Last year, during the day on New Year's Eve, we went to the Los Angeles Zoo. Mom wanted to for her birthday.
I remember waiting for Mom and Meridith on a bench a few feet across from the women's restroom, after we'd arrived and gone through the entrance turnstiles. As usual, Dad was talking to someone on his cell phone (sounded like someone from Broward County, Florida, one of the people he still knows who works in that school district), and I was looking over the zoo's map and attraction descriptions. I remember there was a "welcome" message from Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa printed in the guide, as well as one from city councilman Tom LaBonge, who I guess represents the district the zoo is in. I don't know. I live in a valley where the city council is made up of people elected far too many times, but who will keep getting elected because that's all this valley has. No one else will run because 80% of the population works in Los Angeles, Burbank, even the San Fernando Valley, I'm sure. They live here to get away from those areas at the end of each day.
I sat there, wondering if LaBonge ever thought about his words in the zoo map either after he had sent them to zoo management to be printed in the map, or some time afterward, maybe months, maybe a year later. Probably not. More to worry about in being a councilman, I think. But it's like the apartments in this neighborhood. I wonder if the architect(s) in charge of these developments ever come back to look at what they did, or if the painters come back or the planters or whomever. Either to remember when they were younger, when they did better work, or a bit of satisfaction during a week not going well.
Mom and Meridith came out of the restroom, and we walked the zoo. It was a decent day up to when we got to the monkey cages, and then it got even better.
I've only used "Missed Connections" on Craigslist twice: Once in late June 2008, and once on New Year's Day 2009. Apparently, I'm still a pussy in trying to talk to women. Here's what I wrote for the latter posting:
You: A Blue-Haired Wit, Me: Gaston T-Shirt at the Monkey Cages - m4w - 24 (L.A. Zoo)
Reply to: (The given e-mail address obviously isn't valid anymore)
Date: 2009-01-01, 2:12AM PST
I did it again, and while I will most likely brood yet again over why I can’t simply open my mouth and strike up a significant conversation with a girl I find attractive, I post this, for peace of mind, and naturally in hope of finding the girl who, yes, got away.
I was at the L.A. Zoo on New Year’s Eve, as part of my mom’s birthday. She and my dad were elsewhere for the moment, and I was at a set of monkey cages with my sister, who was looking at one of the monkeys on the left, while I looked briefly at what would turn out to be a common interest between the two of us. I was wearing a t-shirt of Gaston, the brutish villain from “Beauty and the Beast.” I went over to look at the monkey in the middle cage, and there you were, beside me, looking at the same monkey. I saw you a little while before that, walking with your friends, but what you said at that moment really made me take notice. Well, besides your hair being a darker shade of blue that happens to be my favorite shade.
You noted to friends near you about that monkey in the middle holding his wrists. Whether up or in some other manner, I’ve forgotten, as I remember only you being there and wondering aloud why that monkey was holding his wrists in whatever way you noticed. I answered quickly, “Maybe it’s emo,” and after you had considered another reason, you latched onto mine and agreed. Then you mentioned either about this monkey or about our mutual favorite (a monkey in the cage on the right just sitting on a branch, eating berries, oblivious to the world) that it was auditioning for “America’s Next Top Monkey.” I didn’t only laugh at that because I liked your energy, your wit, and your blue hair. I thought it genuinely funny. Unfortunately, I laughed about it with my sister after you had gone. All I had to do was quickly continue the conversation after you agreed with my “emo” remark and maybe we would have gotten somewhere. Boy did I mess up there. Why is it that the events of our past sometimes still stifle us? I guess I’ve never been comfortable with speaking to an attractive woman directly in front of her friends. Bad results in middle school, especially in 6th grade when a girl I had asked to a winter dance accepted, and then after talking to her friends in P.E., came over to me and quietly turned me down. Not a major disappointment, mind you, but how in the heck could that even be a factor when I wasn’t even thinking of that when I stood next to you? Evil subconscious.
Like any writings here in “Missed Connections,” I hope you see this. I want to talk to you again. I want to share that mutual wit again. You were the first person I met in five years in Los Angeles with whom I felt an intellectual connection. But if you don’t see this, I know I will be continually inspired by you, as a writer. You reminded me to be what one wants to be in life, to just take it all in and laugh as you go along. And with blue hair. That brilliant blue hair.
Location: L.A. Zoo
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
After there had been no replies for a few days, and still none after I reposted it a week or two later, I wasn't leave-me-here-to-slowly-melt-into-the-carpet disappointed; just disappointed that my mind's image of her had blurred.
And now, here we are. Thanksgiving ahead, and Dad's birthday on December 1. Then Mom's on December 31. I don't mind that Christmas was pushed at us by desperate, money-hungry corporations earlier this year. It doesn't bother me anymore. It used to when we didn't have XM Radio in the car in Florida. Heck, this was when XM didn't exist yet, and we got stuck with Christmas music for two weeks before the holidays on LITE 101.5 and MAJIC 102.7. (I'm not sure what Power 96 had in those years, but later on, I'm sure with the rap music format it adopted, it had something like, "Jingle my bells and kiss my mistletoe. That's right, girl. Kiss it sweet." Yes, I'm white. How did you know?) KOIT, my favorite radio station in San Francisco, has two streams available online this year: The Christmas music stream, which is the regular radio broadcast, and the lite rock stream, for those who can't take that much Christmas music in an hour or a day.
I'm shocked, though. I just briefly met that girl. I just posted that ad on Missed Connections. I just reposted it. And now we're already zooming back to that date, in this year? Life goes faster as one gets older, I know. I've also been thinking about this because I didn't do anything worthwhile this year. Yes, I learned to disconnect myself from the hype that Hollywood drowns in every Oscar season. I learned that voting in the Online Film Critics Society awards is a cycle that will never end unless Hollywood suddenly goes out of business, or unless I lose my membership in the organization, which is possible. Not many reviews written during the course of writing this book. But I think I might be happier watching movies on my own terms, not thinking at all about what Hollywood is pushing, and also being able to read more books. I'll still stick with ScreenIt (I get paid) and Film Threat (I still like watching independent films that have absolutely no connection to Hollywood).
That book, What If They Lived?, is a necessary first step in my writing life. It hasn't been completely fulfilling, though, and I'm disappointed in that upon reflection of this year. Maybe I should have written my own essays too. Maybe I should have spent more time writing blog entries. No one really reads this, but it's a personal space that allows me to do anything in words. Maybe I should have indeed read the plays I wanted to read and figure out something to do about that, figure out what play I would want to write first, out of all the ideas I have stored in my "Plays" folder on this computer. Maybe I should have written more about Las Vegas, considering what fascinates me about the city, what aspects of its history I want to learn right away, what I want to do when we get there again and especially when we live there, and what I have done so far there that has satisfied me. I wanted more days like that day at the L.A. Zoo; like that day at Boomer's in Fountain Valley, driving a go kart, then going to eat at Po Folks in Buena Park, then to Downtown Disney; or, better yet, like my birthday, spent at Downtown Disney, then some time at Buena Park Downtown, happily picking through the heavily discounted stacks of books at that temporary, makeshift liquidation bookstore, and then going to Po Folks. Or, that day the 8th graders of Dad's middle school went to Disneyland, and Mom, Meridith and I went along with him. That day with that perfect article in The New Yorker about that university archivist of various authors' things and manuscripts, and that short story by Junot Diaz, both carrying me to the bus parking lot at Disneyland.
I want my writing to satisfy me like those days. I want to sit in front of this computer and feel like I'm doing any of those things. I want better days. I don't want to waste them anymore, like I have already.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, But It Might As Well Be Friday
It started as soon as Dad got home from work, 4:53 p.m., 7 minutes before he had an online meeting related to the online school he works for. He didn't hear what Mom was saying, claiming he was doing five things at once. He wasn't. He logged onto whatever program is used for the meeting, got a sheet of printer paper and folded it to write down notes, and a black pen was right against the base of the computer monitor. I don't remember what Mom was trying to talk to him about, whether it had been the arrival of the bird cage she had been waiting a while for, or the frustration she'd had a few days ago in Petsmart not really caring whether the cage box they sent had arrived. I wasn't listening to that part; I think I was close to my room, thinking about watching the rest of Sondheim: A Celebration at Carnegie Hall. But, there was my dad, as usual, not admitting that he hadn't heard her, not apologizing for it, not explaining to her that he was doing something which precluded him from hearing her for the moment. Familiar territory for me; familiar since the age of 3.
It's hard to respect my father when he doesn't take responsibility for what he clearly did. His not hearing Mom led to a small tiff that stopped until the meeting was over. Actually, not many words were said afterward, but there was the familiar chill in the house of the two not talking. Mom had warned him after the last fight that once more and she was done. "Done" has always been a mysterious word. Does it mean divorce? I'm not sure how that could go because she doesn't work because she's semi-disabled, she doesn't drive, and what would be the destination in this economy? Done? Does that mean she's not talking to him for a while, yet remaining here? And Dad didn't even acknowledge what he had done afterward, didn't even see how ridiculous it was. How hard is it to listen to someone? I remember hearing them argue early one morning not too long ago. I think it was on Veteran's Day when he had the day off. He suddenly charged into action, suddenly adopting an interest in the bird cages she was putting together, asking questions about them. It's such a fake interest. He doesn't care about those. It's always been obvious. They merit nothing more than a cursory glance. And that's not so bad. It's not his fake interest that gets me, but his lack of doing anything to try to make up for what he did.
Today, after he and Mom traded the usual poisonous words that I've heard for years, he stayed in their bedroom past 7 p.m., and then brought his laptop out to the dining room. He honestly pays more attention to that than he does to Mom. And then later, after Meridith, Mom and I had had dinner, he brought it back out again, towards 8:30 p.m. A few more things to check on, no doubt, the same few more things every evening. He walked right past Mom, didn't try to repair the rift, didn't take responsibility for what he did. She quieted down, he was his usual stony self. That would have normally sufficed for me when I was growing up, relief enough that they had stopped fighting, at least for a few moments, but now, I despise what he does. If she quiets down, he believes the fight to be over and that's that. If the fight's over, then it's time to move on. But he's been doing this for their entire marriage. They've been married for 26 years, I've been around for 23 of those years.
Their story is complicated, parts still not entirely clear, yet every time they fight, I think about two things: First, the worry about how this particular fight will end. Will life go on or will our lives endure such an emotional earthquake that after it's over, we won't be sure yet what has changed?
(Right now, I'm watching one of the worst episodes of "Roseanne," toward the end of its run, with Roseanne and Dan trying to repair their damaged marriage. John Goodman's got the Walter Sobchak beard and haircut, because he had been filming The Big Lebowski, and it looks like he still had more filming to do.)
The second thing I think about is what I can use from their marriage for my own benefit? What could become a short story, a play, a set of essays? The first time I was aware of some kind of gaping hole in the marriage that could not possibly be fixed was at three years old, at night, on the way back to our apartment in Sanford, near Orlando. I remember that my room had a paper shade that covered the window when I was put down for an afternoon nap. I also had a glass night table with a lamp.
That night, Dad got stopped for speeding. The officer wrote the ticket, handed it to him with his license and registration, and we went home. I was put to bed, and I heard faint arguing. (There was good insulation in the walls of that apartment.) I knew it was Mom and Dad, obviously, but I wasn't sure of the reason or the context, or that this would go on for years after. Little did I know that it had gone on before I was born too, like when their wedding money went toward paying Dad's credit card bills and other bills, bills that I think he lied to her about. Arguments over his parents, my grandparents (though Grandpa is long decased), arguments over his uncaring attitude, which as you've read already, still lasts to this day. And of course, I'm going to go to bed toward 6 a.m., his bedside alarm is going to go off, he's going to turn on the TV, and god knows if I'll be able to get to sleep right away because if she wakes up, that's it. The argument will continue, starting small and then growing. I can't sleep then, not because it bothers me so (it still does, just not like when I was 11 and the back of my neck would have a burning feeling whenever they fought), but because that's too much noise. I wish my subconscious would not sense it when I'm sleeping and jolt me awake to hear the latest, as it was during the fight before this one.
To be honest, I felt like writing more. I felt like documenting all the fights I've heard, which must rise to a number no one should count. I remember the fights in Coral Springs, including one in which she nearly walked out on Dad with my sister and I and suitcases in tow. I remember the fights in Grand Palms and the fights years later about Grand Palms, how we had to climb a set of stairs after we opened the door, to get to our condominium floor. Not good for her weak legs, and her anger about that was understandable, her firm belief that Dad didn't care, that he'd move anywhere. There's a lot of that in the many stories I could tell. There was the huge, roaring fight on the day of Reagan's funeral, and I alternately watched the hearse drive down the freeway near his library, with people standing on the overpass, and went to the bathroom in their bedroom (where I was watching the proceedings), feeling sick, my mouth dry, not able to feel better, not with the rage going on in the living room. It's never been physical, just verbal.
It should be known right here that I'm not fishing for anything. Not encouraging words, not stories from those who could relate to me, not any of that. For a time, I tried to figure out exactly what makes them stay together, and I guess for Mom, it's necessity. What else is she to do, at least right now? For Dad, I don't know. I'm not sure I care anymore. Maybe there's a story in all of this to use on my own, maybe there isn't. I don't know. I ought to find something just so it's not only been harrowing to witness sometimes.
Usually, the fight begins on Friday. Dad comes home, he's stressed from the week that just finished, and something triggers the argument which lasts into the weekend, unless they go out at some point and can't continue to snipe at one another in public. I guess this is close enough to Friday.
Geez, I should lighten up the next time I stop by. It's hard when you're uncertain yet again of what the future is, when you're not settled into what you hope will be the next, and best, phase of your life. If this had happened while we lived in Las Vegas, at least I'd have some foundation on which to steady myself. Right now, I want to stretch each hour of this day into their own days, so I can wrap each one around me. Hopefully tomorrow gets better, but I'm not sure how much better. But at least there's the books from the library, that Sondheim DVD, the remake of The Taking of Pelham 123, and whatever else I can think of watching. So at least there'll be a bit of something good.
It's hard to respect my father when he doesn't take responsibility for what he clearly did. His not hearing Mom led to a small tiff that stopped until the meeting was over. Actually, not many words were said afterward, but there was the familiar chill in the house of the two not talking. Mom had warned him after the last fight that once more and she was done. "Done" has always been a mysterious word. Does it mean divorce? I'm not sure how that could go because she doesn't work because she's semi-disabled, she doesn't drive, and what would be the destination in this economy? Done? Does that mean she's not talking to him for a while, yet remaining here? And Dad didn't even acknowledge what he had done afterward, didn't even see how ridiculous it was. How hard is it to listen to someone? I remember hearing them argue early one morning not too long ago. I think it was on Veteran's Day when he had the day off. He suddenly charged into action, suddenly adopting an interest in the bird cages she was putting together, asking questions about them. It's such a fake interest. He doesn't care about those. It's always been obvious. They merit nothing more than a cursory glance. And that's not so bad. It's not his fake interest that gets me, but his lack of doing anything to try to make up for what he did.
Today, after he and Mom traded the usual poisonous words that I've heard for years, he stayed in their bedroom past 7 p.m., and then brought his laptop out to the dining room. He honestly pays more attention to that than he does to Mom. And then later, after Meridith, Mom and I had had dinner, he brought it back out again, towards 8:30 p.m. A few more things to check on, no doubt, the same few more things every evening. He walked right past Mom, didn't try to repair the rift, didn't take responsibility for what he did. She quieted down, he was his usual stony self. That would have normally sufficed for me when I was growing up, relief enough that they had stopped fighting, at least for a few moments, but now, I despise what he does. If she quiets down, he believes the fight to be over and that's that. If the fight's over, then it's time to move on. But he's been doing this for their entire marriage. They've been married for 26 years, I've been around for 23 of those years.
Their story is complicated, parts still not entirely clear, yet every time they fight, I think about two things: First, the worry about how this particular fight will end. Will life go on or will our lives endure such an emotional earthquake that after it's over, we won't be sure yet what has changed?
(Right now, I'm watching one of the worst episodes of "Roseanne," toward the end of its run, with Roseanne and Dan trying to repair their damaged marriage. John Goodman's got the Walter Sobchak beard and haircut, because he had been filming The Big Lebowski, and it looks like he still had more filming to do.)
The second thing I think about is what I can use from their marriage for my own benefit? What could become a short story, a play, a set of essays? The first time I was aware of some kind of gaping hole in the marriage that could not possibly be fixed was at three years old, at night, on the way back to our apartment in Sanford, near Orlando. I remember that my room had a paper shade that covered the window when I was put down for an afternoon nap. I also had a glass night table with a lamp.
That night, Dad got stopped for speeding. The officer wrote the ticket, handed it to him with his license and registration, and we went home. I was put to bed, and I heard faint arguing. (There was good insulation in the walls of that apartment.) I knew it was Mom and Dad, obviously, but I wasn't sure of the reason or the context, or that this would go on for years after. Little did I know that it had gone on before I was born too, like when their wedding money went toward paying Dad's credit card bills and other bills, bills that I think he lied to her about. Arguments over his parents, my grandparents (though Grandpa is long decased), arguments over his uncaring attitude, which as you've read already, still lasts to this day. And of course, I'm going to go to bed toward 6 a.m., his bedside alarm is going to go off, he's going to turn on the TV, and god knows if I'll be able to get to sleep right away because if she wakes up, that's it. The argument will continue, starting small and then growing. I can't sleep then, not because it bothers me so (it still does, just not like when I was 11 and the back of my neck would have a burning feeling whenever they fought), but because that's too much noise. I wish my subconscious would not sense it when I'm sleeping and jolt me awake to hear the latest, as it was during the fight before this one.
To be honest, I felt like writing more. I felt like documenting all the fights I've heard, which must rise to a number no one should count. I remember the fights in Coral Springs, including one in which she nearly walked out on Dad with my sister and I and suitcases in tow. I remember the fights in Grand Palms and the fights years later about Grand Palms, how we had to climb a set of stairs after we opened the door, to get to our condominium floor. Not good for her weak legs, and her anger about that was understandable, her firm belief that Dad didn't care, that he'd move anywhere. There's a lot of that in the many stories I could tell. There was the huge, roaring fight on the day of Reagan's funeral, and I alternately watched the hearse drive down the freeway near his library, with people standing on the overpass, and went to the bathroom in their bedroom (where I was watching the proceedings), feeling sick, my mouth dry, not able to feel better, not with the rage going on in the living room. It's never been physical, just verbal.
It should be known right here that I'm not fishing for anything. Not encouraging words, not stories from those who could relate to me, not any of that. For a time, I tried to figure out exactly what makes them stay together, and I guess for Mom, it's necessity. What else is she to do, at least right now? For Dad, I don't know. I'm not sure I care anymore. Maybe there's a story in all of this to use on my own, maybe there isn't. I don't know. I ought to find something just so it's not only been harrowing to witness sometimes.
Usually, the fight begins on Friday. Dad comes home, he's stressed from the week that just finished, and something triggers the argument which lasts into the weekend, unless they go out at some point and can't continue to snipe at one another in public. I guess this is close enough to Friday.
Geez, I should lighten up the next time I stop by. It's hard when you're uncertain yet again of what the future is, when you're not settled into what you hope will be the next, and best, phase of your life. If this had happened while we lived in Las Vegas, at least I'd have some foundation on which to steady myself. Right now, I want to stretch each hour of this day into their own days, so I can wrap each one around me. Hopefully tomorrow gets better, but I'm not sure how much better. But at least there's the books from the library, that Sondheim DVD, the remake of The Taking of Pelham 123, and whatever else I can think of watching. So at least there'll be a bit of something good.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Home? Not Right Now.
My bookcases are 5-year-old moving boxes, with stacks of books in the front of each, and unfortunately unseen stacks of books behind. I know what books make up those invisible stacks, but I want to see them all. The many works of Charles Bukowski should not be hidden at all. It's impossible not only to rearrange without spending half a day at it, but also to make sure that the box used does not succumb to the forces of gravity, books sliding down to the carpet, as two do, the two nearest to my widescreen TV.
During the recent abominable episode of Saturday Night Live hosted by January Jones, I upturned the wide, canoe-shaped blue container we use to put newspapers in to eventually dump into the recycling bin in the garage, and used it as a table for bowls of cheese sauce and salsa for tortilla chips during the show, for me and my sister. We haven't had a coffee table ever since we moved here from South Florida. We didn't take our old one with us. No room. If I had had a craving for chips and salsa in the old apartment in Valencia, the island in the middle of the kitchen would have been suitable for usage, but not for location. Too far from the TV in the living room.
I have two framed prints by Chris Consani of Humphrey Bogart, Elvis Presley, James Dean, and Marilyn Monroe sitting on the aisle of a carpeted movie theater, and at a bar, with Dean behind the counter, Bogart looking up from a newspaper, and Elvis checking out Monroe's rear, which is clad tightly in a pink dress. I think I got those prints not long after we moved here in Saugus, and they've been sitting in big white bag ever since. In fact, the only reason I'm pressing ahead with this book project despite fading interest is so when I eventually hang these pictures on walls new to me, I don't have to feel ashamed every time I look at them. Monroe and Dean are two of the names I'm writing about in this book. But there is good news for both of their essays. My introduction in the essay on Dean is three pages, should probably be less, and there's not a proper connector yet from the experience of not making a whole lot of lasting decisions at Universal CityWalk, to Dean's life. But at least there's something there. For the Monroe essay, I figured out how to write it, with hopefully the guy I need to talk to giving me enough information about the yearly memorial he holds for Monroe in Westwood. I'm hoping the history of her life was discussed at the most recent memorial, so I can put bits of that into the essay and move on.
Anyway, this current place was never meant to be permanent. Mom never liked it, and it wasn't worth putting holes in the wall to hang up pictures that may have been taken down in a few years to be moved elsewhere. Permanent is the word I seek now in my life.
I'm holding off on a new bed until we finally make it to Las Vegas. I need it, but the less to move with, the better. I can't wait for the day when I feel what a bed is supposed to feel like.
There's a lot we all have denied ourselves these past six years. The apartment and this place are too small for so much. The couch in the living room used to be in the living room of my dad's uncle's house. At first, it smelled of dog piss (his dog spent a lot of time on the couch), but the smell eventually faded and we keep a bed sheet tucked into the couch, on top of the cushions, a bed sheet we don't use anymore but which is clean enough for this purpose.
I miss having a desk. I'm not sure how far my old one traveled. I know I had it when we lived in Coral Springs (Florida, of course), and it was in a corner of my room in Pembroke Pines, under the window overlooking our front walkway, right next to my closet. (Oh, a closet. One of those too, please. A bigger one.) But I don't remember if I had it when we lived in Casselberry. I do know that I grew too big for it. I think by now, I would look like Alice trapped in that house after she grew inside it. The chair would be exactly that small.
As it has been since the first day here, my bed is my workspace as well as my sleeping space. It has not been a fruitful arrangement, but it must continue until we're settled in Nevada. A bed will be the first thing I get. A desk will be the second. I need a thinking space badly. I don't want an outrageously expensive desk, with glass paneling on cabinets below, but sturdy enough, and a chair comfortable enough.
All of that leads to this: I want to be home already. I want to know that where I am is where I belong, not just biding time until we're off to wherever we have to go to next. We moved around Florida enough times, and we had lived in the apartment a year before we moved to Saugus.
I don't necessarily fear what's to come. I've been through a lot already in moving. My family and I traveled for five days from South Florida to Southern California, and the only time I saw the state capitol building in Tallahassee was when we were on our way out. I'm concerned, of course. It's a lot of work again, though thankfully, it'll only be four hours or so from here to Las Vegas, not the five days and the nightly stays in hotels that accepted pets. Our last stop before Santa Clarita was Blythe, in a motel room so dirty, so grimy, that we all slept in our clothes. Meridith turned on the showerhead and four dead bees fell out of it. I feel like those bees, only in that I feel that stiff here. During the last year, it's been a kind of damaging inertia. There's the book, but I don't feel like I've really done anything truly worthwhile this entire year, truly fulfilling.
You know, these thoughts of Vegas have been going on for two years, ever since I came upon a job listing for a writer at the Las Vegas Sun on journalismjobs.com and thought that might be my way in to getting to where I wanted to be, as a film critic somewhere. Mom heard about it and was immediately gung-ho about Vegas, at 2 a.m. Not only about that potential job, but about all that Vegas offers. More to do there than there ever will be here. I had many pairs of pants to put in the wash this past weekend and in checking the pockets of each, I pulled a ticket out of one of the pockets of my formal black pants, a ticket for "Mamma Mia!" at Mandalay Bay, from September 28, 2008, still in the same condition as when I had it that night. So it's been over a year since we were in Vegas.
We'll have to pack again, we'll have to re-organize ourselves when we get there, we'll have to be sure the pets are ok while we're driving there (two dogs and three finches), oh yes, and actually finding somewhere to live, which we haven't done yet because no one's called my dad about a business education teaching job for him. He still has applications to finish for online schools, so it'll still be a while. But I do feel at home there. And I can't live through another season of Santa Ana winds. I can't stand that nervous feeling in my stomach when those winds essentially become all I think about, waiting for when they're supposed to die down. I never got used to it like the denizens of this valley obviously are. Yesterday, a wildfire flared up east of San Juan Capistrano, one of my favorite places in Southern California that I almost seriously thought about living in if we had become lasting residents. According to the L.A. Times website, the fire reached 250 acres, but at 10:04 p.m., was 75% contained, with full containment expected today. That's fine. But I can't stand worrying about that at this time of year. Evacuating once in October 2007 was hard enough. I don't always want to know what time of the year it is. I want September to quietly slide into October. I know that the summer temperatures in Las Vegas are reasons for hibernation in arctic air conditioning until September. I can live with that, but I can't live with the threat that these usually hot, dry winds can cause major risk to my house. We live across from a not-heavily brush-covered hill, but you can see the age of the brush. There was rain a few weeks ago and somewhat of a sprinkle last week, not enough to turn anything green, but this brush is brown and gray. I can't wait to live on flatlands again, like I did in Florida. I think that's what first showed me that Las Vegas could be home. That, and being introduced to Vegas food by way of the Carnegie Deli and their monolith-tall sandwiches.
The Santa Clarita Valley is someone's home. I know that. They can easily live here. I don't know how, but I'm not going to smirk and laugh at their belief that this is home. They have a rhythm here, a comfortable pattern, and many things that drive their daily existence that they feel could only be fulfilled here. I want to find what they have and embrace it for myself. It's not going to be right now, it may not even be for the next few months. But I know my chance will finally come, to know a place intimately and feel that it's mine. I could never get tired of Las Vegas, not with all it offers for a writer in just a day. I know it could work.
During the recent abominable episode of Saturday Night Live hosted by January Jones, I upturned the wide, canoe-shaped blue container we use to put newspapers in to eventually dump into the recycling bin in the garage, and used it as a table for bowls of cheese sauce and salsa for tortilla chips during the show, for me and my sister. We haven't had a coffee table ever since we moved here from South Florida. We didn't take our old one with us. No room. If I had had a craving for chips and salsa in the old apartment in Valencia, the island in the middle of the kitchen would have been suitable for usage, but not for location. Too far from the TV in the living room.
I have two framed prints by Chris Consani of Humphrey Bogart, Elvis Presley, James Dean, and Marilyn Monroe sitting on the aisle of a carpeted movie theater, and at a bar, with Dean behind the counter, Bogart looking up from a newspaper, and Elvis checking out Monroe's rear, which is clad tightly in a pink dress. I think I got those prints not long after we moved here in Saugus, and they've been sitting in big white bag ever since. In fact, the only reason I'm pressing ahead with this book project despite fading interest is so when I eventually hang these pictures on walls new to me, I don't have to feel ashamed every time I look at them. Monroe and Dean are two of the names I'm writing about in this book. But there is good news for both of their essays. My introduction in the essay on Dean is three pages, should probably be less, and there's not a proper connector yet from the experience of not making a whole lot of lasting decisions at Universal CityWalk, to Dean's life. But at least there's something there. For the Monroe essay, I figured out how to write it, with hopefully the guy I need to talk to giving me enough information about the yearly memorial he holds for Monroe in Westwood. I'm hoping the history of her life was discussed at the most recent memorial, so I can put bits of that into the essay and move on.
Anyway, this current place was never meant to be permanent. Mom never liked it, and it wasn't worth putting holes in the wall to hang up pictures that may have been taken down in a few years to be moved elsewhere. Permanent is the word I seek now in my life.
I'm holding off on a new bed until we finally make it to Las Vegas. I need it, but the less to move with, the better. I can't wait for the day when I feel what a bed is supposed to feel like.
There's a lot we all have denied ourselves these past six years. The apartment and this place are too small for so much. The couch in the living room used to be in the living room of my dad's uncle's house. At first, it smelled of dog piss (his dog spent a lot of time on the couch), but the smell eventually faded and we keep a bed sheet tucked into the couch, on top of the cushions, a bed sheet we don't use anymore but which is clean enough for this purpose.
I miss having a desk. I'm not sure how far my old one traveled. I know I had it when we lived in Coral Springs (Florida, of course), and it was in a corner of my room in Pembroke Pines, under the window overlooking our front walkway, right next to my closet. (Oh, a closet. One of those too, please. A bigger one.) But I don't remember if I had it when we lived in Casselberry. I do know that I grew too big for it. I think by now, I would look like Alice trapped in that house after she grew inside it. The chair would be exactly that small.
As it has been since the first day here, my bed is my workspace as well as my sleeping space. It has not been a fruitful arrangement, but it must continue until we're settled in Nevada. A bed will be the first thing I get. A desk will be the second. I need a thinking space badly. I don't want an outrageously expensive desk, with glass paneling on cabinets below, but sturdy enough, and a chair comfortable enough.
All of that leads to this: I want to be home already. I want to know that where I am is where I belong, not just biding time until we're off to wherever we have to go to next. We moved around Florida enough times, and we had lived in the apartment a year before we moved to Saugus.
I don't necessarily fear what's to come. I've been through a lot already in moving. My family and I traveled for five days from South Florida to Southern California, and the only time I saw the state capitol building in Tallahassee was when we were on our way out. I'm concerned, of course. It's a lot of work again, though thankfully, it'll only be four hours or so from here to Las Vegas, not the five days and the nightly stays in hotels that accepted pets. Our last stop before Santa Clarita was Blythe, in a motel room so dirty, so grimy, that we all slept in our clothes. Meridith turned on the showerhead and four dead bees fell out of it. I feel like those bees, only in that I feel that stiff here. During the last year, it's been a kind of damaging inertia. There's the book, but I don't feel like I've really done anything truly worthwhile this entire year, truly fulfilling.
You know, these thoughts of Vegas have been going on for two years, ever since I came upon a job listing for a writer at the Las Vegas Sun on journalismjobs.com and thought that might be my way in to getting to where I wanted to be, as a film critic somewhere. Mom heard about it and was immediately gung-ho about Vegas, at 2 a.m. Not only about that potential job, but about all that Vegas offers. More to do there than there ever will be here. I had many pairs of pants to put in the wash this past weekend and in checking the pockets of each, I pulled a ticket out of one of the pockets of my formal black pants, a ticket for "Mamma Mia!" at Mandalay Bay, from September 28, 2008, still in the same condition as when I had it that night. So it's been over a year since we were in Vegas.
We'll have to pack again, we'll have to re-organize ourselves when we get there, we'll have to be sure the pets are ok while we're driving there (two dogs and three finches), oh yes, and actually finding somewhere to live, which we haven't done yet because no one's called my dad about a business education teaching job for him. He still has applications to finish for online schools, so it'll still be a while. But I do feel at home there. And I can't live through another season of Santa Ana winds. I can't stand that nervous feeling in my stomach when those winds essentially become all I think about, waiting for when they're supposed to die down. I never got used to it like the denizens of this valley obviously are. Yesterday, a wildfire flared up east of San Juan Capistrano, one of my favorite places in Southern California that I almost seriously thought about living in if we had become lasting residents. According to the L.A. Times website, the fire reached 250 acres, but at 10:04 p.m., was 75% contained, with full containment expected today. That's fine. But I can't stand worrying about that at this time of year. Evacuating once in October 2007 was hard enough. I don't always want to know what time of the year it is. I want September to quietly slide into October. I know that the summer temperatures in Las Vegas are reasons for hibernation in arctic air conditioning until September. I can live with that, but I can't live with the threat that these usually hot, dry winds can cause major risk to my house. We live across from a not-heavily brush-covered hill, but you can see the age of the brush. There was rain a few weeks ago and somewhat of a sprinkle last week, not enough to turn anything green, but this brush is brown and gray. I can't wait to live on flatlands again, like I did in Florida. I think that's what first showed me that Las Vegas could be home. That, and being introduced to Vegas food by way of the Carnegie Deli and their monolith-tall sandwiches.
The Santa Clarita Valley is someone's home. I know that. They can easily live here. I don't know how, but I'm not going to smirk and laugh at their belief that this is home. They have a rhythm here, a comfortable pattern, and many things that drive their daily existence that they feel could only be fulfilled here. I want to find what they have and embrace it for myself. It's not going to be right now, it may not even be for the next few months. But I know my chance will finally come, to know a place intimately and feel that it's mine. I could never get tired of Las Vegas, not with all it offers for a writer in just a day. I know it could work.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
It Wasn't My Mall That Often, But It's Not My Mall Anymore
A stomach ache from an excessive love of pumpkin egg nog (from Mountain Dairy, a division of Inter-American Products in Cincinnati, Ohio, which is crap in making regular egg nog, but they somehow improved the recipe when adding pumpkin flavor) led to sitting in the bathroom for a few minutes and got me thinking about security at the Buena Park Mall, and how you don't really see any security personnel there, but it's implied. You're just vaguely aware. In a previous entry, I pegged the mall as drab and dreary. It has a strong backbone, because clearly the buildings that make up this mall have likely been around for more than my six years in Southern California. It's actually called Buena Park Downtown, but it feels more like a mall, though the antithesis to what you'd expect a mall to be. It's honest to its area. It's owned by Developers Diversified Realty, which began in 1965, and it shows. The company also owns Paseo Colorado in Pasadena, which I also previously mentioned, and it's a whiplash-difference from Buena Park Downtown. Paseo Colorado is airy, and a little smug, with high-end outlets, a movie theater, a Gelson's (the ultimate in supermarket shopping that could make you bankrupt, if you were that reckless), and the feeling that if your brain isn't made up of barely regenerating soap bubbles, then there are parts of it you shouldn't bother with.
Developers Diversified Realty knows its areas. It really knows. Paseo Colorado takes in the atmosphere from what surrounds it, and so does Buena Park Downtown. I just found on the DDR website that the Buena Park Downtown property was acquired in 2004. So it had a previous owner. Here's a better way of putting it: It's the Eeyore of shopping malls. If not for the pinned-on tail, which in this case is such anchor stores as Wal-Mart, Bed, Bath & Beyond, and Kohl's, you get the feeling this mall would kill itself.
Maybe that's a little extreme. I could call it battle-hardened, but what battle? Just the passage of ownership, really. There are some dimly-lit parts in it, and it's not so much a leave-me-alone feeling as a leaving-you-alone feeling. When I enthusiastically perused that liquidation bookstore on my birthday, I wasn't aware of any other part of the mall. I wasn't thinking about Wal-Mart, or the tiny food court, or the store that sells all kinds of work uniforms on the first floor. If you went to Wal-Mart, you wouldn't think of any other part of the mall. Same goes for the work-uniform store.
Ontario Mills is the complete opposite. It's in the round. Pick a point to start at in this mall and you'll end exactly at that point. The Simon Property Group owns it, but I don't think it owned Sawgrass Mills in Sawgrass, Florida when I was growing up in South Florida. There was never that much detail to Sawgrass Mills beyond the huge multi-light metal blimp frame in one of the food courts, and a model airplane flying above on a track in the other food court, the Hurricane Food Court. I don't know what it's like now, haven't known since we left Florida, but I'm sure they put a lot more into it than there was before.
The Simon Property Group also knows its locations, though more subtly than Developers Diversified Realty. You drive through Buena Park, noticing the gloom; you pull into one of the parking lots at Buena Park Downtown, and the feeling continues without interruption. With Ontario Mills, you have to look around a little more, notice many more details. This part of Ontario is where people pass through. They never stay for long. And I'm sure there are those like me and my family who come from other valleys to shop there because our own mall is crap. Or at least we used to. It won't be long before I get to that.
There's a Hooters near Ontario Mills. Right across the street is a Chick-Fil-A, and near that is the fast food pasta chain Fazoli's, which has the best greasy garlic breadsticks. Right across from one of the mall's parking lots is a Hampton Inn, which I'm familiar with from a night's stay in Louisiana when my family and I were moving cross-country from South Florida to Southern California in five days, with two dogs and a bird. As I'm writing this, I'm scrolling through the Louisiana listings on the Hampton website, trying to figure out which Hampton Inn it was, and I think it might have been in Covington. I'm only sure that we unfortunately didn't have time or the ability (because of the pets) for a detour in New Orleans. This was in August 2003, two years before Hurricane Katrina.
Anyway, you gradually get the sense of Ontario Mills being for people who either don't live in the area or don't intend to stay long. I imagine the mall has regulars, but walking inside, it's hard to believe that it would. Not that it looks bad, but over time, there has been less and less reason to go there as often. We used to, years ago, when Steve & Barry's was there, as well as Fozzy's, a great discount bookstore, and Virgin Megastore. I can't find a website for Fozzy's, so I guess it went out of business completely. The Virgin Megastore closed along with many other locations, including Times Square in New York City. Steve & Barry's closed because it crash-dived into debt and it was revealed that the company hadn't paid its suppliers for some time. But Steve & Barry's was great for pop culture t-shirts. I have seven "M*A*S*H" shirts from them, as well as three related to "The Princess Bride" (one with Inigo Montoya, one with Fezzik, and one with Vizzini), one "Cheez-Its" shirt, and a few others I can't remember right now, only that they're stuffed in my closet. I think, if the t-shirts in my closet hold for many years, I may have a collection that rivals Bruce Vilanch's.
I never warmed to the Valencia Town Center Mall in this valley. It's good for the movies at Edwards Valencia 12 once in a great while, but I think I lost interest in it after the bookstore closed, after I happily took part in their 70% off closing sale. When I am there, I go to Hot Topic to see what pop culture t-shirts they have, but that's all I can find to do. There are other clothing stores, but it gets very boring very quickly.
Those many years ago, I liked knowing that all my interests lay in one mall. I looked forward to going to Ontario Mills. I'm not one for going out often, but I was always ready when it was suggested. It's appropriate anyway that we don't go there now. Because of likely pending trips to Las Vegas to see about a new house once my dad's hired by whomever will hire him to teach business education, he and mom are keeping close watch on the mileage on the PT Cruiser and we definitely don't go as far as Ontario anymore. It's funny, though. It feels like everything is closing up. I don't have a regular interest in Mountasia or Six Flags Magic Mountain anymore. I can't think of anything I'd want to do at the mall. The only thing regular in this valley is the Valencia library, which I go to every Sunday for book returns and pick-ups. Last Saturday, we went to Woodland Hills to Fry's, so I could look for new headphones (found them and "The Pajama Game" on DVD), Best Buy, PetSmart, HomeGoods, Henry's Farmer's Market, and Jerry's Deli. A typical Saturday full of errands and eats, but we had to go outside the valley to find what we needed. The Santa Clarita Valley has never had a great deal of anything to offer, and yet I hear from my dad about people who live in this valley who have never left this valley, not even for the day. I can't understand how they manage that, but apparently they do.
About two or three weeks ago, my sister wanted the final issue of Gourmet magazine. We couldn't find it at a Wal-Mart in Palmdale (as if they cook like that in Palmdale), so we went to Valencia Cigars & News. It's a sizable, impressive indoor newsstand, stocked with every possible interest humanity could have. Civil War magazines, photography magazines, international magazines, gossip magazines, and of course, porn, in print and on DVD. There's a separate section for that with a sign on one of the swinging double doors that says, "If you spend more than 5 minutes looking, we'd appreciate a purchase." Meridith found the final issue, and I found The Atlantic Fiction 2009 special issue. It seized me because of a piece in there by Southern writer Jill McCorkle. The cover price was $5.99, but the guy at the counter keyed in $3.99. If he thought the "5" was a "3", bless him. I would have paid $5.99 anyway, but a discount on top of potential pleasure is always nice.
I haven't been back to the newsstand since, but I think often of all the magazines in there, all the parts of the world from which they come, amused by those Civil War magazines being stocked for someone. I don't think they'd be stocked otherwise. I'm continually amused by that because a drive around this valley, or at least one that lasts six years, a visit to many places around this valley, and you can't imagine anyone interested in history beyond their most recent happenings.
That newsstand is also symbolic of me looking outward. The Atlantic in general comes from Maryland. I spotted a few publications entirely in French. I think every day about Las Vegas, about the history I've yet to study and want to, about where I haven't been yet on the Strip and off, about where my place might be in that vast desert landscape. Years before, I wasn't thinking about Florida or any other state beyond those locations I saw in the independent films I reviewed (the truly independent ones, without distribution deals of any kind). I was trying to get used to the Santa Clarita Valley, trying to live in it as strongly as I could while my mom objected every day to living here, while she and dad fought terribly in barbed words about living here, about how he just moved us here without any consideration to what we wanted, about how much she hated every square inch of it, about, about, about. Is the newsstand also a sign that we will eventually depart? Eventually. I figured it out about a week ago during the night. With the exception of an almost immediate move to Sunrise, Florida soon after I was born, we've lived in Casselberry, Coral Springs, Pembroke Pines (all Florida), and the Santa Clarita Valley for 5-6 years each. I'd like to reach 10 years somewhere.
I think when you fully live somewhere, when you're aware of everything around you, when you know exactly what intersections are the worst at certain times of the day, when you find some pleasures in various things in your area, you belong. For me, it's been more about awareness than love of a place. I was aware of nearly every part of this valley, I knew where the places essential to my life were, I knew the intersections. But that was more like a crescendo as the third, fourth and fifth year came and went. Now it's faded. I've never felt like I belonged here, but I've appreciated the daily resources. I could not live anywhere without a steady supply of library books.
The newsstand and the library. That's all I really care about in this valley now. There's Ralph's, there's Trader Joe's, there's the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, there's Von's occasionally, but those are to be expected. Cereal, bread, deli, bottled water, fruit, vegetables, frozen dinners, meat, it's an errand. If those cover letters and resumes my dad sent out bring something hopeful to us, then this will be a proper transition to Las Vegas. To begin to care greatly about a future home (I already do, but I suspect not to the degree that one would from actually being there), you have to power down from what you currently know. With this, and the coming rains in winter (which I like more than the Santa Ana winds, though I don't mind those if there's rain included), it will be a transition calmer than when we thought we would move. During those times, I think we would have been leaving abruptly, without a good chunk of time to properly look for somewhere to live. Another apartment was considered. I think we'll do well now in getting there if this next year turns out to be the year.
Developers Diversified Realty knows its areas. It really knows. Paseo Colorado takes in the atmosphere from what surrounds it, and so does Buena Park Downtown. I just found on the DDR website that the Buena Park Downtown property was acquired in 2004. So it had a previous owner. Here's a better way of putting it: It's the Eeyore of shopping malls. If not for the pinned-on tail, which in this case is such anchor stores as Wal-Mart, Bed, Bath & Beyond, and Kohl's, you get the feeling this mall would kill itself.
Maybe that's a little extreme. I could call it battle-hardened, but what battle? Just the passage of ownership, really. There are some dimly-lit parts in it, and it's not so much a leave-me-alone feeling as a leaving-you-alone feeling. When I enthusiastically perused that liquidation bookstore on my birthday, I wasn't aware of any other part of the mall. I wasn't thinking about Wal-Mart, or the tiny food court, or the store that sells all kinds of work uniforms on the first floor. If you went to Wal-Mart, you wouldn't think of any other part of the mall. Same goes for the work-uniform store.
Ontario Mills is the complete opposite. It's in the round. Pick a point to start at in this mall and you'll end exactly at that point. The Simon Property Group owns it, but I don't think it owned Sawgrass Mills in Sawgrass, Florida when I was growing up in South Florida. There was never that much detail to Sawgrass Mills beyond the huge multi-light metal blimp frame in one of the food courts, and a model airplane flying above on a track in the other food court, the Hurricane Food Court. I don't know what it's like now, haven't known since we left Florida, but I'm sure they put a lot more into it than there was before.
The Simon Property Group also knows its locations, though more subtly than Developers Diversified Realty. You drive through Buena Park, noticing the gloom; you pull into one of the parking lots at Buena Park Downtown, and the feeling continues without interruption. With Ontario Mills, you have to look around a little more, notice many more details. This part of Ontario is where people pass through. They never stay for long. And I'm sure there are those like me and my family who come from other valleys to shop there because our own mall is crap. Or at least we used to. It won't be long before I get to that.
There's a Hooters near Ontario Mills. Right across the street is a Chick-Fil-A, and near that is the fast food pasta chain Fazoli's, which has the best greasy garlic breadsticks. Right across from one of the mall's parking lots is a Hampton Inn, which I'm familiar with from a night's stay in Louisiana when my family and I were moving cross-country from South Florida to Southern California in five days, with two dogs and a bird. As I'm writing this, I'm scrolling through the Louisiana listings on the Hampton website, trying to figure out which Hampton Inn it was, and I think it might have been in Covington. I'm only sure that we unfortunately didn't have time or the ability (because of the pets) for a detour in New Orleans. This was in August 2003, two years before Hurricane Katrina.
Anyway, you gradually get the sense of Ontario Mills being for people who either don't live in the area or don't intend to stay long. I imagine the mall has regulars, but walking inside, it's hard to believe that it would. Not that it looks bad, but over time, there has been less and less reason to go there as often. We used to, years ago, when Steve & Barry's was there, as well as Fozzy's, a great discount bookstore, and Virgin Megastore. I can't find a website for Fozzy's, so I guess it went out of business completely. The Virgin Megastore closed along with many other locations, including Times Square in New York City. Steve & Barry's closed because it crash-dived into debt and it was revealed that the company hadn't paid its suppliers for some time. But Steve & Barry's was great for pop culture t-shirts. I have seven "M*A*S*H" shirts from them, as well as three related to "The Princess Bride" (one with Inigo Montoya, one with Fezzik, and one with Vizzini), one "Cheez-Its" shirt, and a few others I can't remember right now, only that they're stuffed in my closet. I think, if the t-shirts in my closet hold for many years, I may have a collection that rivals Bruce Vilanch's.
I never warmed to the Valencia Town Center Mall in this valley. It's good for the movies at Edwards Valencia 12 once in a great while, but I think I lost interest in it after the bookstore closed, after I happily took part in their 70% off closing sale. When I am there, I go to Hot Topic to see what pop culture t-shirts they have, but that's all I can find to do. There are other clothing stores, but it gets very boring very quickly.
Those many years ago, I liked knowing that all my interests lay in one mall. I looked forward to going to Ontario Mills. I'm not one for going out often, but I was always ready when it was suggested. It's appropriate anyway that we don't go there now. Because of likely pending trips to Las Vegas to see about a new house once my dad's hired by whomever will hire him to teach business education, he and mom are keeping close watch on the mileage on the PT Cruiser and we definitely don't go as far as Ontario anymore. It's funny, though. It feels like everything is closing up. I don't have a regular interest in Mountasia or Six Flags Magic Mountain anymore. I can't think of anything I'd want to do at the mall. The only thing regular in this valley is the Valencia library, which I go to every Sunday for book returns and pick-ups. Last Saturday, we went to Woodland Hills to Fry's, so I could look for new headphones (found them and "The Pajama Game" on DVD), Best Buy, PetSmart, HomeGoods, Henry's Farmer's Market, and Jerry's Deli. A typical Saturday full of errands and eats, but we had to go outside the valley to find what we needed. The Santa Clarita Valley has never had a great deal of anything to offer, and yet I hear from my dad about people who live in this valley who have never left this valley, not even for the day. I can't understand how they manage that, but apparently they do.
About two or three weeks ago, my sister wanted the final issue of Gourmet magazine. We couldn't find it at a Wal-Mart in Palmdale (as if they cook like that in Palmdale), so we went to Valencia Cigars & News. It's a sizable, impressive indoor newsstand, stocked with every possible interest humanity could have. Civil War magazines, photography magazines, international magazines, gossip magazines, and of course, porn, in print and on DVD. There's a separate section for that with a sign on one of the swinging double doors that says, "If you spend more than 5 minutes looking, we'd appreciate a purchase." Meridith found the final issue, and I found The Atlantic Fiction 2009 special issue. It seized me because of a piece in there by Southern writer Jill McCorkle. The cover price was $5.99, but the guy at the counter keyed in $3.99. If he thought the "5" was a "3", bless him. I would have paid $5.99 anyway, but a discount on top of potential pleasure is always nice.
I haven't been back to the newsstand since, but I think often of all the magazines in there, all the parts of the world from which they come, amused by those Civil War magazines being stocked for someone. I don't think they'd be stocked otherwise. I'm continually amused by that because a drive around this valley, or at least one that lasts six years, a visit to many places around this valley, and you can't imagine anyone interested in history beyond their most recent happenings.
That newsstand is also symbolic of me looking outward. The Atlantic in general comes from Maryland. I spotted a few publications entirely in French. I think every day about Las Vegas, about the history I've yet to study and want to, about where I haven't been yet on the Strip and off, about where my place might be in that vast desert landscape. Years before, I wasn't thinking about Florida or any other state beyond those locations I saw in the independent films I reviewed (the truly independent ones, without distribution deals of any kind). I was trying to get used to the Santa Clarita Valley, trying to live in it as strongly as I could while my mom objected every day to living here, while she and dad fought terribly in barbed words about living here, about how he just moved us here without any consideration to what we wanted, about how much she hated every square inch of it, about, about, about. Is the newsstand also a sign that we will eventually depart? Eventually. I figured it out about a week ago during the night. With the exception of an almost immediate move to Sunrise, Florida soon after I was born, we've lived in Casselberry, Coral Springs, Pembroke Pines (all Florida), and the Santa Clarita Valley for 5-6 years each. I'd like to reach 10 years somewhere.
I think when you fully live somewhere, when you're aware of everything around you, when you know exactly what intersections are the worst at certain times of the day, when you find some pleasures in various things in your area, you belong. For me, it's been more about awareness than love of a place. I was aware of nearly every part of this valley, I knew where the places essential to my life were, I knew the intersections. But that was more like a crescendo as the third, fourth and fifth year came and went. Now it's faded. I've never felt like I belonged here, but I've appreciated the daily resources. I could not live anywhere without a steady supply of library books.
The newsstand and the library. That's all I really care about in this valley now. There's Ralph's, there's Trader Joe's, there's the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, there's Von's occasionally, but those are to be expected. Cereal, bread, deli, bottled water, fruit, vegetables, frozen dinners, meat, it's an errand. If those cover letters and resumes my dad sent out bring something hopeful to us, then this will be a proper transition to Las Vegas. To begin to care greatly about a future home (I already do, but I suspect not to the degree that one would from actually being there), you have to power down from what you currently know. With this, and the coming rains in winter (which I like more than the Santa Ana winds, though I don't mind those if there's rain included), it will be a transition calmer than when we thought we would move. During those times, I think we would have been leaving abruptly, without a good chunk of time to properly look for somewhere to live. Another apartment was considered. I think we'll do well now in getting there if this next year turns out to be the year.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Halloween Vulture
I am a proud Halloween vulture. I pick clean the dying remnants of the holiday. I skillfully stalk those parts that barely remain alive, and then I pounce, violently bashing out the life left. Or I go to Ralph's, where my sister freaked out today at the bare shelves of the now-former Halloween candy aisles. Time to set up the Christmas displays.
Fortunately, to Meridith's relief and my excitement, all the leftover bags of candy, including the insanely, illogically large ones, were moved to covered long tables between the pharmacy and the refrigerated cheese case. 50% off everything. But it depends on the original price. A small bag of regular Hershey's Kisses with orange and black foil wrappers was discounted to over $5. Meanwhile, my mom got a sizable bag with the standard shiny gray foil wrappers at Wal-Mart yesterday for far less than that and filled one of our containers at home right to the top with them. Also at Wal-Mart yesterday, I found a bag of Reese's pumpkin-shaped peanut butter cups for well over $5. It wasn't as big as the 50-piece variety bag of Reese's products (Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Reese's Sticks, Reese's Pieces, Reese's Fast Break) I found at Ralph's, and though that was $5.49 (down from $10+), I went for it because I like having a selection rather than the same candy dozens of times over.
Oh, and a 4-pound bag of differently-sized Tootsie Rolls. Bars, sticks, pieces, every kind available for a little over $4. I really like it this way. Huge bags of candy, and steep discounts the day after Halloween. No knocking on doors, dressing up in costumes, carrying around pillowcases or whatever one might prefer. I'm too old for that now anyway, but I like to get my pleasures immediately, not walking around and essentially working for it.
Despite that, I'm not cynical toward Halloween. This is not only my favorite holiday where people can change ever so briefly, but it's also when the weather is at its most pleasant. It finally feels right. A calm begins to settle over this valley, slowly melting into every crevice, parking space, doorway, curb, windowpane, and maybe person. It takes some time for that one. The adjustment this year is a lot more shocking than previous years because it feels like the new year began a few weeks ago. Now here we are, in November. Long before I turned 25, the years at least went slow enough to really let one feel the rhythms of each month. But now January goes right into September. I never thought much about the passage of time before this, but with facing the months becoming shorter (and yes, I know I'm still very much young, but this is the first time I've really felt this sharp jolt of realization), I wish this speeding of time could have begun later at 26 or at the start of 27 years old.
Well, as long as Halloween candy is sold cheaper the day after, as long as egg nog continues to be available at the end of October/the start of November, as long as the good feelings of the forthcoming holiday season still begin to develop right now, I can kind of live with the increasing speed of time. I'll just have to begin to read faster and more often now.
Fortunately, to Meridith's relief and my excitement, all the leftover bags of candy, including the insanely, illogically large ones, were moved to covered long tables between the pharmacy and the refrigerated cheese case. 50% off everything. But it depends on the original price. A small bag of regular Hershey's Kisses with orange and black foil wrappers was discounted to over $5. Meanwhile, my mom got a sizable bag with the standard shiny gray foil wrappers at Wal-Mart yesterday for far less than that and filled one of our containers at home right to the top with them. Also at Wal-Mart yesterday, I found a bag of Reese's pumpkin-shaped peanut butter cups for well over $5. It wasn't as big as the 50-piece variety bag of Reese's products (Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Reese's Sticks, Reese's Pieces, Reese's Fast Break) I found at Ralph's, and though that was $5.49 (down from $10+), I went for it because I like having a selection rather than the same candy dozens of times over.
Oh, and a 4-pound bag of differently-sized Tootsie Rolls. Bars, sticks, pieces, every kind available for a little over $4. I really like it this way. Huge bags of candy, and steep discounts the day after Halloween. No knocking on doors, dressing up in costumes, carrying around pillowcases or whatever one might prefer. I'm too old for that now anyway, but I like to get my pleasures immediately, not walking around and essentially working for it.
Despite that, I'm not cynical toward Halloween. This is not only my favorite holiday where people can change ever so briefly, but it's also when the weather is at its most pleasant. It finally feels right. A calm begins to settle over this valley, slowly melting into every crevice, parking space, doorway, curb, windowpane, and maybe person. It takes some time for that one. The adjustment this year is a lot more shocking than previous years because it feels like the new year began a few weeks ago. Now here we are, in November. Long before I turned 25, the years at least went slow enough to really let one feel the rhythms of each month. But now January goes right into September. I never thought much about the passage of time before this, but with facing the months becoming shorter (and yes, I know I'm still very much young, but this is the first time I've really felt this sharp jolt of realization), I wish this speeding of time could have begun later at 26 or at the start of 27 years old.
Well, as long as Halloween candy is sold cheaper the day after, as long as egg nog continues to be available at the end of October/the start of November, as long as the good feelings of the forthcoming holiday season still begin to develop right now, I can kind of live with the increasing speed of time. I'll just have to begin to read faster and more often now.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Dammit!
The residue of feelings from what might have been is still somewhat in my body, less in my shoulders now and more around my heart, where I'm sure it'll fade. It hasn't left my mind, which is still mulling over it and trying to figure out what I was after.
It happened in a dream, either in between more dreams about a variation on Walt Disney World (with robot arms on the monorail track putting a monorail train together in front of a crowd), or before those. I had an idea for a novel. Not an idea to work out over time. A full, workable idea complete with well-drawn characters, confidence in plot, mood, the crux of each chapter, and above all, my ability to write it. At one point, I thought I had woken up after the dream, but I was still asleep. And when I woke up, I was still very much aware of what had happened, and mentally beat myself up over not being able to remember any of what that novel would have contained. I knew I could have done it. Had I remembered, had I written it all down, I could have worked on the outline today, finished it, and began writing the first few pages tomorrow. I was that sure of what my subconscious mind had worked out. I don't know if it would have been a bestseller. But right then, I didn't care about that. I wanted to write it. That's all that mattered. I knew I would have been interested in it all the way through the days it would have taken to write it.
I'm sitting here right now, thinking about when it all was clear, and I'm so vastly disappointed. That idea was right there. I don't want to search for it through pieces of other dreams; I wanted all of it whole. I'm mildly comforted by my mind actually being able to come up with a story idea that would have worked, so maybe there'll be something that sparks when I'm awake, but still, I would have liked to have it to work on right now.
It happened in a dream, either in between more dreams about a variation on Walt Disney World (with robot arms on the monorail track putting a monorail train together in front of a crowd), or before those. I had an idea for a novel. Not an idea to work out over time. A full, workable idea complete with well-drawn characters, confidence in plot, mood, the crux of each chapter, and above all, my ability to write it. At one point, I thought I had woken up after the dream, but I was still asleep. And when I woke up, I was still very much aware of what had happened, and mentally beat myself up over not being able to remember any of what that novel would have contained. I knew I could have done it. Had I remembered, had I written it all down, I could have worked on the outline today, finished it, and began writing the first few pages tomorrow. I was that sure of what my subconscious mind had worked out. I don't know if it would have been a bestseller. But right then, I didn't care about that. I wanted to write it. That's all that mattered. I knew I would have been interested in it all the way through the days it would have taken to write it.
I'm sitting here right now, thinking about when it all was clear, and I'm so vastly disappointed. That idea was right there. I don't want to search for it through pieces of other dreams; I wanted all of it whole. I'm mildly comforted by my mind actually being able to come up with a story idea that would have worked, so maybe there'll be something that sparks when I'm awake, but still, I would have liked to have it to work on right now.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday: The Understandable Bitch
I know it wasn't your direct doing, Tuesday. No one can control nature (though some try), not even days of the week.
But this fierce northerly wind, which, according to the NOAA website, at 3:36 p.m. in my area, was at 37 mph sustained, with 55 mph gusts, had to be your plan. I was having a half-decent dream this morning, involving old haunts in Florida, when I was jolted awake at 10-something, my subconscious mind suddenly becoming aware of today's weather. I've never liked the wind in Southern California, especially when there's no rain to accompany it, and you know that. Right now, outside the window next to the computer, I can hear the leaves on that tree being battered fairly regularly. It settles for a few moments and then the wind's voice gets louder.
Oh, and I'm sure you know how much I love my next-door neighbor's windchimes, which remind me when I'm in bed of how heavy the wind is. I sometimes wish for a gust strong enough to blow them to the floor of their patio, but then remind myself of that kind of damage and I immediately rescind that desire. The lesser the wind, the better for me, but that's not how it is today.
I understand your need for this wind today. You're an ignored day of the week. People intimately know Saturday and Sunday because that's the weekend. Monday is famously reviled because people have to go back to work. Wednesday is hump day, which makes people think about the Friday coming up. Thursday is that one day before Friday which people endure because they know Friday is next.
But you? Tuesday? What distinction do you have among the days of the week? You're another day of work; you're another day of ho-hum, following Monday. You really don't have anything going for you. Sure, people might think of you in relation to what's on TV in the evening, but that's also done for Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, especially for Tivo purposes. So I can understand the wind. Right now, the National Weather Service has a high-wind warning in my area in effect until 6 a.m. tomorrow. Yesterday, it was until 11 a.m. It may please you, but you must also remember that you're done at midnight. Wednesday takes over the wind, and how appropriate that it begins to slow down during the morning, and lets people not worry about it (though I suspect I might be one of the very few to worry, being that I'm not a native of Southern California and have not fully gotten used to this), and begin to think about the Friday to come. Sheesh. You lose either way, huh? The winds are set to become more powerful tonight, so you have some notable command to come, as the hours feel like they go so slow during these events, but as of this moment, you only have 7 hours and 3 minutes left to enjoy it. Meanwhile, I'll be working tonight (I hope) on that book, maybe finishing the fact-based portion of my essay on Dorothy Dandridge, anticipating enough time after I'm done for one or two episodes of Black Books, which came from Netflix today. The only time you'll even enter my thoughts is when I hear the wind next to me while I'm on the computer. Then you settle for a moment or two, at least from my vantage point, and I forget you again. But, It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is on ABC tonight, so you'll be ignored during that too. With all of this, I understand why you are the way you are right now.
(The latest readings came in from the National Weather Service at 4:36 p.m: 42 mph sustained, 56 mph gusts. I hope it stays that way for the rest of the evening and doesn't get worse, but knowing your attitude, that's probably not possible.)
But this fierce northerly wind, which, according to the NOAA website, at 3:36 p.m. in my area, was at 37 mph sustained, with 55 mph gusts, had to be your plan. I was having a half-decent dream this morning, involving old haunts in Florida, when I was jolted awake at 10-something, my subconscious mind suddenly becoming aware of today's weather. I've never liked the wind in Southern California, especially when there's no rain to accompany it, and you know that. Right now, outside the window next to the computer, I can hear the leaves on that tree being battered fairly regularly. It settles for a few moments and then the wind's voice gets louder.
Oh, and I'm sure you know how much I love my next-door neighbor's windchimes, which remind me when I'm in bed of how heavy the wind is. I sometimes wish for a gust strong enough to blow them to the floor of their patio, but then remind myself of that kind of damage and I immediately rescind that desire. The lesser the wind, the better for me, but that's not how it is today.
I understand your need for this wind today. You're an ignored day of the week. People intimately know Saturday and Sunday because that's the weekend. Monday is famously reviled because people have to go back to work. Wednesday is hump day, which makes people think about the Friday coming up. Thursday is that one day before Friday which people endure because they know Friday is next.
But you? Tuesday? What distinction do you have among the days of the week? You're another day of work; you're another day of ho-hum, following Monday. You really don't have anything going for you. Sure, people might think of you in relation to what's on TV in the evening, but that's also done for Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, especially for Tivo purposes. So I can understand the wind. Right now, the National Weather Service has a high-wind warning in my area in effect until 6 a.m. tomorrow. Yesterday, it was until 11 a.m. It may please you, but you must also remember that you're done at midnight. Wednesday takes over the wind, and how appropriate that it begins to slow down during the morning, and lets people not worry about it (though I suspect I might be one of the very few to worry, being that I'm not a native of Southern California and have not fully gotten used to this), and begin to think about the Friday to come. Sheesh. You lose either way, huh? The winds are set to become more powerful tonight, so you have some notable command to come, as the hours feel like they go so slow during these events, but as of this moment, you only have 7 hours and 3 minutes left to enjoy it. Meanwhile, I'll be working tonight (I hope) on that book, maybe finishing the fact-based portion of my essay on Dorothy Dandridge, anticipating enough time after I'm done for one or two episodes of Black Books, which came from Netflix today. The only time you'll even enter my thoughts is when I hear the wind next to me while I'm on the computer. Then you settle for a moment or two, at least from my vantage point, and I forget you again. But, It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is on ABC tonight, so you'll be ignored during that too. With all of this, I understand why you are the way you are right now.
(The latest readings came in from the National Weather Service at 4:36 p.m: 42 mph sustained, 56 mph gusts. I hope it stays that way for the rest of the evening and doesn't get worse, but knowing your attitude, that's probably not possible.)
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