My Very First Royalty Check

I'm too tired to write anything about my day at Six Flags Magic Mountain, except to say that I'm done with rollercoasters, save for my personal requirement of riding Desperado when we reach Primm just across the state line into Nevada from California (Home state pride!). Some people are cut out for roller coaster enthusiasm well into their thirties. I won't be one of them, not after the double hell that was Apocalypse and Colossus. But more on that either later Sunday evening or Monday.

The day itself was incredible, everything I expected. Then I came home, got the mail (including the complete series DVD set of Nero Wolfe, starring Maury Chaykin, one of my favorite actors, and Timothy Hutton), and found something momentous: My very first royalty check! This was for What If They Lived?, and it's quite a coincidence because while walking throughout Magic Mountain, I thought about how I don't want to let What If They Lived? be my only book. I have to start moving more swiftly on what I want to write. And then after getting off Colossus and ending my interest in rollercoasters, I thought about how not only am I gradually reaching 30, but I will be getting older and older and I don't want to let the years pass without having books to show for them.

When I saw the envelope in the mail and had an inkling that that's what it might be, I thought to myself, "There's a kick in the ass when you need one." After I showed it to Mom, Dad and Meridith, I loved that feeling not only of them being proud of me, but amazed that after all the work I did, here is this check. Here is money for my work. It's not a bizarro, I-can't-believe-they-pay-me-this-much-for-words amount, but it does make me want to write lots more. It'd be nice to see my name on more checks related to my work.

For now, work. More work. Still more work. It's the only way I'll get to that point again.

A Friday with Pay and Then Rollercoasters

This morning was a surprise. I went to bed toward 3, completely failing at trying to get to bed much earlier on Wednesday night and Thursday night so I could ease into getting up early tomorrow morning for Six Flags Magic Mountain.

Mom woke me up at 10 minutes before 6. John, the head campus supervisor, put a call into the automated sub system, which called me. He needed a sub. Did I want the job?

I always want the job, no matter who I'm subbing for, because there's money. I need money. I love money. I need to let my savings account rise more, and I love buying books (at least until Henderson, when I'll have a library to go to again).

I wish John had decided this last night so I could have had time to get lunch ready and to get to bed earlier. That's not how this always works, though, so I went to the dining room table to get Lady Luck's Map of Vegas by Barbara Samuel (I finished The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue a little after 1 this morning), went back to my room, saw that my clock said 5:52, and got back into bed for a few minutes. I was fully awake, but knew that I have to take it easy today. I'll do the job as professionally as I always do (I'm at the school right now), but I'll walk around the campus a little less during the class periods when there's not any calls to answer on the radio. I need my exercise, and I'll get that, but I also need to be sharp for the brunch and lunch periods, supervising the kids, since I'll be walking around. It's not like subbing for Alex and Carmen, standing near the lunch lines, making sure no one cuts in at the front of the line.

I didn't open Lady Luck's Map of Vegas. I just lay there wondering how I was going to make it through the day on little sleep, but I remembered that I had slept nine hours the previous day, and when I'm at home during the school week, I do a few chores after I get up, then spend my time on the couch reading, as I did yesterday. So there's not a whole lot of exertion there. That serves me well today.

I looked over at the clock again, saw that it was 6, and thought about if I should wait to take a shower after I got home, which actually wouldn't be until after we come home from school, pick up Meridith, go to $5 Friday at Pavilions (in which many items are $5 each, including fried chicken this week), and go home again. That wasn't going to work. It was time to just get it done. I don't think I would be able to think about one after all that activity, and I needed one.

What a relief a shower is when you're trying to wake up. It sets up a good mood for the rest of the day. I don't consume caffeine anymore, so I needed this.

During the shower, I remembered that today is the holiday luncheon for faculty and staff in the library. No need to make lunch to bring with me. Just three oatmeal raisin granola bars and three bottles of Arrowhead water. I had breakfast before Dad and I left the house. I hope for egg nog during this luncheon, but I doubt it. That reminds me that I still want my one carton of regular egg nog for the year. I've been drinking Silk Nog occasionally from the end of October to now, and I'll only partake of regular egg nog once this year. Copious amounts of regular egg nog, even the low-fat kind, is part of what got me fat over the years. Not again. Total moderation.

John's hours are 8:30-4:30, and even though it's later than I usually work, I'm very happy with it. 8 hours instead of 6. Money earned, and then Six Flags Magic Mountain tomorrow. It works out perfectly because I'll definitely crash later tonight and then be up by 7:30 or 8 tomorrow morning, well ahead of 10:30 when the park opens. We're all going anyway, not just Meridith and I, so we'll need to find a parking spot too. The weather is going to be warmer tomorrow, which means I can wear my "All You Need is Books" t-shirt (http://www.unshelved.com/store/Shirts/AllYouNeedIsBooks) with a white t-shirt underneath and a jacket.

So now I can buy my slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt tomorrow without feeling like I'm pushing my financial limit. And if they have a t-shirt that actually has the Ninja rollercoaster on it and not just an outline of a section of the park (as it is with the Ninja t-shirt I already have), I'll grab that too.

I just remembered that the Sky Tower Museum is open as well, in which you take an elevator up that orange tower to the first floor (The second floor is for storage, I imagine, though I heard rumors that there's a kitchen up there too) and there's memorabilia from decades past at Magic Mountain, in glass cases, on hangers, and even an old ride vehicle from one rollercoaster and a seat from another. It's a tradition of sorts for all of us, and before that, when that floor was entirely devoid of anything, we'd just go up there to see the view of the Santa Clarita Valley, which looks far better than the reality. We'll still do that, because that's really the main reason to go up there, and for me to see the Ninja track obscured by trees.

It's just like our tradition to go on "It's a Small World" together whenever we go to Disneyland, though that's not likely to happen again before we move because those tickets are so damn expensive now. When we went to Walt Disney World every weekend when I was a tyke, we went on "It's a Small World" often, and that carried over to when we visited the Magic Kingdom once in a while when we lived in South Florida years later. (Never EPCOT or then-Disney-MGM Studios. Magic Kingdom had enough for all of us, including Tomorrowland for me with Space Mountain (my favorite attraction there), Tomorrowland Transit Authority, and Walt Disney's Carousel of Progress. I only needed those, and the arcade next to Space Mountain, and I stayed there the entire day.)

Work is good, especially this work which lets me read at lunch, completely unperturbed. With Magic Mountain tomorrow, it's even nicer.

(Addendum at 8:11 a.m.: Dad came back from the office before going coffee-hunting to tell me that I have Alex's hours of 9:30-3:30. On days when John is absent, Alex takes his hours. I'm not disappointed, because 6 hours is better than no hours. Plus, that gives me an hour to lay on the couch upstairs in the teachers' lounge and rest up and read before I have to start. I think I'll be better, more awake than I thought I'd be when we got here.)

Banana Splits and Advice for the Next Generation

For me, a perfect day at work is having a lot of time to walk the La Mesa campus, a lull in between calls, an opportunity to read while at lunch, and spending most of the time by myself, save for supervising the kids at brunch and lunch and making sure they get to class in between periods. I don't talk much with my fellow campus supervisors because there's not that much to say. I'm there to do a job well, to get paid, and go home. And I still love that once the day's work is done, it's done. There's no overtime, nothing to think about at home. I have the rest of the day and night for myself, to read and to write.

Yesterday was a perfect day because of all of that and more. I was subbing for Carmen, who had to take her daughter to a few appointments, since her husband had done it the past few times. I'll take any hours I can get, though Carmen's aren't my favorite because it's five hours and 30 minutes, and not a full six hours as I get with one of the two Alexes and Liz.

Nevertheless, it felt like a Friday, looking straight at the weekend, even though it was a Wednesday. It had that easygoing feeling that aligned the universe. Plus, Meridith was working too as a substitute in the kitchen. The last time she and I were at the same school was a year at Riverside Elementary in Coral Springs, Florida, when I was in fifth grade and she was in kindergarten.

Meridith and I graduated high school in 2007 (Valencia High) and 2002 (Hollywood High), respectively, and spent a few years each at College of the Canyons. We're at a campus again because we don't have to learn anything anymore. We have jobs that are a requirement on a middle-school level (and elementary and high school, though neither of us want to work at a high school): Kids have to eat and there needs to be supervision. In fact, once we get to Henderson, Meridith's thinking about working in the cafeteria of an elementary school, since she loves little kids. I want to stay on the middle school level because in high school, to drag out the moldy cliche (though it is true, I know), those students so obviously know everything. I like to be in that gray, in-between area, which middle school is. There's room for more ambiguity than there is in high school. Plus, it appeals to one of my major interests in my writing: Self-contained worlds. La Mesa is part of a school district, but it is by itself during school hours. No actions by any other middle school can affect it. Tom Flores, one of the assistant principals, splits his time between there and Sierra Vista, but the dynamics in each campus are most assuredly different.

Plus, with weekends off, holidays off, and teacher workdays off, no other job can possibly match that. And because Meridith and I have been at Silver Trail as students when Dad taught there, and just in general when he had to be there at night for various happenings such as open houses; and I have been at Flanagan High and Hollywood Hills High as a student when Mom worked at each campus, we know all about the inner workings of administrations, what helps the school run. From student to employee, it was an easy transition for us to make.

In the kitchen yesterday, there was also a birthday celebration for one of the women, so at one point in the day, Meridith was making banana splits for them. I had come in just when I had started my shift to say hello to Meridith, and then before lunch, I popped in again before the rush began and Meridith asked if I wanted a banana split. Mindful of the roasted corn and french fries to come at Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday (I may have one order of each or more than one. I'm not sure yet), I said no, but Meridith is deaf to the word "No" unless you keep remaining firm enough to show that you don't want whatever's being offered. So she said, "Ok, I'll make you one," and who am I to argue when a banana split is being offered on a Wednesday afternoon during work hours.

After lunch was over and I had swept my share of the campus free of lunch debris (La Mesa is the only campus in the district in which the campus supervisors also sweep up trash after brunch and lunch. If a custodial job involved only sweeping, I'd apply for it, but I don't want to do all else that's involved, such as shampooing carpets, staying late into the evening, and sometimes cleaning up puke. So a campus supervisor I'll happily be), I went into the kitchen, Meridith gave me my banana split, and when I took it from her, I was floored because that freezer in that kitchen works so much better than what we've got at home. I know it's an industrial freezer and it has to work properly for reasons of food safety, but even so, while I was taking my banana split to my favorite spot toward the back of the school to sit down and have it, there was no threat of it melting, even with the day having become warmer.

In this banana split were three long sections of banana, chocolate and vanilla ice cream, and walnuts. The walnuts were an unexpected surprise, since I don't see walnuts that often anyway because of how much they cost in the bulk aisles at Sprouts.

I sat down, tucked under the bowl the napkins Meridith gave me, and tucked in. Imagine that anywhere else: Eating a banana split on a Wednesday afternoon at work. The radio was quiet, no one to pick up to bring to the office, so I had plenty of time to eat the entire banana split. I know there probably won't be banana splits at whatever middle school in the Clark County School District will have me as a full-time campus supervisor, not very often anyway, but this is truly the job for me, for moments like this that are so incongruous to what we think of as work during the day. But you know, a job's a job because it brings in a paycheck. It pays the bills. At least for this weekend, part of it gets me a slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt at Six Flags (From the check I deposited yesterday that was from two days of work a few weeks ago).

Before the banana split, at about 11:30, I went to lunch. Carmen's hours, as well as Liz's, and one of the Alexes, puts lunch at 11:30-12:15, which gives a 19-minute leeway before lunch begins for the kids.

I keep my lunch in my dad's fridge in his classroom (in a small room off the classroom, where he also keeps boxes of crackers in a cabinet and assorted other snacks), and I wish I didn't have to. The temperature control in that fridge is so out of whack that spinach and shredded carrots I store in there in a plastic container are always frozen whenever I open it up in the teachers' lounge upstairs. I can eat a few leaves and a few carrots, but have to wait until nearly the end of lunch for the rest of it to defrost. Fortunately, I'm the sort who can go from dessert back to lunch, and since I always have a banana for dessert, it makes no difference. But it's still plenty annoying when there's 45 minutes for lunch that I don't want to rush through at any point.

Later in the day, the head of the kitchen said to Meridith that whenever I'm working, I can have whatever I want from the kitchen. I wondered if this meant I could put my lunch in one of those fridges so I don't have to chisel spinach leaves apart. Yet, I'm iffy about taking advantage of such an offer when Meridith's not working in the kitchen. I don't feel it polite to impose if I don't have a connection to the kitchen. I don't take advantage of that connection anyway, since I have my own lunch, but it just seems easier to go about it when Meridith's there.

Dad's classroom. Lunchtime. I walked in, going to the tote bag I kept under the table near Dad's desk, getting out the plastic shopping bags in which I brought my lunch, to bring to the fridge and load it up. Dad saw me, stopped me, and said he wanted to introduce me to a student, and was going to have me paged on the radio if I hadn't shown up.

The student he introduced me to wanted to write books and poetry, and he told me to talk to her and give her some advice. It was a brand-new situation for me. I've always been on my own with my writing. I've never imparted any experience of mine to anyone curious about what I do, because there's been no one curious about what I do. Yet, here was someone.

She told me that she wanted to write poems of sadness and despair. I don't know if any aspect of her life brought her to want to write those, nor was I going to ask. I figured that maybe she thought those were deep poems, and therefore more likely to be remembered. That didn't matter to me, because she asked, and that was most important to me.

I told her to read often and read a lot. Read enough poetry to get a feel for how others do it, how they form their thoughts into whatever style they choose. Type out favorite poems to get a deeper feeling for them. Always try.

She asked for poets that matched what she wanted to write. On the computer she was using, I steered her to Sylvia Plath. In Google, I typed "sadness and despair poems" and told her to read through those, and if she found a poet she liked, to read everything that poet wrote. It's most important that she follows what interests her. I emphasized over and over to her the importance of reading, that in order to write well, you have to read. You have to know what has come before and from there, you can figure out what you want to do, but also never to be intimidated by what came before that seems great, because you can still do it too.

She went back to Dad later in the day to say thank you, because I had changed her life. What she had learned from me was much, much more than any guidance department or set of English teachers so far had done for her. I hope in high school, she has an English teacher like Roberta Little, who I had in 11th grade, who introduced me to Tennessee Williams through The Glass Menagerie (My favorite play), who showed Mark Twain Tonight! starring Hal Holbrook in conjunction with a unit about The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and which I not only bought on DVD years later, but I saw Holbrook perform it live at the College of the Canyons Performing Arts Center. She sought our opinions about works, fostered great discussions, and never believed her own opinion to be greater than any of ours. In literature, we were all on an equal level, all exploring together.

By the way, she's 12. There's a potentially good future for this country.

I had done my mitzvah for the day. Totally unexpected, and it's best that the young ones learn what those of us in the trenches have done so far and apply it to how they want to do it.

None of the rest of my day compared to that, though it was just as peaceful as it had been from the start. At one point, Mr. Kerman, one of the guidance counselors called at five-minute intervals to bring three girls into the office of Mr. Patterson, one of the assistant principals. I answered all three calls, figuring something had transpired that took some time to sort out. Not my place to know and I didn't want to know. I'm there to help make the day run a little bit smoother for the administration and the running of the school, and that's enough for me.

Today, there's been a new development. There will be five days in the four-week pleasure cruise instead of four. Dad got a call today that an influential bigwig at K12, the online school he works for, is flying to Burbank for business and wants to meet him on Sunday. This means going to Burbank, where Dad will likely drop us off at IKEA, before meeting this guy at whatever restaurant he chooses. This is most important because it could bring us closer to becoming residents of Henderson, being that the job Dad's seeking at K12 is in Las Vegas.

For Mom, Meridith and I, this means Swedish meatballs at IKEA, plus there's a mall within walking distance where Mom's wanted to go to the Macy's, but there's never been enough time on past visits. There's also Barnes & Noble across the street from IKEA, but I don't feel an urge to buy any books since I've been ordering the ones I want online. Yet I say that without having been there yet, and with a burgeoning interest in Steampunk and a deepening interest in Superman. Plus, they've got a vast collection of magazines, and it was at that Barnes & Noble that I discovered The Normal School (http://www.thenormalschool.com/index.html), a literary magazine run from the Fresno campus of California State University. Just from the issue I found there (http://www.thenormalschool.com/images/TNS5_FrontCover.gif), I went to the website, found out where to send a check for a subscription, wrote one, and sent it off. And I will happily renew my subscription once the third issue in my four-issue subscription arrives. They publish twice a year in the spring and the fall, so I have time.

I've also been thinking about the $1-only used bookstore that we went to in downtown Burbank in January (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/01/lost-my-dream-girl-i-hope-theres.html), but considering how many books there already are in my room, that may not be wise. And yet, there may be an author there I've never discovered before who I just have to read. And yet, I already have many of those in my room. And yet, maybe there's one or a few there who could inspire me further as I work on my second book. And yet, maybe it's best to shrink some of the stacks first before I go nuts again for more. And yet, isn't that what being a bibliophile is about? For the sake of space, no. For the love of reading, yes.

Besides, Dad's meeting is happening later in the day, so by the time he's done, we'll have to get home anyway because Dad has to go to work on Monday. It's no great loss to me if we don't, but there's always something about those used bookstores, going in, not knowing what you're looking for, but always finding it.

I've also found immense pleasure in The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue by Barbara Samuel, who writes as Barbara O'Neal now, and whose The Secret of Everything makes me want to visit New Mexico one day. I'm impatiently waiting for her The Garden of Happy Endings, which is coming out in April, so I ordered this, Lady Luck's Map of Vegas (which arrived today), and A Piece of Heaven, to pass some of the time until April when I can finally dive into that one. I haven't yet ordered No Place Like Home and Madame Mirabou's School of Love because I wanted to see how these first three go, but just on page 146 of The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue, I'm seriously thinking about bringing those two in. I can't go wrong with any of her works. Plus, I intend to re-read The Secret of Everything before April.

The pleasure cruise continues.

From Viper to Ninja

I don't remember ever paying regular admission to Six Flags Magic Mountain. The first time we ever went had to have been during Toys for Tots' annual toy drive, where giving a toy valued at $10 or more gets you free admission for that day. This year, it's $20 or more, and it's fitting that it should go up that high since this will be our last visit, because it may go higher next year, as it's steadily risen every year or so. There's a blog called The Coaster Guy (http://www.thecoasterguy.com/), devoted to Magic Mountain, and this guy said that the crowds were light last Sunday. We're going on Saturday, but I'm still holding out hope that it's not crowded then either, not only because the weather's likely to remain cold, but also because $20 or more is a fairly steep price if you're bringing along, say, five or more people. We're four, so that's $80+ of toys, and I handled that last weekend at Big Lots.

The first time we went to Magic Mountain, probably in 2004 or 2005, I became hooked on Viper. Its vertical loops make the ride seem so slow, and it made going upside down easier to do. Plus, there's a double-corkscrew toward the end, which was a lot of fun.

I went there, many times, did that, got the t-shirt, literally. I still have it in my closet. I was a different person back then, though. I wanted to get things done in this valley. What they were at that time, I wasn't sure yet, but once The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of this valley, presented the opportunity of an internship, I knew that I wanted to get somewhere in journalism, but not the standard way. I wanted to be a full-time film critic somewhere. This was a few years before the industry's collapse, so there was still hope. Viper was perfect for me because it didn't muck about. It was sure of what it was and it would lead you through a straightforward experience. What you see is what you get. Plus, on the way up, there's a slight view of some of the park.

Six years later, Viper is no longer my favorite rollercoaster. This may have coincided with ending my time at The Signal, writing my first book, and trying to figure out just what I wanted to do with my life, which now I know is being a full-time campus supervisor once we move to Henderson, and reading and writing more books. Back then, between The Signal and What If They Lived?, ambiguity was necessary. What kind of life did I want? What would make me happy? Also, as the years wore on when I was a member of the Online Film Critics Society, I felt more and more like I was running on a hamster wheel, since every year, there were the movies in January that studios had no faith in, there was the summer movie season, and there was the awards season in the final three months of the year. For us, that meant screeners from various studios, and voting on our own awards. There was a ballot e-mailed to determine what we wanted to see nominated, and then the totals from that determined what was nominated. Then a second ballot came to vote on the winners.

I grew to loathe the clockwork nature of it. It was a novelty when I was a new member, but it soon became a slog. I let my membership lapse because of the book and because I still wanted to enjoy movies. I would never be a full-time film critic, and I was ok with that.

Viper must not have fulfilled the need I suddenly had for ambiguity, for a bit of mystery, for more imagination. On one visit to Magic Mountain, I walked up the steep, winding path to Samurai Summit (It now boasts Superman: Escape from Krypton, which used to be Superman: The Escape before the remodel, and now has the storyline I thought of when I went on it in its original form, that of the infant Kal-El escaping from an exploding Krypton, and reaching Earth), and there was Ninja.

Whatever compelled me to try Ninja has long been forgotten, but it happened in the last three years, and I've been hooked on it ever since. It's a suspended swinging roller coaster, meaning the ride vehicles are hung below the track.

The track of Ninja is buried amidst trees. From the vantage point of the nearby Sky Tower (near Ninja's entrance and loading station), you still can't see the track all that well. And on it, it feels like you're zooming through a forest, especially on the immensely pleasureable sharp turns which hit at least 2 Gs. And then there's the piece at the end when it seems like you just barely graze the water at the side of the Jetstream ride before going up that hill to the loading station. That end would seem anticlimactic to some, but not to me, because there's tall trees on one side as you go up the hill and it all lends itself to extreme bouts of imagination.

The Coaster Guy's profile of Ninja (http://www.thecoasterguy.com/index.php/2011/10/09/ride-profile-ninja/) does a far better job of showing it off than I can, and with photos. I don't imagine pixies or anything like that as I rush past the trees, but it is a different, most welcome world. It doesn't reveal itself so readily. You have to go to it to know it, unlike Tatsu, in which you can see the riders hanging stomach-side down as the ride vehicle goes up that lift hill. I will never go on that one, but knowing where the area is that you can watch the vehicles pull out of the loading station, I intend to stand there on Saturday and shout at the riders, "Can I have all your stuff?!"

I have been on Ninja four and five times at a shot and it never gets old for me. There is always something in the landscape to consider, and always that nearly orgasmic pleasure of those two sharp turns. Considering that Gotham City Backlot recently re-opened as D.C. Universe and now boasts a Green Lantern rollercoaster, and remembering the continued popularity of Tatsu, I'm hoping that these elements let me get on Ninja as many times as I want without it ever getting too crowded. Plus, with the cold weather remaining, it increases the chances of that exponentially.

Addendum at 3:41 p.m.: The work day is done, and Meridith told me that the only time we paid admission to Six Flags Magic Mountain was when we visited Los Angeles and surrounding areas for 10 days in April 2003, even driving to San Diego for one job interview, the only time I remember it not taking so long to get to San Diego, unlike the time we drove to Legoland for the day in September of last year.

So then I got hooked on Viper on that visit, not in 2004 or 2005, and even got the t-shirt right then and there.

That's How You Know It's Time to Go

In nearly all the eight years I've lived in the Santa Clarita Valley, I hated the Santa Ana winds. A generally destructive force of nature that could topple trees, twist poles, and cause sparks that could set things aflame was, to me, worse than the thunderstorms in South Florida, the afternoons of rain that were merely inconvenient at times rather than downright scary like the Santa Anas were.

I wondered how people could live with this. In our first year here, in the apartment in Valencia, there were bad wildfires that produced a darkened, sooty sky. At College of the Canyons, I remember standing on the second floor, looking out at a hill that had flames creeping up, the tendril of one shooting up and then retreating quickly, only to repeat many times over in one minute alone.

Whenever it was announced on the news that Santa Ana winds were coming, I went to noaa.org to see what their speed would be, and would always get that reliable feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. What would happen? Would this round of winds cause flames to engulf the valley, pushing the Apocalypse closer to us yet again? It always felt like that.

In October 2007, we were evacuated from our place in Saugus for a day, though at that moment, we weren't sure if it was going to be only a day or longer. I remember Dad putting important papers in the trunk, getting our dogs and birds together, and leaving quickly.

One of dad's co-workers let us stay at their house for the time being, and in fact, they had been evacuated the day before when flames had come rushing down the hill toward their house and had been stopped right up to where their patio began. The black scars on the hillside were still fresh, though thankfully without smoke emanating from them.

It was a tense day, and I couldn't understand how people could live in landscapes that foisted this upon them. I knew there were other areas that faced wildfires every year and those residents were evacuated every year and still they came back. Same with flooding. Those people returned as well. Why would they want to go through that every single time?

I realized that it's because they loved where they lived. I couldn't feel the same for where I lived. I never felt the connection that those people felt for their areas. I always questioned everything around me instead of simply enjoying where I was, because there wasn't, and still isn't, anything to enjoy.

Over the past week, the Santa Ana winds came back, much colder since it's December, which is also a relief because hot Santa Ana winds are the worst, making brush much more flammable. The "meteorolgists" on TV said that there was a red flag warning, that there was fire danger, but there couldn't be. People were indoors. The crazy ones that were likely to set fires wouldn't because what good is any of that when it's freezing?

On Monday, I began sweeping up from the patio the alive and dead pine needles that had fallen from the tree that hangs high directly over our patio, as well as the leaves that had been blown into our patio from nearby trees. It was a lot to sweep, and as I did, the Santa Ana winds kept blowing, but I ignored it. I'm not afraid of them anymore. It's part of what Southern California is, it's just the routine of autumn, and there's nothing that can be done to prevent it.

I knew then, looking up at the trees that were at times becoming flattops, that it's time for my family and I to leave Southern California soon. There is no way we can stand another year here. It's time to move on with life, to be where we truly want to be, where we can be happy every day in exploring all that's around us. I miss having a city to poke and prod, to uncover every inch and see what I like about it and what I know I want all the time. I'll get that briefly with that final visit to Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday, but that's not enough. I want that feeling to grow ever larger with every place I go to. Not being afraid of the Santa Ana winds anymore means that there is nothing else here that I want to poke and prod. Once we reach Henderson, and have Las Vegas nearby, I want to learn about all that's available to me, yet have everything remain fresh all the time and always worth exploring.

And the Las Vegas valley does have sandstorms, but compared to what I've had here for eight years, I can live with it. I've lived through hurricanes, after all, thankfully not knowing the full brunt of Andrew in 1992, but dealing with vicious rain bands, so sandstorms are just a small price to pay for living where I want to live.

Day 1 and a 1/2 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise

It's so convenient when a week simply clicks into place, as it did today.

Mom woke me up late this morning to say that the head campus supervisor at La Mesa was on the phone, asking if I'd be available to sub on Wednesday. I am, and it works out well, because on Saturday, I have to be up way earlier than usual. Six Flags Magic Mountain is open from 10:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and I don't want to miss a minute that gives me a lot of time on Ninja. Plus, I want to see what Superman merchandise there is, especially t-shirts, and maybe a better Ninja t-shirt than the one I have, which isn't even a design of the ride itself, but of a section of the park. It has facts about Ninja, such as the length of the track and the top speed, but that's not enough for me. This will be my final visit to Magic Mountain and I want a souvenir that matches the day.

The job on Wednesday means that I have to go to bed much earlier, probably a little after midnight, since Dad leaves the house at 7 a.m., because installation of solar panels around the school and repaving of the parking lot has left the parking situation a mess. The logical thing to do would have been to get all this done during winter break. This is what Dad has to contend with every day now, so he wants to get a decent parking space that avoids the hassle of driving out of the campus at the end of the day.

Because I haven't been a substitute campus supervisor for a few weeks, I'll be worn out when I get home, which means I'll crash early, towards midnight most likely. That brings me to 8 a.m. or so on Thursday morning, and if I keep to that schedule for Friday and Saturday morning, we can get to Six Flags before the gates open, which is what we've done anyway for the few years we've participated in this toy drive. Mom's still thinking about whether she wants to go, since it is a lot of walking in one day, but she probably will, since there's roasted corn that's the best we've ever had. With the redesign of the former Gotham City Backlot into D.C. Universe, the roasted corn stand is now called Kent Farms (after Superman), and Meridith's hoping that there's more seasonings available. I'm content with the lemon-pepper seasoning they had last time. She's hoping for parmesan or another cheese-like seasoning, because she'll just dump the entire container onto her roasted corn and then tell the person behind the counter that they're out of seasoning. Incorrigible cheese fanatic which is always entertaining.

I won't miss Magic Mountain after we move, but I do appreciate the relief it has brought from existing in this valley. It's the one place that's markedly different from anything else here, and though that's obvious by the rollercoasters alone, there's a different feeling to it, that of pure pleasure, as opposed to supposed-pleasure-while-gritting-your-teeth when there's crowds at the mall. Lines aren't as frustrating there. At times, it was what I knew when my family and I had annual passes to Walt Disney World. You could wander in that universe for hours, and you couldn't find the same thing anywhere else. It's that way with Magic Mountain too. You go there, and unless you're riding Goliath, which goes high enough to see beyond the park, you don't know that there's an entire working valley in front of the park. You're in a wonderfully enclosed world, able to imagine whatever you want from what's given, from the rollercoasters to Looney Tunes World to the back end of the park that includes Apocalypse: The Ride. All yours to do whatever you want.

Private Spaces in Public Places

For the past two days, I've been reading State of the Arts: California Artists Talk About Their Work by Barbara Isenberg, who interviewed such figures as Joan Didion, Clint Eastwood, Peter Sellars (opera director and one of my heroes), David Hockney, Matt Groening, Norman Lear, and others about what California means to them as artists, and formed those interviews into essays.

In his chapter, David Hockney makes an interesting point: "I've always understood that in California the private spaces are better than the public spaces."

Hockney has it right, though it depends on the private space, because some public spaces can seem private. Parks and movie theaters aren't private at all, but last night waiting for Dad and Meridith at Big Lots comes to mind. People were walking in and out of the store, and I didn't feel like I was in public. I was listening to the music coming out of the speakers in the ceiling overhead, watching the traffic across the street, looking at the hillside with house lights on it and cars driving down those roads. I was on my own in my head, noticing no one.

Then there was that day back in June when Meridith and I were home while Mom and Dad were in Las Vegas, and we went to Valencia Ice Station to watch the ice skaters and the hockey players, and to play a few games in the arcade: Galaga for me, air hockey for me and Meridith (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/06/run-of-house-day-5.html). Meridith and I were the only two in that arcade, but while playing Galaga, that was my private space. I was completely focused on the game.

I think I'm moving far away from what Hockney meant, but certainly these instances are spaces in California. Another private space would be Hearst Castle, which has public tours, and is only accessible by small bus up a mountain. At night, with no one there, that's as private as it gets.

And on that same trip back in January 2006, Dad and I stayed at La Quinta Inn in Sacramento. On a third floor balcony, outside those sets of rooms, I looked out at downtown Sacramento and felt total silence. Sacramento is the kind of city that is busy during the day, but once the evening hits, there is nothing that requires any more attention. Whatever needs to be done can be done the next day. It feels like Sacramento relaxes and is more loose about things, though not that loose, since it is the seat of the state government after all.

In a way, despite the operation involved in running Ninja at Six Flags Magic Mountain, I could consider those moments inside my car while riding in it my private space. I don't scream like others do; I sit and think. It's a meditation space for me, crazy as it seems, though with those sharp, immensely pleasureable turns, it's easy to understand.

For completely private spaces, I get what Hockney is saying, especially in thinking back to the apartment in Valencia, when I'd read in my room on Saturday afternoons, sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds behind me as I sat on my bed, discovering the works of Charles Bukowski, and finding kind of a kindred soul in him with that raw, very funny honesty.

The private spaces are better because you can fit them to whatever you want, and make your own California out of them. That's the only way I've survived these eight years since I never much liked the public spaces of Southern California. And what I did like, such as the Valencia library, was only a means to something. It was never just being there for the place itself.

There was one instance in which I was there for the place itself. When I was a nocturnal creature to the extent of going to bed at 5 a.m. and waking up at 2 p.m. years ago, I'd walk our patio, looking out at the ripples in the community pool right behind our wall (One of the major selling points when it comes time to finally sell this place) and the darkened mountain with a few lights on, street lights, but everyone asleep or at least in bed gripping the sheets in terror at the swiftness of life and why the hell haven't they done half of what they had planned to do in their lives?

That's what I figure, anyway. I loved the silence in those hours, much as I do at 12:01 a.m. right now (I started this entry a few hours ago, before Sunday changed to Monday, but it wasn't because of writer's block that I haven't finished it yet. I've been searching for books and ordering a few at the same time. As usual). It's interesting outside because this valley settles down faster than parts of Los Angeles. It is so quiet that the whistle of a train reverberates loudly throughout the valley, which is essentially dead by 10 p.m. anyway.

My private space is right here, sitting in front of this computer while the rest of the household is asleep. The location isn't ideal, and it's pretty obvious where I'd rather be, but it's fine for now because there's only me and State of the Arts in front of me, and whatever else comes to this night before I decide that it's finally time to nod off a little before or a little after 2. It's a solid private space.