front of the space heater. That wouldn't work.
I get up a few times to check on the rotating comforter, watching it get splashed with detergent suds and water over and over. My dad's still listening to the person on the other end in South Florida giving him news about what's going on in the schools, news that has no effect on his daily work life, but he likes to know.
I'm not bored while I'm sitting on that chair; just looking for something. I don't know what, but even though I brought along a novel called "Dog On It" by Spencer Quinn, I know it's not in the first few pages, even though it is interesting to read a detective story from a dog's point of view. I don't dare get up too often to check on the comforter, as a mother and daughter are standing on opposite sides of the row where my washer is, and I don't want to be a distraction.
I go outside and watch the traffic. It gets lighter as this early part of the evening goes on and more people come into the laundromat, having settled the tab on most of their day, knowing that they have to get some laundry done. A dirty blonde-haired woman walks in with her husband, a man who has to shop from the Big and Tall catalog. There's a janitor at my dad's school with a metal leg who is probably 3/4 of this guy's size. And he looks more amiable.
They take the washer in front of my green chair, which means I'll get some entertainment. I like watching sheets and blankets and shirts and other comfortable things tumble in a dryer, and especially in a washer. I get to thinking about how long it's been since these things were washed or what stains had been on them, or even what attracted that person to that particular blanket or quilt. This is one of those rare places in Santa Clarita where it looks like there are stories to find, where something is going on, where people aren't walking around with blank stares that advertise that there weren't many I.Q. points awarded them in the genetic raffle.
There are more people in this laundromat now. More clothes going into the washers, a lot more dryers running. When my dad and I walked in with the comforter in a blue hard-plastic basket, the powdered detergent in a baggie, and the quarters in another baggie---all on top of the comforter---there were only three people there. Now it's growing. Not just the mother and daughter, not just the opposite of Jack Sprat and his wife, but a woman who works as a cashier at a Home Depot, whose father can't get a lot in the way of benefits for his military service, which got him three Purple Hearts. My dad and I find this out in the parking lot when the woman strikes up a conversation with how warm it was getting inside the laundromat with all those dryers running. This leads to discussion about the economy and the problems felt throughout the country, but even more personally here. She moved back in with her father to take care of him and is finding it hard to make it at the Home Depot with a $10-an-hour wage, but she prays 24/7. I believe her. She has the lines on her face and a wrinkle here and there that shows she's been through some relentless hardships. She has an ex and that's as much mention as he gets, "the ex." Good enough for me. I can already imagine what the man might have been like. A lot of yelling, I'm sure, and total emotional breakdown.
The comforter is nearly done drying. Dad checks it, closes the dryer door, puts it on another setting and then presses the red "start" button. I alternate between watching the suds and water in front of me at my green seat and the wall of dryers. I should go to the laundromat more often. I could sit in that green seat on other days with a book, reading, and also watching the activity, like I have a collection of clothes in one of the washers. There's a sign carved into a wooden board on the wall that says, "No attendant on duty." Someone opens the laundromat and closes it. I know that by the flat-screen TV tuned to something I won't watch and there being no remote. I know that by the lights being on. So I don't think I'd be looked at funny for staying too long. Each hour, the customers change. Mothers may come in with kids, housewives come in, people come in after work and dinner, whatever.
I'm not saying I'd go every day. I wouldn't become a fixture there. But I don't think I would go every day if there was the chance to do so, if I didn't have so much to do in my days already. There's something to really appreciate about a laundromat, how everyone is on equal footing here. We're all middle-class, just wanting to get some laundry done so we can feel comfortable about at least one part of our lives, satisfied that we've got clean clothes, bedsheets, towels, comforters, whatever it might be. It's a routine, yes, it's a necessary chore. But that sliver of satisfaction is there, at least to me. And it's why, when I was watching those bits of Entertainment Tonight while being annoyed at not finding any remote control, I looked at the people in the laundromat. These are the real people. I know there are people who watch Elizabeth Edwards being interviewed because they may have the same problems in their own marriage. I understand that. But all the celebrity, all the glitz, yes, again, an escape for some. But I think the regular people are more interesting than the celebrities. There's a lot more personality just in comforters and quilts alone. Designs, prints, why did we buy them? We have our reasons and those reasons are what keeps me more engaged than news and analysis about who was eliminated from "Dancing with the Stars."
The comforter done, Dad loads it into the basket, and we go to the car. The post office next, followed by a stop at the new Dickey's Barbecue Pit in the Pavilion's Shopping Center in Valencia, only to pick up a menu. It's a possibility for eats in the next few days. We all love barbecue and to have barbecue this close might be nice. Barbecue brisket, Southern pulled pork, "The Turkey," hickory grilled chicken, polish sausage. I only hope the result is as promising as the names.
Then home. Sometimes life can be interesting in this valley, but the laundromat isn't always enough. I got more out of that laundromat than this entire valley this year. It's not a sad statement, just that what you know from five years of living here is all that there is. Nothing ever changes drastically or becomes more interesting. At least there's the laundromat.
Then the program switches its focus to Elizabeth Edwards being interviewed about the kind of marriage she either has or had with John Edwards. I don't know whether they're going for the halcyon days before he cheated on her, or the aftermath. But, knowing "Entertainment Tonight" by reputation, it's got to be the latter.
I'm sitting on a light green plastic chair bolted to the floor, against floor-to-ceiling length glass windows with the standard view of parked cars in front of the laundromat. My dad is sitting on an orange chair one seat down, gabbing on his cell phone. I hear the names "Herrera" (former principal of Silver Trail Middle) and "Melita" (I think she's still an assistant principal at Silver Trail) and automatically know that he's talking to someone in South Florida, as Silver Trail was in Pembroke Pines, the middle school I went to for 7th and 8th grade. My dad taught computers and business education there. I look up at the TV again, mounted on a wall near the first two (one above and one below) dryers in this laundromat. Whoever is narrating the bit about Edwards is getting embarassingly breathless about it.
By this time, we've already loaded the comforter from his and my mom's bed into a free washer, plugged a few quarters into the slot, poured powdered detergent into the hole on top of the machine, and started it. The washer and dryer we have at home is not big enough to handle comforters. It wasn't an oversight when we were looking for a new washer and dryer to replace what the previous owners had left behind. There's little room in the garage as it is, and the only space available was between the door that leads into my parents' bedroom, and the space heater. To have a washer and dryer that could handle a comforter would require the dryer to most likely sit in front of the space heater. That wouldn't work.
I get up a few times to check on the rotating comforter, watching it get splashed with detergent suds and water over and over. My dad's still listening to the person on the other end in South Florida giving him news about what's going on in the schools, news that has no effect on his daily work life, but he likes to know.
I'm not bored while I'm sitting on that chair; just looking for something. I don't know what, but even though I brought along a novel called "Dog On It" by Spencer Quinn, I know it's not in the first few pages, even though it is interesting to read a detective story from a dog's point of view. I don't dare get up too often to check on the comforter, as a mother and daughter are standing on opposite sides of the row where my washer is, and I don't want to be a distraction.
I go outside and watch the traffic. It gets lighter as this early part of the evening goes on and more people come into the laundromat, having settled the tab on most of their day, knowing that they have to get some laundry done. A dirty blonde-haired woman walks in with her husband, a man who has to shop from the Big and Tall catalog. There's a janitor at my dad's school with a metal leg who is probably 3/4 of this guy's size. And he looks more amiable.
They take the washer in front of my green chair, which means I'll get some entertainment. I like watching sheets and blankets and shirts and other comfortable things tumble in a dryer, and especially in a washer. I get to thinking about how long it's been since these things were washed or what stains had been on them, or even what attracted that person to that particular blanket or quilt. This is one of those rare places in Santa Clarita where it looks like there are stories to find, where something is going on, where people aren't walking around with blank stares that advertise that there weren't many I.Q. points awarded them in the genetic raffle.
There are more people in this laundromat now. More clothes going into the washers, a lot more dryers running. When my dad and I walked in with the comforter in a blue hard-plastic basket, the powdered detergent in a baggie, and the quarters in another baggie---all on top of the comforter---there were only three people there. Now it's growing. Not just the mother and daughter, not just the opposite of Jack Sprat and his wife, but a woman who works as a cashier at a Home Depot, whose father can't get a lot in the way of benefits for his military service, which got him three Purple Hearts. My dad and I find this out in the parking lot when the woman strikes up a conversation with how warm it was getting inside the laundromat with all those dryers running. This leads to discussion about the economy and the problems felt throughout the country, but even more personally here. She moved back in with her father to take care of him and is finding it hard to make it at the Home Depot with a $10-an-hour wage, but she prays 24/7. I believe her. She has the lines on her face and a wrinkle here and there that shows she's been through some relentless hardships. She has an ex and that's as much mention as he gets, "the ex." Good enough for me. I can already imagine what the man might have been like. A lot of yelling, I'm sure, and total emotional breakdown.
The comforter is nearly done drying. Dad checks it, closes the dryer door, puts it on another setting and then presses the red "start" button. I alternate between watching the suds and water in front of me at my green seat and the wall of dryers. I should go to the laundromat more often. I could sit in that green seat on other days with a book, reading, and also watching the activity, like I have a collection of clothes in one of the washers. There's a sign carved into a wooden board on the wall that says, "No attendant on duty." Someone opens the laundromat and closes it. I know that by the flat-screen TV tuned to something I won't watch and there being no remote. I know that by the lights being on. So I don't think I'd be looked at funny for staying too long. Each hour, the customers change. Mothers may come in with kids, housewives come in, people come in after work and dinner, whatever.
I'm not saying I'd go every day. I wouldn't become a fixture there. But I don't think I would go every day if there was the chance to do so, if I didn't have so much to do in my days already. There's something to really appreciate about a laundromat, how everyone is on equal footing here. We're all middle-class, just wanting to get some laundry done so we can feel comfortable about at least one part of our lives, satisfied that we've got clean clothes, bedsheets, towels, comforters, whatever it might be. It's a routine, yes, it's a necessary chore. But that sliver of satisfaction is there, at least to me. And it's why, when I was watching those bits of Entertainment Tonight while being annoyed at not finding any remote control, I looked at the people in the laundromat. These are the real people. I know there are people who watch Elizabeth Edwards being interviewed because they may have the same problems in their own marriage. I understand that. But all the celebrity, all the glitz, yes, again, an escape for some. But I think the regular people are more interesting than the celebrities. There's a lot more personality just in comforters and quilts alone. Designs, prints, why did we buy them? We have our reasons and those reasons are what keeps me more engaged than news and analysis about who was eliminated from "Dancing with the Stars."
The comforter done, Dad loads it into the basket, and we go to the car. The post office next, followed by a stop at the new Dickey's Barbecue Pit in the Pavilion's Shopping Center in Valencia, only to pick up a menu. It's a possibility for eats in the next few days. We all love barbecue and to have barbecue this close might be nice. Barbecue brisket, Southern pulled pork, "The Turkey," hickory grilled chicken, polish sausage. I only hope the result is as promising as the names.
Then home. Sometimes life can be interesting in this valley, but the laundromat isn't always enough. I got more out of that laundromat than this entire valley this year. It's not a sad statement, just that what you know from five years of living here is all that there is. Nothing ever changes drastically or becomes more interesting. At least there's the laundromat.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
1:46 a.m. - The wandering night
1:46 a.m.:
- Watching a movie, "The Adventures of Mark Twain," which I Tivo'd on Thursday from Turner Classic Movies.
- Was outside earlier, looking up at the stars, as much out of the glare of a burnished-orange light that remains on near the pool, even with no one there. Never understood that, not even with keeping the underwater pool and spa lights on. It's not like there's anyone who would sneak around that area anyway, being that this neighborhood and the surrounding neighborhoods are so quiet at this time of night, you could swear that they were either just built and awaiting new residents, or the real-estate crunch had caused their downfall. However, there's two ducks on occasional nights who sleep in the pool, and they're at least quieter than the residents set to use the pool in the coming weeks, when it opens back up.
- Recently recorded on the Tivo: "Chinese Box," starring Jeremy Irons and Gong Li (credited as "Li Gong"), "Camilla," starring Jessica Tandy and Bridget Fonda, and "Funny Girl," starring Barbra Streisand. I deleted the first a few months ago to conserve space, the second I recorded because of Jessica Tandy, and the third was because if you live in my house, then you know all about Streisand, whether you want to or not. I like her as a singer and actress (partly genetic, since I have my parents' musical tastes, with the addition of jazz, electronica, and some techno dance music), and had never seen "Funny Girl," so there you go.
- From what I can tell, this Tivo box in the living room is called "DirecTV Plus." There might be a newer version, but why can't this one retain actors' names and years of release after a movie or TV show has been recorded? Before something is recorded and during it as well, you can find that information on the guide. After, you're left only with a synopsis, what you recorded, the genre, whether it's closed-captioned, and what it contains (in the case of "Camilla," "adult content" and "adult language," abbreviated as "AC, AL." I know I can get that information online if I want, but I like having it right there.
- I remain connected to Las Vegas through the websites for the Las Vegas Sun, the Las Vegas Review-Journal and the blog of VegasRex (http://www.vegasrex.com/), who has made known his intention to run for mayor in the coming election. He's ready to disclose financial details and every other kind of detail that's dredged up in these elections and he's serious about it too. Not sure how much publicity he'll get, what with Oscar Goodman, a former Vegas mob lawyer, wanting yet another term (I heard something about there being term limits on that, but he wants to eliminate that), but Rex has fans, myself included. One of the other ways I remain connected: Every week, I call the automated line for the movie theater the Hacienda Hotel and Casino in Boulder City, which is three miles from Hoover Dam. I've never forgotten the view from the mountain adjacent to the casino. Every dream I've ever had in my life so far seemed like they combined to create that view. They wait for about two weeks or so to get prints of what were then first-run movies. For example, "Monsters vs. Aliens" was reduced to one showtime, while "Fast & Furious" gets three. Cheaper rates for prints I'll bet. It shows, with "Hannah Montana" and "Duplicity" beginning there on May 1st. But with tickets at $3, why not?
My mom has become more pushy about Las Vegas, and with good reason, considering that we've lived in the Santa Clarita Valley for a little over five years, and last year wasn't by choice. The Clark County School District had stopped hiring teachers, and then the economy tanked. I got to thinking about Florida as well, and whether we might move back there. Not possible, because of the insurance rates for hurricanes and all the other high-priced insurance that goes with living in Florida. It was then that I realized Las Vegas was it, finally. That's where I belong. I know it's going to be home, and the word "home" will actually mean what it's supposed to mean this time. Not as fluid as "Let's go home," where "home" is just where you live, as it is for us in Saugus. But "home." As is said in a lyric from the song "Home" by Simply Red: "Home is a place where I yearn to belong." I have that in my Facebook profile. I know I belong in Las Vegas. I've felt it every time we've been there and I know it'll be different living there than just visiting, but I can get used to it.
- 27 books to return to the library today. Have to. The books I need for my research have come in and now the research officially begins, even though I've been stockpiling resources for the past two weeks, mainly in experts and historians to interview and quote in my essays. I've seen a few silent film comedy shorts that Fatty Arbuckle has starred in and directed, and he knew what he was doing, despite what his appearance may indicate. No clumsiness there at all. Just playing a middle-class man often stuck in farcicial situations, and guaranteed he falls on his back at least once in each film. I told my sister that this is harder than I had hoped. Not that I'm dreading the opportunity to research some of these ghosts of cinema's past, but there's so much to read, though I am looking forward to many of the movies I plan to watch to remain relatively well-informed. My sister reminded me that this is my first book, so of course it's going to be hard. 21 essays to write, and hopefully it'll get easier after the first one.
Time to disengage. Have to gather the books I intend to return, and also load many in the trunk that likely won't fit in a full tote bag. Then a shower and bed. Seems about right for a Sunday. Back to the routine of it.
- Watching a movie, "The Adventures of Mark Twain," which I Tivo'd on Thursday from Turner Classic Movies.
- Was outside earlier, looking up at the stars, as much out of the glare of a burnished-orange light that remains on near the pool, even with no one there. Never understood that, not even with keeping the underwater pool and spa lights on. It's not like there's anyone who would sneak around that area anyway, being that this neighborhood and the surrounding neighborhoods are so quiet at this time of night, you could swear that they were either just built and awaiting new residents, or the real-estate crunch had caused their downfall. However, there's two ducks on occasional nights who sleep in the pool, and they're at least quieter than the residents set to use the pool in the coming weeks, when it opens back up.
- Recently recorded on the Tivo: "Chinese Box," starring Jeremy Irons and Gong Li (credited as "Li Gong"), "Camilla," starring Jessica Tandy and Bridget Fonda, and "Funny Girl," starring Barbra Streisand. I deleted the first a few months ago to conserve space, the second I recorded because of Jessica Tandy, and the third was because if you live in my house, then you know all about Streisand, whether you want to or not. I like her as a singer and actress (partly genetic, since I have my parents' musical tastes, with the addition of jazz, electronica, and some techno dance music), and had never seen "Funny Girl," so there you go.
- From what I can tell, this Tivo box in the living room is called "DirecTV Plus." There might be a newer version, but why can't this one retain actors' names and years of release after a movie or TV show has been recorded? Before something is recorded and during it as well, you can find that information on the guide. After, you're left only with a synopsis, what you recorded, the genre, whether it's closed-captioned, and what it contains (in the case of "Camilla," "adult content" and "adult language," abbreviated as "AC, AL." I know I can get that information online if I want, but I like having it right there.
- I remain connected to Las Vegas through the websites for the Las Vegas Sun, the Las Vegas Review-Journal and the blog of VegasRex (http://www.vegasrex.com/), who has made known his intention to run for mayor in the coming election. He's ready to disclose financial details and every other kind of detail that's dredged up in these elections and he's serious about it too. Not sure how much publicity he'll get, what with Oscar Goodman, a former Vegas mob lawyer, wanting yet another term (I heard something about there being term limits on that, but he wants to eliminate that), but Rex has fans, myself included. One of the other ways I remain connected: Every week, I call the automated line for the movie theater the Hacienda Hotel and Casino in Boulder City, which is three miles from Hoover Dam. I've never forgotten the view from the mountain adjacent to the casino. Every dream I've ever had in my life so far seemed like they combined to create that view. They wait for about two weeks or so to get prints of what were then first-run movies. For example, "Monsters vs. Aliens" was reduced to one showtime, while "Fast & Furious" gets three. Cheaper rates for prints I'll bet. It shows, with "Hannah Montana" and "Duplicity" beginning there on May 1st. But with tickets at $3, why not?
My mom has become more pushy about Las Vegas, and with good reason, considering that we've lived in the Santa Clarita Valley for a little over five years, and last year wasn't by choice. The Clark County School District had stopped hiring teachers, and then the economy tanked. I got to thinking about Florida as well, and whether we might move back there. Not possible, because of the insurance rates for hurricanes and all the other high-priced insurance that goes with living in Florida. It was then that I realized Las Vegas was it, finally. That's where I belong. I know it's going to be home, and the word "home" will actually mean what it's supposed to mean this time. Not as fluid as "Let's go home," where "home" is just where you live, as it is for us in Saugus. But "home." As is said in a lyric from the song "Home" by Simply Red: "Home is a place where I yearn to belong." I have that in my Facebook profile. I know I belong in Las Vegas. I've felt it every time we've been there and I know it'll be different living there than just visiting, but I can get used to it.
- 27 books to return to the library today. Have to. The books I need for my research have come in and now the research officially begins, even though I've been stockpiling resources for the past two weeks, mainly in experts and historians to interview and quote in my essays. I've seen a few silent film comedy shorts that Fatty Arbuckle has starred in and directed, and he knew what he was doing, despite what his appearance may indicate. No clumsiness there at all. Just playing a middle-class man often stuck in farcicial situations, and guaranteed he falls on his back at least once in each film. I told my sister that this is harder than I had hoped. Not that I'm dreading the opportunity to research some of these ghosts of cinema's past, but there's so much to read, though I am looking forward to many of the movies I plan to watch to remain relatively well-informed. My sister reminded me that this is my first book, so of course it's going to be hard. 21 essays to write, and hopefully it'll get easier after the first one.
Time to disengage. Have to gather the books I intend to return, and also load many in the trunk that likely won't fit in a full tote bag. Then a shower and bed. Seems about right for a Sunday. Back to the routine of it.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
3:59 a.m. newspaper delivery
From inside, on this computer, doing preliminary research for "What If They Lived?" (i.e., Wikipedia before I check out from the library on Sunday the first hundred books I need on four silent film actors), I hear a car (or maybe it's a van) pull up to my next-door neighbor's garage door to throw today's L.A. Times at it. In my head, I'm already at the door, at the car, just desperate to talk to this person for a minute or so, just to know their take on the night hours, how early they have to get up, if they notice certain details of the night that no one in my neighborhood sees. Or maybe it's just a job for them, as I'd expect.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
2:03 a.m.
Sitting here at the dining room table in near-darkness, on my dad's laptop, listening to Charles Bukowski reading his poems from a CD set called "Charles Bukowski Uncensored" which I ripped to the computer and transferred to my mp3 player long ago, but because of the home computer going to the tech guy at my dad's school to be stripped completely and built up again, I transferred these and a lot of other tracks to my jump drive to hold me over until we get that computer back. I'm listening to Bukowski talk about "Vegas and pussy and victory," and I'm thinking, in the glow of this laptop screen, looking into a dark tunnel of a kitchen, that there's nothing else that could be as great as this at this time of the night. I am listening to a master wordsmith, continually reminded of why he was a master wordsmith. I don't want to be him, I don't want to ever try to imitate his style, but I like to genuflect often at his rundown, well-worn temple of words. God forever bless the man, and maybe have a few beers with him too.
Where is the Night?
The night is in this living room-cum-dining room, in the three low light bulbs above me at the dining room table, its depressed light barely making an effort to be bolder than the darkness. The light reaches as far as the bird cage nearest to the TV in the living room portion of this long room and then it gives up. It's about right for this hour, getting near 1 a.m.
The night is also at the community pool across from the patio, not yet open to the residents for the season. It's not quite that temperature that merits late-night hours for teenagers by the pool, in the pool, and in the spa. I wish the mallard duck that I've seen at the pool the past few nights was there tonight, but it's too cool out there for it. The water looks green now, from nature's sediment, leaves, dirt from duck feet, and certainly duck droppings as well. Whomever takes care of the pool will inevitably have to clean it again. It makes no sense that the lights inside the pool are on when no one's there. Well, no one physically, but mentally, since I'm thinking about it right now.
I know without doubt the night is at the houses I've seen near the foothills across from La Mesa Jr. High, where my dad works. It has always amazed me that people would want to live that far away from everyone else, in a cul-de-sac pushed up against a foothill, one that looks like the same as every other suburban tract in the Santa Clarita Valley. What one finds in Stevenson Ranch suburbia is the same anywhere else here. It's disappointing, considering the landscape, which should demand more from those that live in the shadows of mountains and hills and golden yellow flowers on hillsides. Even some of the trees seem to have given up.
I know it seems I'm rambling, but that's what this night feels like. I wonder what it would be like to look into the doors of the Pavilion's supermarket in Valencia, if not for living in Saugus. We lived in Valencia for a year, in one of the apartment complexes behind the Pavilion's shopping center, but I never thought to wander out at night and see what the inside of a darkened supermarket looks like. I think it's because I would have riled our dog Tigger, and our apartment door didn't have anything that could block him from going out. Not that he ever would, but to me, it was best not to disturb him late at night by doing something like that.
The parking lot in this neighborhood, and the one across the street, I like to think that during these hours, I own the cars and trucks parked there. I can't get into them, nor would I want to, but Toyotas and Hondas and Mazdas and Fords, and F-150s and every other kind of vehicle a formerly $400,000 homeowner can get, they're mine. The tires are mine, the windshields, the tailpipes, the colors. I'm not fond of cars anyway, but I just like that I can have them if I want. I don't want to drive them, but I like looking at them, imagining. It may seem strange to be proud of that when I don't like cars, but they're the first available things I can think of.
I wish my neighbors were more well-read. I wish I could find old issues of The New Yorker in their recycling bins. I wish boxes of books sat beside their garbage bins. There was one night while living in the apartment in Valencia where I was taking garbage out to the dumpster, and there was an abandoned chest of drawers against a wall of the dumpster area, in between the two dumpsters. I opened one of the drawers and found a wealth of books left in there, including one called "Little Green Men" by Christopher Buckley, which I still haven't read, despite moving with it to Saugus. There were others I picked up as well, such as "Closers: Great American Writers on the Art of Selling," which contains an excerpt from the novel "The Competitor" by Thomas Bontly. I've read that excerpt more times than anything else in the book so far, and it impressed me so that I bought the book from Amazon Marketplace. I still haven't read that one either, though I lean toward my literary priorities catapulting me elsewhere rather than harboring the thought that the book might not live up to the high standards set in that excerpt, which I don't.
Loving the night is a complete reversal between me and my sister. When I was little, I was always the one put to bed at an early hour. My dad kept my sister up well into the late hours when she was little and when she was growing up, it was hard to get her to go to bed because of that. Now she's the one who's in bed well before 11 and here I am at 1 a.m., writing this. It's not an unconscious rebellion against having been put to bed that early during those years. But I suppose to me, there's more life at night than there is during the day. There's the expected routines, not just with work, but in errands, food shopping, pumping gas into the car, trying to beat the light at the intersection before it turns red, sighing with a little bit of defeat as the garage door comes down on another day after you've parked inside. Not that I have any experience with the latter, but I imagine it may be commonplace among many. At night, there are shadows all over. The colors of tree leaves and bushes and curbs and streetlight poles during the day, become as dark as the blacktop of the street. There is a hint of what there was during the day, but now it's a landscape for the imagination. People can think sinister of their co-workers to loved ones and friends. People can imagine what they might say to those co-workers if they were witty enough and confident enough. I live in the night because that's where I believe the human soul truly lives. During the day, we try to live up to expectations we've set for ourselves for that day, and that others have set for us too. At night, we are by ourselves as we lay in bed, mulling over the day's events and thinking about what might happen the next day. We may talk to others about the day, but we are thinking only as one person. We may think of ourselves in those hours in relation to others, how certain actions we may plan to undertake might affect ones we care about, such as a car purchase or a possible new job, or anything that "responsibility" calls for. I don't have contempt for responsibility. I know there are elements of that which are crucial to our lives. I just have contempt for the vacuum bag that some keep themselves in because of that. Not all people, mind you, just those, say, in my neighborhood, maybe in your neighborhood. My next-door neighbor for example looks like he's been married for decades, and I know exactly what he does as soon as he gets home. Well, I don't know what he does when he's inside, but after a while, he and his wife go out to dinner, then they come home, then the TV goes on in the living room, at least until 11, and then lights out. I walk the dogs on the patio because of a boxed-in man-made landscape that's a decent simulation of Las Vegas terrain (where we plan to eventually move if the Clark County School District begins hiring teachers again), and they need to learn how to go on that terrain. From the patio, I can see the light on in my neighbor's living room and I know that that's when the TV is on. Almost exactly before 11, the light's off. Routine that can kill.
But I'm not one to embark on a crusade to try to break people out of their routines. So be it if they want to live their lives that way. I have my own and that's the only one that matters within my body. As would be appropriate at 1:22 a.m., I've lost the point I was rumored to be making. In fact, I'm not even sure there was one within the confines of the previous paragraph.
My favorite view of the night is from the side parking lot at the Wal-Mart on Kelly Johnson Parkway in this valley. Don't ask me to say where exactly that is because I don't know. I've not known for five years. I have a theory on how to get there, but not certainty. It's what comes from living where you don't care much about what's here. There hasn't been much reason to chance that. But anyway, the view is unfortunately blocked pretty well by a few tall trees which I don't think were there last year. Without them, you could get a totally clear view of Six Flags Magic Mountain, all the lights of the rollercoasters on. Of course if you're looking for a full, not-totally-straight-on view, then you'd have to walk down the parking lot a bit. My favorite view is not that, though, but all the buildings with lights on the sides, lights shining down on other parking lots, traffic lights seen far up mountains, clusters of houses, all kinds of stories that strike me with wonder. Anything interesting happening at one of the intersection? Any suitably crazy people crossing the street? Any new residents sitting stock-still in their apartments, trying to remember what brought them here? Anyone just standing outside wondering the same thing I'm thinking about?
When I was at The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of the Santa Clarita Valley, I thought about writing a column for the weekend Escape section about wanting to make chalk drawings on the long stretch of street that passes my neighborhood on the way to higher ground and higher elevation neighborhoods. Well, not chalk drawings. That's too small-scale. Alien planet landscapes, portraits, city scenes, a chalk drawing of a better street than ours, whatever. I can't actually draw, but just imagining it was always fun. I didn't write it because I was caught up in working on many other things at the paper, but I think it was more of a column than an actual desire. I sometimes stand on that street at night and just marvel at how quiet it is, how my neighbors and other parts of this suburban hick population (we are far enough away from the hub of this valley that I call where I am the backwoods of Santa Clarita, just like Santa Clarita is essentially the backwoods of Los Angeles, since most of the residents live here only because they don't want to live in L.A., but don't mind commuting every day) drive out in the morning, drive home in the afternoon, like pre-ordained permanent choreography. There are some good neighbors, the few that I've seen. One woman I talked to has lived in my neighborhood for 26 years and that's a relief since I'm always worried whenever the winds get heavy enough, especially the Santa Ana winds. It's one of the reasons I can't wait to move to Las Vegas where, despite the winds at times, at least I'd be living on flatlands, and looking at mountains, not living in them.
There was a big black guy I passed by once on the way back to the house after walking Kitty, and we said hello to one another, and I was pleased at his voice. A relaxed tone, almost like you could imagine him as a trumpeter in a jazz band or even as a soloist. He just had that air about him, like he also lived for these hours, where his inspiration was. No doubt he has a job far different from that, but his presence is one of the rare pleasures of the neighborhood, inspiration found that can help create a character for something. A play, maybe a novel, I don't know yet. I need to start writing more often first. That I know.
Maybe that's what the night is. Jumbled moments and jumbled souls, like this blog entry. It's not meant to always make sense. That's what the daytime is for. It's where Oprah reigns and so does traffic frustration. At night, there's the choice of late-night hosts, rustling through leftovers in the fridge, and sometimes just sitting in the living room, thinking. Or, like me, looking up again at the three dining room fan lights on low and wondering. Just wondering. Wondering about the happiness of my next-door neighbor just because he's next door. I doubt he thinks of me the same way, but it doesn't matter. Nothing will ever hinge on that. For me, these kinds of thoughts just happen. They're better at night.
The night is also at the community pool across from the patio, not yet open to the residents for the season. It's not quite that temperature that merits late-night hours for teenagers by the pool, in the pool, and in the spa. I wish the mallard duck that I've seen at the pool the past few nights was there tonight, but it's too cool out there for it. The water looks green now, from nature's sediment, leaves, dirt from duck feet, and certainly duck droppings as well. Whomever takes care of the pool will inevitably have to clean it again. It makes no sense that the lights inside the pool are on when no one's there. Well, no one physically, but mentally, since I'm thinking about it right now.
I know without doubt the night is at the houses I've seen near the foothills across from La Mesa Jr. High, where my dad works. It has always amazed me that people would want to live that far away from everyone else, in a cul-de-sac pushed up against a foothill, one that looks like the same as every other suburban tract in the Santa Clarita Valley. What one finds in Stevenson Ranch suburbia is the same anywhere else here. It's disappointing, considering the landscape, which should demand more from those that live in the shadows of mountains and hills and golden yellow flowers on hillsides. Even some of the trees seem to have given up.
I know it seems I'm rambling, but that's what this night feels like. I wonder what it would be like to look into the doors of the Pavilion's supermarket in Valencia, if not for living in Saugus. We lived in Valencia for a year, in one of the apartment complexes behind the Pavilion's shopping center, but I never thought to wander out at night and see what the inside of a darkened supermarket looks like. I think it's because I would have riled our dog Tigger, and our apartment door didn't have anything that could block him from going out. Not that he ever would, but to me, it was best not to disturb him late at night by doing something like that.
The parking lot in this neighborhood, and the one across the street, I like to think that during these hours, I own the cars and trucks parked there. I can't get into them, nor would I want to, but Toyotas and Hondas and Mazdas and Fords, and F-150s and every other kind of vehicle a formerly $400,000 homeowner can get, they're mine. The tires are mine, the windshields, the tailpipes, the colors. I'm not fond of cars anyway, but I just like that I can have them if I want. I don't want to drive them, but I like looking at them, imagining. It may seem strange to be proud of that when I don't like cars, but they're the first available things I can think of.
I wish my neighbors were more well-read. I wish I could find old issues of The New Yorker in their recycling bins. I wish boxes of books sat beside their garbage bins. There was one night while living in the apartment in Valencia where I was taking garbage out to the dumpster, and there was an abandoned chest of drawers against a wall of the dumpster area, in between the two dumpsters. I opened one of the drawers and found a wealth of books left in there, including one called "Little Green Men" by Christopher Buckley, which I still haven't read, despite moving with it to Saugus. There were others I picked up as well, such as "Closers: Great American Writers on the Art of Selling," which contains an excerpt from the novel "The Competitor" by Thomas Bontly. I've read that excerpt more times than anything else in the book so far, and it impressed me so that I bought the book from Amazon Marketplace. I still haven't read that one either, though I lean toward my literary priorities catapulting me elsewhere rather than harboring the thought that the book might not live up to the high standards set in that excerpt, which I don't.
Loving the night is a complete reversal between me and my sister. When I was little, I was always the one put to bed at an early hour. My dad kept my sister up well into the late hours when she was little and when she was growing up, it was hard to get her to go to bed because of that. Now she's the one who's in bed well before 11 and here I am at 1 a.m., writing this. It's not an unconscious rebellion against having been put to bed that early during those years. But I suppose to me, there's more life at night than there is during the day. There's the expected routines, not just with work, but in errands, food shopping, pumping gas into the car, trying to beat the light at the intersection before it turns red, sighing with a little bit of defeat as the garage door comes down on another day after you've parked inside. Not that I have any experience with the latter, but I imagine it may be commonplace among many. At night, there are shadows all over. The colors of tree leaves and bushes and curbs and streetlight poles during the day, become as dark as the blacktop of the street. There is a hint of what there was during the day, but now it's a landscape for the imagination. People can think sinister of their co-workers to loved ones and friends. People can imagine what they might say to those co-workers if they were witty enough and confident enough. I live in the night because that's where I believe the human soul truly lives. During the day, we try to live up to expectations we've set for ourselves for that day, and that others have set for us too. At night, we are by ourselves as we lay in bed, mulling over the day's events and thinking about what might happen the next day. We may talk to others about the day, but we are thinking only as one person. We may think of ourselves in those hours in relation to others, how certain actions we may plan to undertake might affect ones we care about, such as a car purchase or a possible new job, or anything that "responsibility" calls for. I don't have contempt for responsibility. I know there are elements of that which are crucial to our lives. I just have contempt for the vacuum bag that some keep themselves in because of that. Not all people, mind you, just those, say, in my neighborhood, maybe in your neighborhood. My next-door neighbor for example looks like he's been married for decades, and I know exactly what he does as soon as he gets home. Well, I don't know what he does when he's inside, but after a while, he and his wife go out to dinner, then they come home, then the TV goes on in the living room, at least until 11, and then lights out. I walk the dogs on the patio because of a boxed-in man-made landscape that's a decent simulation of Las Vegas terrain (where we plan to eventually move if the Clark County School District begins hiring teachers again), and they need to learn how to go on that terrain. From the patio, I can see the light on in my neighbor's living room and I know that that's when the TV is on. Almost exactly before 11, the light's off. Routine that can kill.
But I'm not one to embark on a crusade to try to break people out of their routines. So be it if they want to live their lives that way. I have my own and that's the only one that matters within my body. As would be appropriate at 1:22 a.m., I've lost the point I was rumored to be making. In fact, I'm not even sure there was one within the confines of the previous paragraph.
My favorite view of the night is from the side parking lot at the Wal-Mart on Kelly Johnson Parkway in this valley. Don't ask me to say where exactly that is because I don't know. I've not known for five years. I have a theory on how to get there, but not certainty. It's what comes from living where you don't care much about what's here. There hasn't been much reason to chance that. But anyway, the view is unfortunately blocked pretty well by a few tall trees which I don't think were there last year. Without them, you could get a totally clear view of Six Flags Magic Mountain, all the lights of the rollercoasters on. Of course if you're looking for a full, not-totally-straight-on view, then you'd have to walk down the parking lot a bit. My favorite view is not that, though, but all the buildings with lights on the sides, lights shining down on other parking lots, traffic lights seen far up mountains, clusters of houses, all kinds of stories that strike me with wonder. Anything interesting happening at one of the intersection? Any suitably crazy people crossing the street? Any new residents sitting stock-still in their apartments, trying to remember what brought them here? Anyone just standing outside wondering the same thing I'm thinking about?
When I was at The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of the Santa Clarita Valley, I thought about writing a column for the weekend Escape section about wanting to make chalk drawings on the long stretch of street that passes my neighborhood on the way to higher ground and higher elevation neighborhoods. Well, not chalk drawings. That's too small-scale. Alien planet landscapes, portraits, city scenes, a chalk drawing of a better street than ours, whatever. I can't actually draw, but just imagining it was always fun. I didn't write it because I was caught up in working on many other things at the paper, but I think it was more of a column than an actual desire. I sometimes stand on that street at night and just marvel at how quiet it is, how my neighbors and other parts of this suburban hick population (we are far enough away from the hub of this valley that I call where I am the backwoods of Santa Clarita, just like Santa Clarita is essentially the backwoods of Los Angeles, since most of the residents live here only because they don't want to live in L.A., but don't mind commuting every day) drive out in the morning, drive home in the afternoon, like pre-ordained permanent choreography. There are some good neighbors, the few that I've seen. One woman I talked to has lived in my neighborhood for 26 years and that's a relief since I'm always worried whenever the winds get heavy enough, especially the Santa Ana winds. It's one of the reasons I can't wait to move to Las Vegas where, despite the winds at times, at least I'd be living on flatlands, and looking at mountains, not living in them.
There was a big black guy I passed by once on the way back to the house after walking Kitty, and we said hello to one another, and I was pleased at his voice. A relaxed tone, almost like you could imagine him as a trumpeter in a jazz band or even as a soloist. He just had that air about him, like he also lived for these hours, where his inspiration was. No doubt he has a job far different from that, but his presence is one of the rare pleasures of the neighborhood, inspiration found that can help create a character for something. A play, maybe a novel, I don't know yet. I need to start writing more often first. That I know.
Maybe that's what the night is. Jumbled moments and jumbled souls, like this blog entry. It's not meant to always make sense. That's what the daytime is for. It's where Oprah reigns and so does traffic frustration. At night, there's the choice of late-night hosts, rustling through leftovers in the fridge, and sometimes just sitting in the living room, thinking. Or, like me, looking up again at the three dining room fan lights on low and wondering. Just wondering. Wondering about the happiness of my next-door neighbor just because he's next door. I doubt he thinks of me the same way, but it doesn't matter. Nothing will ever hinge on that. For me, these kinds of thoughts just happen. They're better at night.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Night Series: Finally, THE Night
I don't know yet where to put this day among my small collection of perfect days. Do I put it behind the Saturday about two or three years ago where my family and I, and my sister's friend, went to Boomer's Amusement Center in Fountain Valley, then to the Southern-style Po Folks restaurant in Burbank, and capped it all off with an inching-toward-late-night visit to Downtown Disney in Anaheim? Or does it go in front of December 7, 2007 when my mom, my sister and her friend went to the Spice Girls concert at the Staples Center in L.A.? On that day, I woke up at 3 p.m., which I used to not do, finding my Amazon.com order of "I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski: Life, The Big Lebowski, and What-Have-You" on the dining room table. Then, in the mailbox, my order from playscripts.com containing a collection of plays by Nina Shengold, who gives lively voice to weary waitresses and even bags and suitcases at a warehouse full of other luggage either abandoned by their owners or lost by various airlines. Following that, after my dad got home from work, we went to Boston Market for dinner, and finally into the mayhem that was two lanes of traffic approaching the Staples Center, also because Enrique Iglesias was performing next door at the Nokia Theatre. And then, the traffic seemed to disappear as if some invisible force had either chanted something or snapped unseen fingers. My dad and I went to a Staples nearby because he had to look for something, and then we drove around L.A., through Koreatown, and various other parts.
This day, which is rapidly becoming yesterday at three minutes to midnight, had in common the feeling of one activity gliding into another without any conflict with anything else. Strange, because there really wasn't as much going on as there was on the days just mentioned. What made this day perfect from the start was the weather. I went outside with Tigger, one of our dogs, to get the mail and the warmth outside seemed casual, like it was in no rush and didn't have any point to prove. Compare that to summer heat where it's blazing and one wonders what made it pissed off. I know it's science and the seasons and weather patterns, but it's also when you spent very brief foot time on concrete if you're near a pool. If you get out of the pool, you're quick about not dawdling. In that case, you just jump right back in.
I've also used this description in my Facebook profile: "Pleasantly warm." That's how it was. Not too warm to be stifling, not too hot to make you remain in your house until autumn. Plus, there was an omnipresent thin layer of cold that was like a put-upon kid in school asking a bully if he could move so the kid could get through, but soon giving up and just waiting. The cold during the day was never as demanding as it is now, where it feels like the freezer cases of a supermarket. Consider it then the easygoing meshing of two kinds of weather, which I hadn't seen until today. Usually when the sun was out on days before, the cold was the dominant force. But this time, both existed in tandem, though the sun had the slight edge today. And that was fine.
I went online after I got up, checked the usual websites such as Drudge Report, and my e-mail, and then, what else was there to do? I know I should have watched at least one movie today to review, but it didn't feel like that kind of day. Felt like a reading day, and that's what I did, with The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, a novel that I wish didn't have to end. There have been many times where I lose a little bit of faith in the English language, not because of anything that passes for reading online, but because of not feeling any confidence in my writing, which happens often. I opened this book and I found new meaning. That's not to say that I'll suddenly gain permanent confidence in my work, but at least I know the words are there and aren't always that imposing.
I love the end of daylight savings time, because it gets darker later and allows the evening to gradually come forth. The sun seems to go down a bit slower, looking out on a vast stretch of land, regretting the decision, but knowing it has to happen. The evening gets a bigger introduction that way. Silent fanfare.
My evening was rife with the usual business: Job listings to compile for that freelance writing newsletter, listening to the usual and always welcome Disney theme park music on Utilidors Audio Broadcasting (http://www.uabmagic.com/), and then more reading. Now, at 12:31 a.m., it's probably time for a movie. Definitely one to review, to follow a perfect day.
This day, which is rapidly becoming yesterday at three minutes to midnight, had in common the feeling of one activity gliding into another without any conflict with anything else. Strange, because there really wasn't as much going on as there was on the days just mentioned. What made this day perfect from the start was the weather. I went outside with Tigger, one of our dogs, to get the mail and the warmth outside seemed casual, like it was in no rush and didn't have any point to prove. Compare that to summer heat where it's blazing and one wonders what made it pissed off. I know it's science and the seasons and weather patterns, but it's also when you spent very brief foot time on concrete if you're near a pool. If you get out of the pool, you're quick about not dawdling. In that case, you just jump right back in.
I've also used this description in my Facebook profile: "Pleasantly warm." That's how it was. Not too warm to be stifling, not too hot to make you remain in your house until autumn. Plus, there was an omnipresent thin layer of cold that was like a put-upon kid in school asking a bully if he could move so the kid could get through, but soon giving up and just waiting. The cold during the day was never as demanding as it is now, where it feels like the freezer cases of a supermarket. Consider it then the easygoing meshing of two kinds of weather, which I hadn't seen until today. Usually when the sun was out on days before, the cold was the dominant force. But this time, both existed in tandem, though the sun had the slight edge today. And that was fine.
I went online after I got up, checked the usual websites such as Drudge Report, and my e-mail, and then, what else was there to do? I know I should have watched at least one movie today to review, but it didn't feel like that kind of day. Felt like a reading day, and that's what I did, with The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, a novel that I wish didn't have to end. There have been many times where I lose a little bit of faith in the English language, not because of anything that passes for reading online, but because of not feeling any confidence in my writing, which happens often. I opened this book and I found new meaning. That's not to say that I'll suddenly gain permanent confidence in my work, but at least I know the words are there and aren't always that imposing.
I love the end of daylight savings time, because it gets darker later and allows the evening to gradually come forth. The sun seems to go down a bit slower, looking out on a vast stretch of land, regretting the decision, but knowing it has to happen. The evening gets a bigger introduction that way. Silent fanfare.
My evening was rife with the usual business: Job listings to compile for that freelance writing newsletter, listening to the usual and always welcome Disney theme park music on Utilidors Audio Broadcasting (http://www.uabmagic.com/), and then more reading. Now, at 12:31 a.m., it's probably time for a movie. Definitely one to review, to follow a perfect day.
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Night Series: My Next-Door Neighbor's Wife's Windchimes
(I keep promising to begin my "Scraps of Literacy" series, and I must promise once again in order to afford a further delay. Reviews for Screen It, though they pay, suck any desire for writing out of me. I usually need about a day or so to recover from those. Now, you might ask, why would I say that when clearly, I'm writing here, and on another topic? Well, this new series came to me because I love everything the night offers me, provided there aren't coyotes too nearby or wildfires. A calm night like the one outside right now can get me extolling at length all that there at night that shapes my personal landscape. Those "Scraps of Literacy" will come soon, and this time, I promise with an intent to deliver the next time you see "Scraps of Literacy" in an entry)
My next-door neighbor's wife has a set of windchimes hanging from the wooden covering on her patio roof. It's the standard roof for all of the developments here, except she and her husband have their covering. This property, and the one across from us with the sidewalk to the pool and walls separating us, does not. Imagine it as a half-finished wood shop project with white-painted beams and rafters, but not all the rafters put into place, and none of the covering. Apparently, it was a decision by the home owners' association, though it stretches back farther than we've been here. This is what we've lived with, and it's fine, since I don't care much about this place. That's not to say I don't like it. I live here, there's a ceiling over me and a roof above that, and that's fine. But there's no feeling of a connection, and as expected from me, that's suitable for another entry. I have to update that list.
The windchimes are seen thusly: The longest rod is on the left, a shorter one is in the middle, and the shortest is on the right. I've no idea if there are anymore behind those. I don't know anything about windchimes beyond the nerve-wracking sounds they make (only nerve-wracking here, and that reason's coming), but I'm assuming that from my vantage point, the ball or disc that drags across the windchimes to make the sound rests in the middle. I don't know. I'm not going to get closer to my neighbor's patio than where I go on my own patio to walk my dogs (training for Las Vegas piddles, since the gravel on our patio is a fair approximation of the landscape there).
I hate her windchimes. When I'm in my bed and I hear them, I want to pull the covers further over me and try to sleep until the wind finally calms down. I'm not a native, and I can't handle those gusty winds. I've lived through five wildfire seasons. The first one saw ash raining down when we were living in an apartment in Valencia. In October of 2007, we were evacuated for thankfully only most of the day when there was concern that the Buckweed fire (started by a kid with matches) might reach us. It didn't, but it's not an ideal area to evacuate from, considering that there's only one road to use to exit, and many other developments within this area. I had never been so truly scared in my life, not even during hurricanes in Florida. But we got lucky in all the years we lived there because only the feeder bands of all of the storms struck us. Obviously, hurricanes have been more dangerous since we left, and there are other reasons I probably wouldn't move back to Florida (my home state, and I miss many parts of it), but I never felt this kind of fear.
Then there was last November, seeing fire on mountains and thick smoke in the sky. I didn't know how close these mountains were and from where I was standing on my patio, they looked like they might have been close enough. But the next day, my parents and I went out and we saw that these fires were on the mountains in Canyon Country. That far away, yet distance is relative in this valley. You can never be sure because of skewed vantage points like the one from my patio.
Each time, there were the Santa Ana winds, blowing and blowing, and making my neighbor's wife's windchimes sound louder and more determined, as if they had decided to suddenly play a symphony right there. I've always felt extremely uneasy whenever these winds are around. My stomach decides to grow a monster during that time, and I'm always hoping that nothing horrid happens, but always worried whenever I see on the news that something has flared up elsewhere. I wish that she'd get rid of those windchimes, but unfortunately, they also serve as a barometer as to how bad the winds are. It's the most complex relationship between a man and windchimes.
I want to move to Las Vegas already, and this is one of the reasons. Vegas is flat land and when the winds blow there, there's not as much to worry about. Plus, I'd be looking at mountains, not living in them. That's the other worry about living here when the Santa Anas are around. Vegas presents its own set of worries, I'm sure, but since I have no attachments to this valley, sentimental or otherwise, I'll be happy when it comes time to move. Particularly since I feel like Vegas is my home. It's everything I've wanted from humanity, that ability to relax without being so uptight about whether something is "morally right." It's hedonism in the desert. Unfortunately, it's not impervious to the shaky economy, but education is still needed there and that's where my dad comes in. I just hope they start hiring soon.
My next-door neighbor's wife has a set of windchimes hanging from the wooden covering on her patio roof. It's the standard roof for all of the developments here, except she and her husband have their covering. This property, and the one across from us with the sidewalk to the pool and walls separating us, does not. Imagine it as a half-finished wood shop project with white-painted beams and rafters, but not all the rafters put into place, and none of the covering. Apparently, it was a decision by the home owners' association, though it stretches back farther than we've been here. This is what we've lived with, and it's fine, since I don't care much about this place. That's not to say I don't like it. I live here, there's a ceiling over me and a roof above that, and that's fine. But there's no feeling of a connection, and as expected from me, that's suitable for another entry. I have to update that list.
The windchimes are seen thusly: The longest rod is on the left, a shorter one is in the middle, and the shortest is on the right. I've no idea if there are anymore behind those. I don't know anything about windchimes beyond the nerve-wracking sounds they make (only nerve-wracking here, and that reason's coming), but I'm assuming that from my vantage point, the ball or disc that drags across the windchimes to make the sound rests in the middle. I don't know. I'm not going to get closer to my neighbor's patio than where I go on my own patio to walk my dogs (training for Las Vegas piddles, since the gravel on our patio is a fair approximation of the landscape there).
I hate her windchimes. When I'm in my bed and I hear them, I want to pull the covers further over me and try to sleep until the wind finally calms down. I'm not a native, and I can't handle those gusty winds. I've lived through five wildfire seasons. The first one saw ash raining down when we were living in an apartment in Valencia. In October of 2007, we were evacuated for thankfully only most of the day when there was concern that the Buckweed fire (started by a kid with matches) might reach us. It didn't, but it's not an ideal area to evacuate from, considering that there's only one road to use to exit, and many other developments within this area. I had never been so truly scared in my life, not even during hurricanes in Florida. But we got lucky in all the years we lived there because only the feeder bands of all of the storms struck us. Obviously, hurricanes have been more dangerous since we left, and there are other reasons I probably wouldn't move back to Florida (my home state, and I miss many parts of it), but I never felt this kind of fear.
Then there was last November, seeing fire on mountains and thick smoke in the sky. I didn't know how close these mountains were and from where I was standing on my patio, they looked like they might have been close enough. But the next day, my parents and I went out and we saw that these fires were on the mountains in Canyon Country. That far away, yet distance is relative in this valley. You can never be sure because of skewed vantage points like the one from my patio.
Each time, there were the Santa Ana winds, blowing and blowing, and making my neighbor's wife's windchimes sound louder and more determined, as if they had decided to suddenly play a symphony right there. I've always felt extremely uneasy whenever these winds are around. My stomach decides to grow a monster during that time, and I'm always hoping that nothing horrid happens, but always worried whenever I see on the news that something has flared up elsewhere. I wish that she'd get rid of those windchimes, but unfortunately, they also serve as a barometer as to how bad the winds are. It's the most complex relationship between a man and windchimes.
I want to move to Las Vegas already, and this is one of the reasons. Vegas is flat land and when the winds blow there, there's not as much to worry about. Plus, I'd be looking at mountains, not living in them. That's the other worry about living here when the Santa Anas are around. Vegas presents its own set of worries, I'm sure, but since I have no attachments to this valley, sentimental or otherwise, I'll be happy when it comes time to move. Particularly since I feel like Vegas is my home. It's everything I've wanted from humanity, that ability to relax without being so uptight about whether something is "morally right." It's hedonism in the desert. Unfortunately, it's not impervious to the shaky economy, but education is still needed there and that's where my dad comes in. I just hope they start hiring soon.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Silence That Envelopes the House
11:05 p.m. My time. My parents are asleep, their bedroom located behind the living room, while my sister, saddled with a cold, will be asleep soon, if the Disney Channel doesn't knock her out first. I like to think the audiences for "Zack and Cody: Don't Mug Like That or Your Face Will Freeze" are paid something to laugh that loud and that often.
And I've just come back from walking our dogs, Tigger (part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound) and Kitty (part miniature pinscher, part terrier), where outside is the most piercing cold I've ever felt not just in the five years I've lived in Southern California, but even in all the years I lived in Florida. Frost on cold nights in Casselberry, near Orlando, was bad enough to kill the tangerine tree that was next to my window, as it is for orange crops as well, as seen on the news around this time of year. But the cold here, throughout the night hours, is the kind that immediately preys upon your vulnerabilities. With me, no gloves on my hands and no ski mask on my face. I refuse because I'd look ridiculous, even in a neighborhood where no one cares, where you live right next door to whomever and only wave at them once in a while. Not exactly a neighborhood where you try to get friendly. They might call the cops, concerned.
Having defrosted from the cold outside, I love this time of night. There is a silence that has gotten into all corners of this house, in between the couch cushions, in my bedsheets which I won't slip into until near 5 a.m., in the space between the refrigerator doors, and I'm sure it's gotten to the silverware and dishes too. For me, it's the kind of silence that lingers, never questioning, never suggesting, but at times, making me think about what I'm doing at the moment and whether I should be doing something else.
I'm nearly done with the newsletter for the night, but what next? Reading through the various Word files I've created with ideas for plays and even some dialogue written? More time spent with the first volume of Neil Simon's plays, studying structure at the same time I sigh with admiration over his dialogue and wish I could write like him? I haven't written any new reviews for Film Threat lately, so what about those DVD screeners from various independent filmmakers? There's one that I've wanted to see for a while, a documentary called "Humble Beauty," about homeless artists. I should contribute to my annual review tally with the Online Film Critics Society, of which I am a member and also on the governing committee. 50 reviews a year, as stated in the bylaws. Or maybe I should retreat to my journal for the night, reading what may sound so simplistic now. Is there anything else I could add that would balance it out?
I don't know what I want to do yet. But the silence rests above and all around, patiently, making me think further. Maybe a novel. Lord knows I've checked out enough of them on my library card as well as my sister's library card. I've got that collection of novels by Carson McCullers and only vowed to continue watching "The Member of the Wedding" on the Tivo in the living room after I finished reading the novel of the same name. There's also the early Steinbeck novels in one collection too. Maybe just the radio? KCRW? Lot of music there that I haven't heard yet, and I could listen and mentally add to my list of city music, that which feels city-like, specifically Los Angeles. I haven't even started a list for Las Vegas yet, and I should, considering how badly I want to be there already, if not for the dire reality of this economy which renders the Clark County School District there unable to hire my father yet as a business education teacher. That's a whole set of entries for another time. More to add to that physical list.
The time to just lay on the couch doing nothing passed long ago. I can't very well lay face up and stare at the marginally high ceiling. It's not a popcorn ceiling like I had in various houses in Florida (we moved a lot), so it's not as easy to find different shapes and scenery in it. Impossible to do that when there's so much read and watch and write about.
The silence can make you think about so much. It can send you right back to better days in memory. It can put you right back on the road toward Northern California, to Casa de Fruita in Hollister where there was a bakery that had the best peach pie in the state, and the most stunning views of the greenest hills you'll ever find, if you stay within the United States for your entire life. England might have greener ones.
I should finish this newsletter, archive it, and set it up to have it sent automatically to 680 subscribers. The newer subscribers are probably on that free trial week offer, and I hope they subscribe right after. Then, I'll answer the silence with what I plan to do. I'll think of something.
And I've just come back from walking our dogs, Tigger (part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound) and Kitty (part miniature pinscher, part terrier), where outside is the most piercing cold I've ever felt not just in the five years I've lived in Southern California, but even in all the years I lived in Florida. Frost on cold nights in Casselberry, near Orlando, was bad enough to kill the tangerine tree that was next to my window, as it is for orange crops as well, as seen on the news around this time of year. But the cold here, throughout the night hours, is the kind that immediately preys upon your vulnerabilities. With me, no gloves on my hands and no ski mask on my face. I refuse because I'd look ridiculous, even in a neighborhood where no one cares, where you live right next door to whomever and only wave at them once in a while. Not exactly a neighborhood where you try to get friendly. They might call the cops, concerned.
Having defrosted from the cold outside, I love this time of night. There is a silence that has gotten into all corners of this house, in between the couch cushions, in my bedsheets which I won't slip into until near 5 a.m., in the space between the refrigerator doors, and I'm sure it's gotten to the silverware and dishes too. For me, it's the kind of silence that lingers, never questioning, never suggesting, but at times, making me think about what I'm doing at the moment and whether I should be doing something else.
I'm nearly done with the newsletter for the night, but what next? Reading through the various Word files I've created with ideas for plays and even some dialogue written? More time spent with the first volume of Neil Simon's plays, studying structure at the same time I sigh with admiration over his dialogue and wish I could write like him? I haven't written any new reviews for Film Threat lately, so what about those DVD screeners from various independent filmmakers? There's one that I've wanted to see for a while, a documentary called "Humble Beauty," about homeless artists. I should contribute to my annual review tally with the Online Film Critics Society, of which I am a member and also on the governing committee. 50 reviews a year, as stated in the bylaws. Or maybe I should retreat to my journal for the night, reading what may sound so simplistic now. Is there anything else I could add that would balance it out?
I don't know what I want to do yet. But the silence rests above and all around, patiently, making me think further. Maybe a novel. Lord knows I've checked out enough of them on my library card as well as my sister's library card. I've got that collection of novels by Carson McCullers and only vowed to continue watching "The Member of the Wedding" on the Tivo in the living room after I finished reading the novel of the same name. There's also the early Steinbeck novels in one collection too. Maybe just the radio? KCRW? Lot of music there that I haven't heard yet, and I could listen and mentally add to my list of city music, that which feels city-like, specifically Los Angeles. I haven't even started a list for Las Vegas yet, and I should, considering how badly I want to be there already, if not for the dire reality of this economy which renders the Clark County School District there unable to hire my father yet as a business education teacher. That's a whole set of entries for another time. More to add to that physical list.
The time to just lay on the couch doing nothing passed long ago. I can't very well lay face up and stare at the marginally high ceiling. It's not a popcorn ceiling like I had in various houses in Florida (we moved a lot), so it's not as easy to find different shapes and scenery in it. Impossible to do that when there's so much read and watch and write about.
The silence can make you think about so much. It can send you right back to better days in memory. It can put you right back on the road toward Northern California, to Casa de Fruita in Hollister where there was a bakery that had the best peach pie in the state, and the most stunning views of the greenest hills you'll ever find, if you stay within the United States for your entire life. England might have greener ones.
I should finish this newsletter, archive it, and set it up to have it sent automatically to 680 subscribers. The newer subscribers are probably on that free trial week offer, and I hope they subscribe right after. Then, I'll answer the silence with what I plan to do. I'll think of something.
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