She wouldn't talk to me.
No, that's not all.
She wouldn't even look at me.
I didn't know what I had done to have unfortunately achieved that tortuous degree of being ignored. I'm sure I rewound through my mind the moments we had spent together and wondered if anything within those moments had caused this.
Then I saw an old crush, Sara Mangan. 9th grade. We got to know each other a bit, and I wanted to date her, but she had a long-distance relationship going and didn't want to give that up. I asked her if she could think of any reason, out of everything she knew about me, why this girl would be so angry (I assume) to completely shut me out.
I finally get a girlfriend after not dating since 7th grade and somehow I screwed it up.
But yet, I didn't.
What you read was part of a dream I had, the second after the night before, in which I was with a girl who seemed very, very formal and mannerly. I was fascinated by her, wondering why she was the way she was, and also how she got to that personality quirk.
Two dreams in a row about girlfriends. The last time this happened was up to February 14, 1998, the day of the Valentine's Day Dance at Silver Trail Middle, which I couldn't go to since I had gotten into trouble for inadvertently giving the girl I was going with the password to something that was not meant to be given out. I don't remember what it was for, I didn't have any ulterior motives; I just gave it because I knew it. Not to a whole host of people, just her.
The day of the dance, I wasn't there, but she was there, moping around because I wasn't there. Irene became my girlfriend on that day, and it lasted for 6 months, until she and her family moved across the state of Florida to Naples, and we broke up amicably because a long-distance relationship seemed like a lot of work.
Up to that day, I had had many dreams about girlfriends and it led to this. There might be a third dream tonight about a girlfriend, maybe a fourth the next night, but I don't think it will lead to girlfriend #2. For one, I haven't made any effort in this valley to find anyone, though I do admire some of what I see in the stores in the area. My gold standard is the woman who retrieved my Site to Store order at Wal-Mart near Copper Hill Drive, who matched Julianne Nicholson in her glances and wore dark eyeshadow that I loved. But it wasn't only the eyshadow, it was the smoky personality she had. She was also probably 20 years older than me, but hey, I have great taste.
I see these dreams as helping me sort out exactly what I want. I've never thought of it beyond being a staunch leg man, helped along by Monica Haynick and her pantyhose in my 8th grade math class. Personality? I've got some idea now. I want a partner-in-crime in life, kind of like Myrna Loy was to William Powell in the first "Thin Man" movie in 1934. I want that kind of rapport, so yes, I require a woman with a sizable brain. But that's all I know so far.
Or who knows? If we end up going to Ventura Harbor Village this Thursday or Friday, my dream girl might be there. Maybe that's what these dreams are hinting at. But even if not, at least I'm finally thinking seriously about it and not thinking it strange of me to be thinking about it at all.
Addendum at 8:05 a.m. on November 9: No dreams about girlfriends last night. The most prominent dream I remember was some group of re-enactors performing on a mountain at dusk while the Santa Ana winds blew terribly, and the sparks some of their special effects produced made me worry that they might set the whole mountain aflame.
I'm not disappointed. I'm just glad to know for sure that I want this.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Many Changes
New agenda for my life ahead:
1) Figure out what I want to do in life. Really figure it out. Even though I love aviation, I decided not to pursue a bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics online from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. I don't want to be locked into homework again, plus, with the well over $6,500 tutition (with room and board, it would have been a whole lot more), I could probably find, and apply for, the scholarships necessary, but it's still a hefty fee. Plus, after filling out the FAFSA application, consulting with the university's financial aid office, and looking over the course load, I don't think I'm so much in love with the idea anymore. I'll still see if there's some kind of airport-based career available (initially, I really wanted to work on the ramp at McCarran International, with the planes parked at the gate, but I'm not sure yet what that requires), but I think I have more opportunities I can pursue based on my skills, a lot more than I thought before. For example, tomorrow I'm going back to my dad's middle school as a substitute campus supervisor, and though I wish I could be paid the same hourly salary as the person I'm subbing for, I like it. The campus gets deathly quiet after the kids have filed into the classrooms before each period, and I'm inspired by my surroundings, which I know will obviously change after my family and I have moved to Boulder City, Nevada. But I become really inspired when I'm just walking around the campus, doing my three laps before brunch, after lunch, and before it's time for my shift to end. I even came up with an idea for a play that involves a worker's plight in trying to find some space for himself, away from a windy day, and not finding any, including where would be most obvious, such as the usually empty teacher's lounge. Something like that. Tomorrow I'm bringing my mp3 player since one of the other campus supervisors sits in the golf cart, either listening to a radio, or some kind of player with video capabilities. A lot of right-wing radio emanates from the cart when he's in it (I'm not judging, just observing), so I figure I should have some music with me. I even downloaded off of Amazon "Something About You" by Level 42 and "Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club, two songs I've wanted in my mp3 player for a long time. Now was the right time to download them.
2) My parents have not had an entirely stable marriage over 28 years. I've witnessed more fights, possibly thousands, than I ever thought would be possible, even over the most trivial things. I was with my mom the one time she truly threatened to walk out on my dad and had suitcases for herself, me, and my sister. I don't know how that fight managed to end with us having dinner as if nothing had happened, but I swear that one had to have ended because of some divine intervention. I used to reject the idea of dating and relationships, probably partly because of my parents, but also because there have always been tons of books I've wanted to read and tons of movies I've wanted to see. Plus, being a writer, a lot I've considered writing, but I'll get to that in a minute. After the anxiety I had, and after changing my diet and my sleeping habits (still a bit dicey at times, since I wake up in the middle of the night at least twice, but make sure that I don't panic about it and try to get back to sleep, which is successful), I've decided that I want to date. Sure I'm broke and I don't drive because I'm not on my dad's auto insurance (I have my license, but I don't have my own car, because I can't afford the car or the insurance), and sure the only job I have right now is as a campus supervisor, but I'm curious. I want to meet someone. I've got my mom, my dad, and my dear, wonderfully extroverted sister, but I want to see who might be out there for me. I used to overthink it, such as the responsibility involved in any relationship, the this and the that of the whole thing, such as phone calls, and the time you need to take each day to make it work, but I'm done overthinking things. I will still think about this as necessary, but I want to see if I could be really happy with someone. So far, my record remains at one girlfriend, Irene Diaz, in 7th grade. We broke up amicably when she moved across the state of Florida to Naples, and that's been it. I think it's time to explore. However, it'd probably be best to wait until after we move to Nevada since there's no point here in Santa Clarita. I've seen possibilities here. They're not my kind of possibilities.
3) I'm going to write again. Moreso, I'm going to write what I want. I'm not blaming all the movie reviews I wrote for preventing me from writing what I wanted, because they got me into the habit of writing regularly. But I remember the hours and hours I spent watching movies for Screen It, just to get the exact scene down when it involved violence, smoking, alcohol and drug use, sex, etc. The money was good, but that's all I did. Hours watching one movie, and even more hours spent writing my reviews. I truly believe they're the best reviews on the site, but it's not all I want to do with my days. When I began recovering from this bad bout of anxiety (it lasted 5 and 1/2 months, so I lost an entire summer, which, outside of the heat, I regret a little bit, but you sometimes have to go through hell to find out what's truly meaningful to you), I read the bits of plays I wrote and then abandoned, and some of them read pretty well. There are some concepts I know could work with more massaging, and some that most likely need complete do-overs, but I want to do this. I read part of a play of mine that takes place at Grad Nite at Disneyland, and I actually laughed at some of the lines I had written. This is where I want to be. I want to spend time with what are truly my words. The reviews I wrote, the hundreds of reviews, my words were there, but they were geared toward promoting someone else's work, good or bad. All that I've found in various folders on this computer, it's all mine. The most important thing I learned through this ordeal was that I need to do more for myself. I need to take care of me more than I had before, more than when I had spent more time emptying the ice cream tubs from the freezer and likely sending my nervous system into major shock, which I'll bet led to this. But here I am, new diet, new outlook, new everything. I want this. And with my first book coming out in January, it's time to do this already.
But first, Raising Hope. Two episodes tonight and it's already 9:31 p.m. (I Tivo'd them.) I have to be in bed by 11, because I'm expected up at 6 a.m., so it's time to start.
1) Figure out what I want to do in life. Really figure it out. Even though I love aviation, I decided not to pursue a bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics online from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. I don't want to be locked into homework again, plus, with the well over $6,500 tutition (with room and board, it would have been a whole lot more), I could probably find, and apply for, the scholarships necessary, but it's still a hefty fee. Plus, after filling out the FAFSA application, consulting with the university's financial aid office, and looking over the course load, I don't think I'm so much in love with the idea anymore. I'll still see if there's some kind of airport-based career available (initially, I really wanted to work on the ramp at McCarran International, with the planes parked at the gate, but I'm not sure yet what that requires), but I think I have more opportunities I can pursue based on my skills, a lot more than I thought before. For example, tomorrow I'm going back to my dad's middle school as a substitute campus supervisor, and though I wish I could be paid the same hourly salary as the person I'm subbing for, I like it. The campus gets deathly quiet after the kids have filed into the classrooms before each period, and I'm inspired by my surroundings, which I know will obviously change after my family and I have moved to Boulder City, Nevada. But I become really inspired when I'm just walking around the campus, doing my three laps before brunch, after lunch, and before it's time for my shift to end. I even came up with an idea for a play that involves a worker's plight in trying to find some space for himself, away from a windy day, and not finding any, including where would be most obvious, such as the usually empty teacher's lounge. Something like that. Tomorrow I'm bringing my mp3 player since one of the other campus supervisors sits in the golf cart, either listening to a radio, or some kind of player with video capabilities. A lot of right-wing radio emanates from the cart when he's in it (I'm not judging, just observing), so I figure I should have some music with me. I even downloaded off of Amazon "Something About You" by Level 42 and "Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club, two songs I've wanted in my mp3 player for a long time. Now was the right time to download them.
2) My parents have not had an entirely stable marriage over 28 years. I've witnessed more fights, possibly thousands, than I ever thought would be possible, even over the most trivial things. I was with my mom the one time she truly threatened to walk out on my dad and had suitcases for herself, me, and my sister. I don't know how that fight managed to end with us having dinner as if nothing had happened, but I swear that one had to have ended because of some divine intervention. I used to reject the idea of dating and relationships, probably partly because of my parents, but also because there have always been tons of books I've wanted to read and tons of movies I've wanted to see. Plus, being a writer, a lot I've considered writing, but I'll get to that in a minute. After the anxiety I had, and after changing my diet and my sleeping habits (still a bit dicey at times, since I wake up in the middle of the night at least twice, but make sure that I don't panic about it and try to get back to sleep, which is successful), I've decided that I want to date. Sure I'm broke and I don't drive because I'm not on my dad's auto insurance (I have my license, but I don't have my own car, because I can't afford the car or the insurance), and sure the only job I have right now is as a campus supervisor, but I'm curious. I want to meet someone. I've got my mom, my dad, and my dear, wonderfully extroverted sister, but I want to see who might be out there for me. I used to overthink it, such as the responsibility involved in any relationship, the this and the that of the whole thing, such as phone calls, and the time you need to take each day to make it work, but I'm done overthinking things. I will still think about this as necessary, but I want to see if I could be really happy with someone. So far, my record remains at one girlfriend, Irene Diaz, in 7th grade. We broke up amicably when she moved across the state of Florida to Naples, and that's been it. I think it's time to explore. However, it'd probably be best to wait until after we move to Nevada since there's no point here in Santa Clarita. I've seen possibilities here. They're not my kind of possibilities.
3) I'm going to write again. Moreso, I'm going to write what I want. I'm not blaming all the movie reviews I wrote for preventing me from writing what I wanted, because they got me into the habit of writing regularly. But I remember the hours and hours I spent watching movies for Screen It, just to get the exact scene down when it involved violence, smoking, alcohol and drug use, sex, etc. The money was good, but that's all I did. Hours watching one movie, and even more hours spent writing my reviews. I truly believe they're the best reviews on the site, but it's not all I want to do with my days. When I began recovering from this bad bout of anxiety (it lasted 5 and 1/2 months, so I lost an entire summer, which, outside of the heat, I regret a little bit, but you sometimes have to go through hell to find out what's truly meaningful to you), I read the bits of plays I wrote and then abandoned, and some of them read pretty well. There are some concepts I know could work with more massaging, and some that most likely need complete do-overs, but I want to do this. I read part of a play of mine that takes place at Grad Nite at Disneyland, and I actually laughed at some of the lines I had written. This is where I want to be. I want to spend time with what are truly my words. The reviews I wrote, the hundreds of reviews, my words were there, but they were geared toward promoting someone else's work, good or bad. All that I've found in various folders on this computer, it's all mine. The most important thing I learned through this ordeal was that I need to do more for myself. I need to take care of me more than I had before, more than when I had spent more time emptying the ice cream tubs from the freezer and likely sending my nervous system into major shock, which I'll bet led to this. But here I am, new diet, new outlook, new everything. I want this. And with my first book coming out in January, it's time to do this already.
But first, Raising Hope. Two episodes tonight and it's already 9:31 p.m. (I Tivo'd them.) I have to be in bed by 11, because I'm expected up at 6 a.m., so it's time to start.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Still Here
It's definitely been a long time since May, but I'm still here. Life reorganization, figuring out who I am and all that after having co-written a book and deciding that film criticism probably won't sustain me for the rest of my life. It's a lot to take in when that's pretty much all I've done since I was a teenager, but I'm working on improving myself and figuring out where to go next.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Heading for Las Vegas
Tomorrow morning, early, most likely between 7:30 and 8, we're leaving for Las Vegas. We're stopping to drop the dogs off in Canyon Country at a kennel that boards them, and then to McDonald's, and then out, stopping in Baker and the gas station/rest stop food court there before we charge into the real stretch of the Mojave Desert. We'll probably arrive in Vegas by a little before or after 3, because we're not going to eat at Richie's Real American Diner in Victorville, being that it sunk fast when we were there in March. Not as good as in 2008. The plummeting economy clearly hit it.
The purpose of this trip is a job interview my dad has on Thursday morning at a private school. It's the call we all were waiting for, the one that can get us to where we truly want to live. We're going to keep an open mind toward all the areas we visit, but the consensus seems to be Boulder City, near Hoover Dam. It feels comfortable, it's a genuine small town, and we determined that that's what we've been missing all this time, why Mom moved with Dad 12 times, and my sister and I about two or three times less.
On this evening before, my sister and I still have to pack, I have to put extra food into the birds' cages, and decide finally on what books I want to bring with me. I thought it would be two, knowing last time that I didn't even touch most of the books I brought, but being a voracious, obsessive reader, I'm not going to follow that. So far, it's five books, two issues of The New Yorker, and the "Fiction Issue" of the Atlantic from late last year. There is a difference now, in that the books are lighter, therefore my tote bag is lighter, and it'll be easier to lug it from the car to the hotel room (America's Best Value Inn again, off the Strip, adjacent to Hooters Casino Hotel, and surrounded on both sides by a Motel 6), and back to the car on Friday morning. The big question in my mind right now is whether to bring along Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt, too. I'm also thinking about whether to bring Saturday Night by Susan Orlean, so I can finish it, but I'm not sure. It might make good travel reading, being that Orlean traveled to different locales in the United States to study different Saturday nights. Maybe.
I'm also thinking about souls I've met in the past who I know I won't see again. It was 2008 when we saw Mamma Mia! at Mandalay Bay, and on the way to Vegas, we stopped in Baker at the same gas station/rest stop that's one of our reliable beacons. This was when construction had been completed on the gas station, and so the property was wider, with a lot more to look at, more snacks, drinks, and generally useless items you wouldn't buy in your normal daily life. That's the fun of it.
I remember this huge truck driver who was hanging around, talking to someone at the Pizza Hut counter for a few minutes. He had a bulk around him that seemed like it would spill over his seat in his truck. I liked him, though. He had resolve. He also had this huge 72 oz. travel mug, and he walked over to the soda dispenser, and drained whatever was his choice. I wasn't looking closely, but I was impressed by him. He seemed to be truly of the road. This was his home. He stopped here to replenish himself, and any number of motels on the way were what he found comfort in, what was always reliable to him. I have no desire to travel that extensively, but I enjoy watching people like that, who truly know that they belong here and they have no second thoughts about it. It would be something if I saw him again tomorrow in Baker, but I doubt it. It's going to be Wednesday afternoon by the time we get there, and I'm sure he'll be out on the road, guiding his rig, thinking, listening to the radio, the CB too, with another travel mug wedged in with him. Tomorrow doesn't feel like the day I'd see him. Thursday maybe. Hey, maybe Friday. We'll be on our way home then. But even if not, the fascinating personalities encountered while traveling are endless.
The purpose of this trip is a job interview my dad has on Thursday morning at a private school. It's the call we all were waiting for, the one that can get us to where we truly want to live. We're going to keep an open mind toward all the areas we visit, but the consensus seems to be Boulder City, near Hoover Dam. It feels comfortable, it's a genuine small town, and we determined that that's what we've been missing all this time, why Mom moved with Dad 12 times, and my sister and I about two or three times less.
On this evening before, my sister and I still have to pack, I have to put extra food into the birds' cages, and decide finally on what books I want to bring with me. I thought it would be two, knowing last time that I didn't even touch most of the books I brought, but being a voracious, obsessive reader, I'm not going to follow that. So far, it's five books, two issues of The New Yorker, and the "Fiction Issue" of the Atlantic from late last year. There is a difference now, in that the books are lighter, therefore my tote bag is lighter, and it'll be easier to lug it from the car to the hotel room (America's Best Value Inn again, off the Strip, adjacent to Hooters Casino Hotel, and surrounded on both sides by a Motel 6), and back to the car on Friday morning. The big question in my mind right now is whether to bring along Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt, too. I'm also thinking about whether to bring Saturday Night by Susan Orlean, so I can finish it, but I'm not sure. It might make good travel reading, being that Orlean traveled to different locales in the United States to study different Saturday nights. Maybe.
I'm also thinking about souls I've met in the past who I know I won't see again. It was 2008 when we saw Mamma Mia! at Mandalay Bay, and on the way to Vegas, we stopped in Baker at the same gas station/rest stop that's one of our reliable beacons. This was when construction had been completed on the gas station, and so the property was wider, with a lot more to look at, more snacks, drinks, and generally useless items you wouldn't buy in your normal daily life. That's the fun of it.
I remember this huge truck driver who was hanging around, talking to someone at the Pizza Hut counter for a few minutes. He had a bulk around him that seemed like it would spill over his seat in his truck. I liked him, though. He had resolve. He also had this huge 72 oz. travel mug, and he walked over to the soda dispenser, and drained whatever was his choice. I wasn't looking closely, but I was impressed by him. He seemed to be truly of the road. This was his home. He stopped here to replenish himself, and any number of motels on the way were what he found comfort in, what was always reliable to him. I have no desire to travel that extensively, but I enjoy watching people like that, who truly know that they belong here and they have no second thoughts about it. It would be something if I saw him again tomorrow in Baker, but I doubt it. It's going to be Wednesday afternoon by the time we get there, and I'm sure he'll be out on the road, guiding his rig, thinking, listening to the radio, the CB too, with another travel mug wedged in with him. Tomorrow doesn't feel like the day I'd see him. Thursday maybe. Hey, maybe Friday. We'll be on our way home then. But even if not, the fascinating personalities encountered while traveling are endless.
Friday, May 7, 2010
It Happened Five Minutes Ago. I Swear It Did.
I remember arriving at Los Angeles International with my parents and sister. I remember leaving the Boeing 757, walking down the jetway, and out of that gate, into the airport. I don't remember if we stopped at the luggage carousel, though we probably did, because at Fort Lauderdale International on that late March day in 2003, we had luggage to give at the American Airlines counter. At LAX, I was more in awe of the sheer size of that particular terminal, quite sure that it could be its own civilization. It looked like it.
This piece of a memory came from watching the latest episode of Modern Family last night on the Tivo. I don't watch it often, since I like The Middle more, but because most of it was set at Los Angeles International, and because I am an aviation enthusiast and want to work at an airport in the coming years, I had to see this episode. I was paying attention to Jay's growing displeasure at his family joining him on this trip to Hawaii, and Claire's severe fear of flying, but looking at that airport, the escalator (which I don't think I ever saw), the little shops in between, I also thought about 5 or 6 a.m., 10 days later, when we arrived back on the property to return the car we rented to the small agency nearby, and to be shuttled to our terminal. I think the flight was within the 9 a.m. hour, but it was the first true L.A. darkness I had ever seen. Staying at the Airtel Plaza Hotel in Van Nuys, with its aviation decorations (since it was right next to Van Nuys Executive), and driving to Santa Clarita (a chilly, stinging rain on that day, when we went to Six Flags Magic Mountain), and San Diego (so warm, inviting, and seemingly so relaxed, that I wanted to live there right away, but there was no job for Dad there), and many other locales, there was nighttime, of course, but I had never paid attention to it like I had on that morning. Ok, that's not completely true, because I had stood on the balcony of our two-bedroom hotel room, watching the activity at Van Nuys Executive at about 10 p.m. each evening. But then, the darkness was in relation to the airport, and I was more interested in the airport. I would watch some planes take off against the at-times barely visible outline of the mountain some miles away, and only the plane had my attention.
I think back to comparisons. On the flight to Los Angeles, the movie was Brown Sugar, which had fine actors in Taye Diggs and Sanaa Lathan, but I thought it would never end. After, there was the pilot episode of Still Standing, and I think an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. It was a lunchtime flight, and one of the selections was a chicken-and-rice dish that was actually pretty good.
On the flight back, I Spy was shown, and I wanted to jump out of the plane. It was bad enough that breakfast was a soggy something, either waffles or an imitation of them. Cereal cannot be screwed up, and fortunately, that was part of the meal, the only worthwhile part. I didn't care that Eddie Murphy was suddenly paired up with Owen Wilson, I didn't care about the plot, and, at that point, Famke Janssen still hadn't done anything worthwhile since Goldeneye. Here's the thing, though. It's not that I didn't want to go home because California was so great. I was still perplexed by it, trying to understand why Dad insisted on possibly moving there. Apparently, he'd liked it when he went in the '70s, but he couldn't have expected it to remain the same. This is the same man who, when we were evacuated from our home for a day in October 2007 because of a nearby wildfire, said that he didn't think any wildfires could actually be in our valley. Let that not be viewed as a slight against him. I don't mean it that way. It's just that on that trip and the next trip out that he and Mom took, and our eventual move here, he didn't know a whole lot about Southern California. Very little study went into what each area was and what they could have meant for us. He was going to lose his teaching job in Pembroke Pines, Florida, because of then-governor Jeb Bush's edict on expanding the importance of the FCAT exam, to the severe detriment of many electives, including business education, which was to be cut. So we had to go. There was nothing else. And he didn't want to do anything else. He had been a teacher again since 1996 (before that, he worked for Southern Bell, which then became BellSouth, for 19 years; before that, a teacher for a time in the New York public school system), and he wasn't going to let go of it. He's good at it. But California? I didn't feel close to any of its southern regions as closely as I did with nearly all of Florida, my home state. Every part of Florida is manageable. 25 minutes to Fort Lauderdale from Pembroke Pines, no matter the traffic. And downtown there always offered things to see, such as the Museum of Discovery and Science and the main Broward County Library branch. And the art museum.
Southern California has all those things, I know. But it's the split areas I don't like, split by freeways. I may be a resident of Southern California, but I'm only a true resident of Santa Clarita. I'm a tourist in Pasadena, in Burbank, obviously in San Francisco, which I'd expect, but even in downtown Los Angeles, in Palmdale, too.
But I've mentioned all that before in a previous entry. I'm just stunned at how fast these six and a half years have passed. There have been days that I've wanted to hug close, to extend to more than the time I was given. I wanted to wrap myself up in certain hours and disappear into each moment, taking each moment in for half an hour to walk through them. I loved Friday afternoons at College of the Canyons, when the campus was so empty that I felt like I owned it. I remember my graduation from there, sitting in one seat, one row of what must have been 20 rows on the grass in the Honor Grove, bored with the too-long speech by the head of the school, looking up at the windows in one of the buildings, wondering if any professor there was eccentric enough that they were possible sitting cross-legged on the floor, frantically paging through Moby Dick, trying to find a certain word that they remembered the most from it.
There are countless more memories like this, and I'll probably put them here over time. I still miss the apartment in Valencia. There was more to see, more to do, more to know there. But I won't miss this entire valley when we move to Las Vegas. That's where I want to be now, and when I read books on its history, I always feel I can belong to it. That's most important to me.
This piece of a memory came from watching the latest episode of Modern Family last night on the Tivo. I don't watch it often, since I like The Middle more, but because most of it was set at Los Angeles International, and because I am an aviation enthusiast and want to work at an airport in the coming years, I had to see this episode. I was paying attention to Jay's growing displeasure at his family joining him on this trip to Hawaii, and Claire's severe fear of flying, but looking at that airport, the escalator (which I don't think I ever saw), the little shops in between, I also thought about 5 or 6 a.m., 10 days later, when we arrived back on the property to return the car we rented to the small agency nearby, and to be shuttled to our terminal. I think the flight was within the 9 a.m. hour, but it was the first true L.A. darkness I had ever seen. Staying at the Airtel Plaza Hotel in Van Nuys, with its aviation decorations (since it was right next to Van Nuys Executive), and driving to Santa Clarita (a chilly, stinging rain on that day, when we went to Six Flags Magic Mountain), and San Diego (so warm, inviting, and seemingly so relaxed, that I wanted to live there right away, but there was no job for Dad there), and many other locales, there was nighttime, of course, but I had never paid attention to it like I had on that morning. Ok, that's not completely true, because I had stood on the balcony of our two-bedroom hotel room, watching the activity at Van Nuys Executive at about 10 p.m. each evening. But then, the darkness was in relation to the airport, and I was more interested in the airport. I would watch some planes take off against the at-times barely visible outline of the mountain some miles away, and only the plane had my attention.
I think back to comparisons. On the flight to Los Angeles, the movie was Brown Sugar, which had fine actors in Taye Diggs and Sanaa Lathan, but I thought it would never end. After, there was the pilot episode of Still Standing, and I think an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. It was a lunchtime flight, and one of the selections was a chicken-and-rice dish that was actually pretty good.
On the flight back, I Spy was shown, and I wanted to jump out of the plane. It was bad enough that breakfast was a soggy something, either waffles or an imitation of them. Cereal cannot be screwed up, and fortunately, that was part of the meal, the only worthwhile part. I didn't care that Eddie Murphy was suddenly paired up with Owen Wilson, I didn't care about the plot, and, at that point, Famke Janssen still hadn't done anything worthwhile since Goldeneye. Here's the thing, though. It's not that I didn't want to go home because California was so great. I was still perplexed by it, trying to understand why Dad insisted on possibly moving there. Apparently, he'd liked it when he went in the '70s, but he couldn't have expected it to remain the same. This is the same man who, when we were evacuated from our home for a day in October 2007 because of a nearby wildfire, said that he didn't think any wildfires could actually be in our valley. Let that not be viewed as a slight against him. I don't mean it that way. It's just that on that trip and the next trip out that he and Mom took, and our eventual move here, he didn't know a whole lot about Southern California. Very little study went into what each area was and what they could have meant for us. He was going to lose his teaching job in Pembroke Pines, Florida, because of then-governor Jeb Bush's edict on expanding the importance of the FCAT exam, to the severe detriment of many electives, including business education, which was to be cut. So we had to go. There was nothing else. And he didn't want to do anything else. He had been a teacher again since 1996 (before that, he worked for Southern Bell, which then became BellSouth, for 19 years; before that, a teacher for a time in the New York public school system), and he wasn't going to let go of it. He's good at it. But California? I didn't feel close to any of its southern regions as closely as I did with nearly all of Florida, my home state. Every part of Florida is manageable. 25 minutes to Fort Lauderdale from Pembroke Pines, no matter the traffic. And downtown there always offered things to see, such as the Museum of Discovery and Science and the main Broward County Library branch. And the art museum.
Southern California has all those things, I know. But it's the split areas I don't like, split by freeways. I may be a resident of Southern California, but I'm only a true resident of Santa Clarita. I'm a tourist in Pasadena, in Burbank, obviously in San Francisco, which I'd expect, but even in downtown Los Angeles, in Palmdale, too.
But I've mentioned all that before in a previous entry. I'm just stunned at how fast these six and a half years have passed. There have been days that I've wanted to hug close, to extend to more than the time I was given. I wanted to wrap myself up in certain hours and disappear into each moment, taking each moment in for half an hour to walk through them. I loved Friday afternoons at College of the Canyons, when the campus was so empty that I felt like I owned it. I remember my graduation from there, sitting in one seat, one row of what must have been 20 rows on the grass in the Honor Grove, bored with the too-long speech by the head of the school, looking up at the windows in one of the buildings, wondering if any professor there was eccentric enough that they were possible sitting cross-legged on the floor, frantically paging through Moby Dick, trying to find a certain word that they remembered the most from it.
There are countless more memories like this, and I'll probably put them here over time. I still miss the apartment in Valencia. There was more to see, more to do, more to know there. But I won't miss this entire valley when we move to Las Vegas. That's where I want to be now, and when I read books on its history, I always feel I can belong to it. That's most important to me.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Art I Saw, and Want to See Again
Three rooms of European paintings at the Getty Center in Los Angeles, so high up in these yodeleehooooooooooooooooooooooo mountains that you have to take a tram to get to the museum. $15 for parking, and $49 for lunch for Mom, Dad, Meridith and me. The lunch was so worth it, with a $7.75 chicken burrito that actually looked like $7.75. It was stuffed that full with masterfully grilled chicken, black beans, lettuce, pico de gallo, shredded cheese, and rice. I've never seen a burrito made that quickly, not even at Taco Bell, and this person not only knew the routine, but seemed to care about the routine. There was still some inkling within her that's devoted to this museum. Not that I doubt how much she might like working for the Getty Museum. It may only be a job to her, but there was some pride in how she placed each ingredient. It was a ramrod straight stack that only fell apart a few minutes after I took the toothpick out of it at our table and began to reach the end of it. I didn't mind. I had utensils, and a cup of sour cream, and actually, a mini burrito salad on my plate. I scarfed the rest of it up, and after a yogurt parfait with granola and raspberries ($6.75, but also worth it), I sat satisfied. It reminded me of when we walked the outdoor grounds before we found the cafe. I looked at the people passing by, I admired the appearance of many of the women (inspiration can come from anywhere; simple, but I stick by it every day), and I wondered why my life couldn't be like this every day. I'm not going to badmouth Southern California here, because I've done it enough already and between this, and the new route for walking that I found in my neighborhood, I see it as a sign that we're getting the good things now that will possibly lead to Southern Nevada calling soon for my dad for a teaching position.
After lunch, we went to the Getty pavilion that housed the exhibits we wanted to see. Meridith had a yen for an exhibit of food photographs. On the table at lunch, I found a plastic, vertical rectangular ad block that pushed "Urban Panoramas," and I noticed one photo that was of an empty parking garage. I love those kinds of photos. I get more out of the tire streaks on a parking garage floor than from the painting "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" by Georges Seurat, which became the Stephen Sondheim musical Sunday in the Park with George.
When we got to the West Pavilion, we went to the second floor, where there was three rooms of European art. Mostly French. Some British. The only ones I really liked were the British ones, two in particular; one of a family torn up by one of their own being on trial, and waiting for a verdict, and the second one with the family in great relief after an apparent "not guilty" verdict. Reminded me of Dickens, and that's exactly what the writing next to the painting mentioned.
But that was it. I like some of Paul Cezanne's works, but I can't see having his work in frames on my walls at home. However, when we got to the exhibit I wanted to see (we saw the food photograph exhibit first, and the only two I really liked were a shot of a full pantry, and someone's freezer in the early '70s), I was stunned by the panoramas of New York City by Jeff Chien-Hsiang Liao. I never imagined photographs could be so alive. I've seen dramatic ones by newspaper photographers, but the major thing about Liao's photographs is that there are always people hidden. Not purposely hidden, but you look at what the photo is first. It's the entrance to the subway, the baseball stadium, a vantage point from Times Square. You see the immediate people, the trash cans, the big signs advertising the latest of what people should consume. But then you look further back. You see a gray-haired woman with a confused expression. You look at the photo of the storefront in Queens and you not only see the big standing box of watermelons next to the door. You see two people inside that store, still in that aisle you can see, waiting for their items to be rung up. There is always something to look at in his photographs, and the atmosphere to feel. Really feel. You can't know just by his photograph what it truly means to be in New York City, but you get at least half of that feeling. Maybe above half.
Right now, I'm looking at the photos on his website, including the ones at the Getty exhibit and also ones not featured there, and the impact is not at all there. I can't see the three guys very well who stand at the bottom right corner of the photo of the Iron Triangle (a kind of auto row) in Flushing, Queens. The guy I saw in that photo with the pen in his mouth? I recognize him by his shirt, but I cannot see the pen this way. At the exhibit, I said to Mom that if they had resized some of Liao's photos for bookmarks, I would buy them. I wouldn't. And I'm glad I didn't find any in the two museum stores we visited. These photos should stay as they are. Because of the lunch we had that was far better than most restaurants we go to, we might be back some time in May. I hope so, because the exhibit featuring Liao's work ends on June 6. I want to see those expansive photos again, and also be disappointed again that no personal photography is allowed in the exhibit. I wouldn't want to capture the photos directly, just the atmosphere of that room.
After lunch, we went to the Getty pavilion that housed the exhibits we wanted to see. Meridith had a yen for an exhibit of food photographs. On the table at lunch, I found a plastic, vertical rectangular ad block that pushed "Urban Panoramas," and I noticed one photo that was of an empty parking garage. I love those kinds of photos. I get more out of the tire streaks on a parking garage floor than from the painting "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" by Georges Seurat, which became the Stephen Sondheim musical Sunday in the Park with George.
When we got to the West Pavilion, we went to the second floor, where there was three rooms of European art. Mostly French. Some British. The only ones I really liked were the British ones, two in particular; one of a family torn up by one of their own being on trial, and waiting for a verdict, and the second one with the family in great relief after an apparent "not guilty" verdict. Reminded me of Dickens, and that's exactly what the writing next to the painting mentioned.
But that was it. I like some of Paul Cezanne's works, but I can't see having his work in frames on my walls at home. However, when we got to the exhibit I wanted to see (we saw the food photograph exhibit first, and the only two I really liked were a shot of a full pantry, and someone's freezer in the early '70s), I was stunned by the panoramas of New York City by Jeff Chien-Hsiang Liao. I never imagined photographs could be so alive. I've seen dramatic ones by newspaper photographers, but the major thing about Liao's photographs is that there are always people hidden. Not purposely hidden, but you look at what the photo is first. It's the entrance to the subway, the baseball stadium, a vantage point from Times Square. You see the immediate people, the trash cans, the big signs advertising the latest of what people should consume. But then you look further back. You see a gray-haired woman with a confused expression. You look at the photo of the storefront in Queens and you not only see the big standing box of watermelons next to the door. You see two people inside that store, still in that aisle you can see, waiting for their items to be rung up. There is always something to look at in his photographs, and the atmosphere to feel. Really feel. You can't know just by his photograph what it truly means to be in New York City, but you get at least half of that feeling. Maybe above half.
Right now, I'm looking at the photos on his website, including the ones at the Getty exhibit and also ones not featured there, and the impact is not at all there. I can't see the three guys very well who stand at the bottom right corner of the photo of the Iron Triangle (a kind of auto row) in Flushing, Queens. The guy I saw in that photo with the pen in his mouth? I recognize him by his shirt, but I cannot see the pen this way. At the exhibit, I said to Mom that if they had resized some of Liao's photos for bookmarks, I would buy them. I wouldn't. And I'm glad I didn't find any in the two museum stores we visited. These photos should stay as they are. Because of the lunch we had that was far better than most restaurants we go to, we might be back some time in May. I hope so, because the exhibit featuring Liao's work ends on June 6. I want to see those expansive photos again, and also be disappointed again that no personal photography is allowed in the exhibit. I wouldn't want to capture the photos directly, just the atmosphere of that room.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Where is David Henry Hwang?
It's 2:30 a.m. (yesterday morning), and I'm sitting on the floor near my dad's chair at the dining room table, checking what books I want to return to the library in order to pick up some of the books on hold for me. To return 30 in order to pick up all the holds would be impossible. I always have that futile hope that somehow, in a week, before picking up the next round of holds, I can read everything I decided to keep.
The books form a half moon in front of me. With my favorite click pen in my right hand, a blue ink Pentel R.S.V.P., and my eight-page library card printout in my left hand, I make sure Bright Sided by Barbara Ehrenreich is next to Architecture of the Old South: South Carolina, a hefty coffee-table book that I checked out to get a sense of home for others, ahead of the maybe-in-a-few-months possibility of finally regaining a real home, this time in Boulder City, Nevada. Last time was when I was a kindergartner in Casselberry, Florida. My elementary school, Stirling Park, was actually in the neighborhood.
I look over at the playwrights I intend to return. Tennessee Williams ("American Blues: Five Short Plays") is at the top of a small stack. Christopher Durang ("Baby with the Bathwater and Laughing Wild: Two Plays") is below him, followed by Terrence McNally ("Frankie and Johnny in the Clair De Lune"), Arthur Miller ("Danger, Memory!: Two Plays"), Ellen Byron ("Graceland and Asleep on the Wind: Two Short Plays") , Robert Anderson ("You Know I Can't Hear You When the Water's Running"), and Edward Albee ("Counting the Ways and Listening: Two Plays"). Michael McClure ("The Beard") sits in front of these noteworthy names. He's small-looking enough in size that I don't want to lose him when he goes into my tote bag. When my father had a week-long spring break two weeks ago, we went to San Manuel Indian Bingo and Casino during the week, and I got a few ideas within this setting for either a play or two one-act plays, involving only two characters. I intended to read these to learn about the form, as all of these playwrights had written exactly what I was looking for. But other writers got in the way, as well as myself, finishing my first book and sending the results to my writing partner. Since then, he e-mailed me back, saying that he's "extremely proud" of what I've "put forth." It's a huge relief. It took a year. Actually, a little over 365 days was all I had. It's a lot shorter as a deadline, though I suspect forthcoming ages will cut it even closer than that.
I put checkmarks next to these writers on my library card printout. I always reach the limit of 50 items. I count the books in front of me. 17. Eric Puchner ("Model Home") makes 17. As said before, other writers got in the way. My reading desires vary wildly each week. Plus, with returning to writing reviews for Screen It, I need to figure out what my priorities are in books. Being that I strive for at least 99% accuracy in my reviews, I try to get dialogue exact when applicable, gunfire described completely, including what character shot what weapon and at whom, and profanity. My first film back will be Goodfellas. You can imagine how much time that may take. It's for parents, however (with the only slant in each review being the section reserved for the standard movie review, called "Our Take"), and they should have the most information possible. Plus, I get paid for this and I want to do the best job possible. I also have to begin the process of financial aid and signing up for classes online from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. My future career lies in aviation, definitely at an airport. I'm not sure exactly what I want to do yet, but I have a few ideas.
I shouldn't have 17 books to return, though. I should have 18. Where is number 18? Where is David Henry Hwang ("FOB and Other Plays")? I walk over to the stack I have within a winding faux-marble stand that exists to hold some of our dogs' toys and other things. I use one shelf for my books. I look at the nine-count stack that's there, and I can't find Mr. Hwang. I go to my room to look at where I kept a few of these playwrights, figuring that if they were in my room, I'd be quick about getting to know them. He's not there. There's that book about presidential history, and on the bottom of that stack, that large book of cartoons by Roz Chast, but Mr. Hwang had not decided to spend time near my copy of Around the World in 80 Days which would have been adjacent to him.
I go back to the living room, back to the books still on the floor. I upend the playwrights I've already collected, hoping that I merely overlooked him. I look on the dining room table, where I've placed books I checked out the previous week, and am now only beginning to get to know. He's not there either. I begin to worry about having to pay for Mr. Hwang taking up residence in my house. I also worry about if I might have accidentally left him behind at the library the previous week. Did one of the librarians find him and put him back in my box after scanning his barcode and finding out that he had already been checked out to me? When I walk into the library, will one of them tell me that they found him and here he is?
I go back to my room. I look at the books in the stack nearest to the head of my bed. Cory Doctorow is waiting with Makers, Michael Dobbs wants to tell me all about the delightfully nefarious politician Francis Urquhart, and believes three books ("House of Cards," "To Play the King," and "The Final Cut") should be sufficient enough for the task. There's other writers waiting, such as John Kiriakou ("The Reluctant Spy: My Secret Life in the CIA's War on Terror"), but none of them know of Hwang, and he's not in that stack either.
I begin to wonder: Is Mr. Hwang miffed that I didn't have time for him? Is he hiding out of spite? Is he so eager for me to get to know him that he's hoping I don't find him so that I only go to the library with 17 books, and therefore can only pick up 17 of my holds? He's not due back at the library yet anyway, but I need to let in Elif Batuman. I've waited long enough for her to arrive with her obsession over Russian literature ("The Possessed"). Besides putting other writers on hold on my card, I check every day on what writers wait for me to pick them up, and four people were always ahead of me on her dance card. That number didn't move in my favor for weeks. Now she arrived, and I wanted to know what she knew and loved about Russian literature.
I go back to the stack sitting on a shelf of that stand. Bottom to top. Noel Coward is at the bottom with his diaries. At the top, a bunch of writers are clustered together with much to say about Mark Twain in The Mark Twain Anthology. Below that is something dark. I can't see it very well because the living room light shines into my parents' bedroom, and I can't use it. The dining room light remains on its lowest setting overnight so they can sleep soundly. That's the deal we made about two months ago, unless I really need the living room light, but I don't.
The darkness below The Mark Twain Anthology becomes what I call "hallelujah light." Even though the light's not physically there, I feel it brightening. I found Mr. Hwang. It's a relief vastly different from passing a math test despite no confidence in the studying having done any good. I don't mean any disrespect toward Mr. Hwang. I want his help soon in understanding how a two-person play works, the possible ways of writing it, the necessary beats to keep an audience interested.
With him accounted for, I fill my tote bag. He's second from the top. I can't promise him that I'll ask to have him back right away, since I have to begin my education with Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, and refamiliarize myself with the routine of writing reviews for Screen It. But despite the work involved in both, I think he'll be back with me soon enough, teaching me what he thinks I should know.
The books form a half moon in front of me. With my favorite click pen in my right hand, a blue ink Pentel R.S.V.P., and my eight-page library card printout in my left hand, I make sure Bright Sided by Barbara Ehrenreich is next to Architecture of the Old South: South Carolina, a hefty coffee-table book that I checked out to get a sense of home for others, ahead of the maybe-in-a-few-months possibility of finally regaining a real home, this time in Boulder City, Nevada. Last time was when I was a kindergartner in Casselberry, Florida. My elementary school, Stirling Park, was actually in the neighborhood.
I look over at the playwrights I intend to return. Tennessee Williams ("American Blues: Five Short Plays") is at the top of a small stack. Christopher Durang ("Baby with the Bathwater and Laughing Wild: Two Plays") is below him, followed by Terrence McNally ("Frankie and Johnny in the Clair De Lune"), Arthur Miller ("Danger, Memory!: Two Plays"), Ellen Byron ("Graceland and Asleep on the Wind: Two Short Plays") , Robert Anderson ("You Know I Can't Hear You When the Water's Running"), and Edward Albee ("Counting the Ways and Listening: Two Plays"). Michael McClure ("The Beard") sits in front of these noteworthy names. He's small-looking enough in size that I don't want to lose him when he goes into my tote bag. When my father had a week-long spring break two weeks ago, we went to San Manuel Indian Bingo and Casino during the week, and I got a few ideas within this setting for either a play or two one-act plays, involving only two characters. I intended to read these to learn about the form, as all of these playwrights had written exactly what I was looking for. But other writers got in the way, as well as myself, finishing my first book and sending the results to my writing partner. Since then, he e-mailed me back, saying that he's "extremely proud" of what I've "put forth." It's a huge relief. It took a year. Actually, a little over 365 days was all I had. It's a lot shorter as a deadline, though I suspect forthcoming ages will cut it even closer than that.
I put checkmarks next to these writers on my library card printout. I always reach the limit of 50 items. I count the books in front of me. 17. Eric Puchner ("Model Home") makes 17. As said before, other writers got in the way. My reading desires vary wildly each week. Plus, with returning to writing reviews for Screen It, I need to figure out what my priorities are in books. Being that I strive for at least 99% accuracy in my reviews, I try to get dialogue exact when applicable, gunfire described completely, including what character shot what weapon and at whom, and profanity. My first film back will be Goodfellas. You can imagine how much time that may take. It's for parents, however (with the only slant in each review being the section reserved for the standard movie review, called "Our Take"), and they should have the most information possible. Plus, I get paid for this and I want to do the best job possible. I also have to begin the process of financial aid and signing up for classes online from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. My future career lies in aviation, definitely at an airport. I'm not sure exactly what I want to do yet, but I have a few ideas.
I shouldn't have 17 books to return, though. I should have 18. Where is number 18? Where is David Henry Hwang ("FOB and Other Plays")? I walk over to the stack I have within a winding faux-marble stand that exists to hold some of our dogs' toys and other things. I use one shelf for my books. I look at the nine-count stack that's there, and I can't find Mr. Hwang. I go to my room to look at where I kept a few of these playwrights, figuring that if they were in my room, I'd be quick about getting to know them. He's not there. There's that book about presidential history, and on the bottom of that stack, that large book of cartoons by Roz Chast, but Mr. Hwang had not decided to spend time near my copy of Around the World in 80 Days which would have been adjacent to him.
I go back to the living room, back to the books still on the floor. I upend the playwrights I've already collected, hoping that I merely overlooked him. I look on the dining room table, where I've placed books I checked out the previous week, and am now only beginning to get to know. He's not there either. I begin to worry about having to pay for Mr. Hwang taking up residence in my house. I also worry about if I might have accidentally left him behind at the library the previous week. Did one of the librarians find him and put him back in my box after scanning his barcode and finding out that he had already been checked out to me? When I walk into the library, will one of them tell me that they found him and here he is?
I go back to my room. I look at the books in the stack nearest to the head of my bed. Cory Doctorow is waiting with Makers, Michael Dobbs wants to tell me all about the delightfully nefarious politician Francis Urquhart, and believes three books ("House of Cards," "To Play the King," and "The Final Cut") should be sufficient enough for the task. There's other writers waiting, such as John Kiriakou ("The Reluctant Spy: My Secret Life in the CIA's War on Terror"), but none of them know of Hwang, and he's not in that stack either.
I begin to wonder: Is Mr. Hwang miffed that I didn't have time for him? Is he hiding out of spite? Is he so eager for me to get to know him that he's hoping I don't find him so that I only go to the library with 17 books, and therefore can only pick up 17 of my holds? He's not due back at the library yet anyway, but I need to let in Elif Batuman. I've waited long enough for her to arrive with her obsession over Russian literature ("The Possessed"). Besides putting other writers on hold on my card, I check every day on what writers wait for me to pick them up, and four people were always ahead of me on her dance card. That number didn't move in my favor for weeks. Now she arrived, and I wanted to know what she knew and loved about Russian literature.
I go back to the stack sitting on a shelf of that stand. Bottom to top. Noel Coward is at the bottom with his diaries. At the top, a bunch of writers are clustered together with much to say about Mark Twain in The Mark Twain Anthology. Below that is something dark. I can't see it very well because the living room light shines into my parents' bedroom, and I can't use it. The dining room light remains on its lowest setting overnight so they can sleep soundly. That's the deal we made about two months ago, unless I really need the living room light, but I don't.
The darkness below The Mark Twain Anthology becomes what I call "hallelujah light." Even though the light's not physically there, I feel it brightening. I found Mr. Hwang. It's a relief vastly different from passing a math test despite no confidence in the studying having done any good. I don't mean any disrespect toward Mr. Hwang. I want his help soon in understanding how a two-person play works, the possible ways of writing it, the necessary beats to keep an audience interested.
With him accounted for, I fill my tote bag. He's second from the top. I can't promise him that I'll ask to have him back right away, since I have to begin my education with Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, and refamiliarize myself with the routine of writing reviews for Screen It. But despite the work involved in both, I think he'll be back with me soon enough, teaching me what he thinks I should know.
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