Lemonade in the Winter

A friend is doing this pretty awesome gift idea. Making a calendar for another, with quotes collected from even more. I saw the email list gathered and this one really struck me.

"Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently. "

I like that. I don't know who said that, but it's perfect.

Our struggles are the ribbons around a beautiful and unseen present.

Rain

I haven't seen it rain in LA, at least not in my part of town for a while. Not since I came back in August. That was over three months ago. Three months of everything around me surviving off the conflicting forces of tons of sunshine and a few midnight dews. I'm sure whatever rain had visited, was far before my arrival. So how long has it been? Half a year?

It wasn't long ago when living in Transylvania that I experienced the same awe at seeing the trees and plants come back from what looked like death and four months of winter. How did they survive that cold for that long? How does LA survive the thirst?



A woman I met in a store complained about a weather reporter's ill-predicted forecast of rain. It was eighty degrees outside and November. She told me she couldn't remember the last time she saw rain. "Really rain. Not that drizzle for an hour thing it does here. And when it finally does rain," she added half frustrated and half amused, "I'll have to explain what rain is to my little girl!"

Tonight it is raining. Like spring's first shoots of green along the dark arms of naked trees, rain wakes Southern California from her burning, endless summer. Earth we've left uncovered soaks it up, adhesion helps the grains hiding beneath the unrequested cement tomb.

Good thing I put off washing my car. The time was better spent with friends.

Last night I looked from it's windows. Puddles fill depressions in the street. When was the last time I saw a puddle that wasn't from a carburetor and swirling with oil rainbows? It's been too long, I thought. Outside the clouds wash the streets, the cities sins flow to the ocean and I felt grateful she drinks for us.

At work I walk by as the kids are asked, "When was the last time you seen it rain?" No one answered. The pool sticks and games were momentarily forgotten as mesmerized faces pressed against a window. Their attention was focused outside today. The question seemed coincidental considering I asked myself the same the night before in my car.

It was probably the first time this year it's rained, really rained here. Considering their age, for some this will be their first memories of rain. I watched as they were pulled away from the storm and scooted back to their games.

When will they see it again? Will they think back on today when years from now they wonder, when was the last time it rained? Will today be their answer?

The Story of a Woman Who Starved to Death Eating Leaves

Once there was a woman who only lived to collect moments.

To fill her cases on love she'd find a man and do just that. Love him and love him until all he could do was love her back. And when they'd give her their hearts, with a satisfied grin, she'd leave with the memories and emotional win.
"Are you crazy?!" One once said watching it go on a shelf. "We used to be in love but really, you only loved yourself."
However, it was all in vain, to the woman love was just a task. After the warmth was extracted there was no need to keep on love's mask.
And in a jar his set, in between all the rest. Her assortment ever updating and barely perused, to one day remind her of the life she collected and the people she used.


Painting By Gary Jefferson; garyjefferson.com

Pause

The rat race leaves little time to take five on the sidelines. That hare will surely speed by you dare a rose keep your attention too long. The simple things, like using your nose to smell a flower, become luxurious pastimes appreciated far more because of their rarity. This is the one beautiful thing about working too much, free minutes are savored like the rain drops in our desert.
So if you too are stuck in a workers rut with vacation relief seemingly far away, here are some everyday moments worth relishing in.

1. Watching a dog hump your friend.
Ageless, hours of entertainment.

2. Solving a puzzle.
Whether it's jigsaw or crossword, five minutes or five hours, your mind will feel refreshed and ready to solve one of your own.

3. Clipping yo' nails
Its meditative.
Did you know that you can get pin-worms from the funk under there?

4. Excepting invitations from random strangers
They are adventures and friends waiting to be met.

5. Watching Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with your dad
Dads aren't there forever. And neither will be movies like that.

my new tattoo , ive been saving up for, for like 1 month now. it's pretty damn sweet, it just came to me one night. ........... a medium aged dragon, standing up straight, wearing a pair of air jordans, and throwing a pair of dice. then, underneath that, in fancy cursive , the words , "high roller" . i know what you're thinking , the same damn thing i'm thinking, pretty effin' sweet!!!!

Waiting For My Pirate

Back story: I met this guy a couple of years ago, he was really sweet. He would come talk to me while I worked, patiently trying to maintain a conversation with me as I cleaned fish tanks and occasionally walked away to tend to other customers. He was diggin' on me. At the time, I was not feeling the same. Not that he wasn't cute, he was...it was just his fixation with pirates that kind of scared me away. He was in a pirate drama club of some sort and his deep and scruffy voice sounded just like a pirate's, minus the "arrgghh's" and "mateys" of course. But really, add those in and no need to fake an accent.
His long, dark hair was pulled back into a pony tail and on the first date it was hard for me to not picture him in the missing hat and eye-patch he must have left at home. Anyways, I was 24 or so at the time and just not ready to date a pirate.
A few weeks ago I ran into the guy randomly after not seeing him for years. He was still doing the pirate thing, even more so now. His drama club had expanded into a Pirate performance troop of some sort and they graced the stages of many a SoCal summer festival with their vestige of pirate themed songs and acts. His career masquerading as a plunderer had been more bountiful than I could have imagined--his pockets were filled with little leather pouches and chains he designed specifically with the buccaneering man in mind. I was offered the headphones of his MP3 player to take a listen to his voice, rapping, about pirate stuff. I was in shock. Even more so that he did not somehow throw in the word booty. "Of course," he explained, "there's going to be an entire album of pirate songs! They will all be different though. All different genres..."
And I gave him my number. But he didn't call. And then I began to wonder why not. Where was he? I have nothing to do this Saturday night. How desperate have I become I thought, to be waiting for a pirate to call?? Oh, ode to my missing pirate....

Once you beckoned to me from atop your mast
I was clearly in your sights
like the shrouded peaks of Bali Hai
Your scope skimmed our heights

But I couldn't walk a pirates plank!
Afraid to take the leap
Later waiting for your ship to come
Bare horizons steal my sleep.

(the following is a later addition)

We circled the waters edge
never breaking the islands veil
For one night, and me, you left your treasures
threw the wind into the sail

The stars painted stories in the sky
But by dawn, they were burned away
the suns brutal reminder, washed ashore
for pirates never stay.

Grand View

Standing on Grand View Avenue, wondering where the hell the name came from. I shared my smoke with an old tree trunk turned tiki-pole/roof support structure for Mar Vista Bowl.

Grand View? All I saw was dark streets lit by a Karate, Goodwill and Laundry Mat sign that glowed the stars away.

Go ahead tiki man, take a hit. I hoped the late night, three bikers I saw riding the Venice lane home didn’t catch me holding the lit cigarette to my wooden friend’s mouth. You gotta’ give the bikers respect. I talk a big environmental game but the true livers of the dream are those willing to pedal home at 1am. They actually fly by pretty fast, I felt me and my new friend were safe.

The streets were empty considering…Saturday night, West LA, bowling for $20 from 10pm to 1am? Where was everybody?

Screw um’. I was chilling. Inside my friends and a friend-with-benefits-gone bad were taking my turns.

Footsteps and voices startled me as they crept around the corner. People coming. I regained my composer and my cigarette. Two very drunk men crossed the street headed my way but a group of girls and their high-pitched good nights cut them off.

Phew.

Filled with liquid courage and the belly to prove it, one of the guys wobbled after them. Unimpressed, the girls kept their backs turned and haphazardly continued their conversation, pretending not to notice the strange man and his mumbles at their heels. It only took a couple of blurry, “Gimme some of that’s…” for him to realize they were into more sophisticated game. They all disappeared and so did my cigarette. I had to go back in. Damn.

I looked around one more time just in case I missed something. A couple of Fichus trees, pavement and asphalt, a tattoo shop, a liquor store. Nope. I turned my head down the avenue until it darkened. I stopped focusing on the corner I was at, obviously not the inspiration for the name Grand View, wondering, hoping that maybe down yonder it was more so.

No Space For Me

"You don't seem like the typical LA girl..." You're words run over and over in my head.

Were they foreshadowing the night to come when I walked into your stank ass, aged-bong water-smelling room, a house cluttered and dangling with everything thats ever caught your eye

and did not roll my eyes, kept my mouth shut.

Stayed and watched customers buy your dreams, colorful names and prices written in dry erase purchased the Samurai swords above them, the rarest, flesh faced puffer below. All your things begin to distract me.

But I laughed my way through the crowded, pungent, unfamilar surroundings

Wondering what the typical LA girl would have done

Tropical Apocalypse

My skin prefers global warming

to many things

above all others

is probably flamingos.

Their claws are painful

Talons hidden under pleasantly

pink feathers

So exacting they prefer to pick

shrimp from their shells

perhaps all too perfectly

Shaving the flesh from it’s coverings

in one immaculate swoop.

Devouring iodine

Turning pinker

Save for that

menacing, honest

black beak.

Saying Goodbye to the Sun

The other day I was part of an unexpected pagan ritual. Luckily there haven’t been any recent stake-burnings, but with current trends who knows how much longer one can get away with such lavishly earthly delights. It’s not everyday one takes the time to say goodbye to the sun with a group of humans to the beat of drums. But that’s just what I did.
Funny too that it was the last official day of summer--if you’re a Venice High School student anyways. (And where else but Venice beach could one bare witness and be part of such a cultist experience). The boardwalk was empty of the common tourists hordes since it was a Tuesday evening. Mario, the boyfriend of my long time friend Cheri, always manages to attract the most unexpected and socially unconventional characters. Somehow he stumbled upon a hippie while on a five-minute jog who invited us to witness the sunset and help make a drum circle, well, more round. The invitation was taken with a grain of salt as we went on about our own selfish adventures. Yet somehow we found ourselves right where we needed to be as the sun prepared to set. The drums must have lured us in the right direction but I can’t remember hearing them.
As we came upon the grassy knoll where the ritual was taking place I became very uneasy. Three different drummers played along with one another, all facing the sun while an amoeba-shaped group of maybe ten people spread around. A dark sister with long, thick braids held her hands above her head, tempting glances to her naval as she thrusted her gold belly chains back and forth. An unshaven, tan young man in cut-off jean shorts twirled a gymnastic-like ribbon-stick in circles and waves from atop a hill of grass as he interpreted the drums with his whole body. His ribbon and fancy footwork intoxicated a blonde who would every now and then concede to her obvious urges to dance too.
As I followed Cheri and Mario deeper into this circle of strangeness I thought to myself, “These people are crazy! They must all be on drugs!” I felt like I was going to be judged similarly by others as they passed. I begrudgingly sat down in the chosen spot, two feet from ribbon boy and his off beat twists and turns. Honestly, I wanted to move. But I was facing the sun, I told myself, I could focus on that instead of all these weirdoes. I am not yet a sufficient writer to paint the picture, but the colors splashed across the sky were fantastic. As the sun sank, the drums pounded louder, faster, aligning with the deepening yellows and oranges. The voice of a drummer in swaths of neutral cottons and headress started chanting, repeating over and over again the simple name, “Sun… Sun… Sun...”
It was infectious, gained voices, became the mantra. A man who looked in his thirties, wearing an old LA Raiders baseball cap from which escaped chunks of dirty blonde hair, kept looking in our direction as he delicately hopped on the grass. As the aura of the Santa Monica Mountains turned to reds and purples the ribbon waved faster and the dancers danced harder. A man with a half-blue painted face rolled up on his skates and stayed, maybe feeling a little more at home. As the music and chants and colors intensified others who had been waiting, doubted, and avoided the strange event moved closer. Some let the words and music move them. The sun was halfway gone and everyone who was within earshot could feel the fleeting light and quickening tempo sounding it’s departure.
It’s not something I normally do, the sun is always there, goes down every day, comes up every morning...but this moment shook me from that routine. This was the sun, powerful amazing warm, life-giving sun. It was leaving us, gave us our daily bread and I had been taking it for granted—until now. What if it wasn’t coming up again? What if this was my last chance to say goodbye? I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who realized. We were rhythmically carrying it away. We were it’s human protectors, appreciators of the life-force, callers of it’s morning rises and singers of the farewell praises. I became lost in a beautiful fantasy. My lips opened and I too was whispering.
“Sun... Sun… Sun…”
I now was one of these crazy people.
Even a Latino family picnicking near the ruckus joined in, shouting appropriate noises and screams in tempo. A tiny mustachioed man with a cowboy hat produced a bell and the chiming seemed right on queue. I spoke to the sun under the noise around me. Secrets.
Only a sliver of sunshine was left now and we could all feel it would be over soon. We shouted to it, sang, and whispered goodbyes as it disappeared behind the shadows of the Santa Monica Mountains until every sparkle went out.
An outline of the crescent moon hung over the ocean, begging for the same attention as the horizon darkened and the drums faded.
Considering the 10 hours a day I invest trying to pay bills, following the path of the dollar, 10 minutes following the path of the sun was nothing really. But for some reason I was sad to see it go. These are the last days of summer. I am not so good at saying goodbye. The irony is that I notice the metaphors of natural phenomenon too late. My brother asks me why I am the way I am. Why I use such an inefficient gauge, emotion, to direct my course of life, my actions, my reactions, etc. I will tell him next time, even though I had a hard time saying goodbye to the sun this day it doesn’t mean it’s rays haven’t stained a glow upon my skin.

homecoming

Ten days into LA and the most common question I receive about my two years served (yes, like prison) as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Romania is "What are you going to do now?". It's a good question, I suppose, considering how often it comes up in conversation. At a recent party before cups of liquor drowned this cultural habit I listened to it repeated over and over. Eventually I was expected to answer. It's hard to imagine two years of absence from this American (or is it just metropolitan?) tradition would have erased the commonality of the question from my psyche. The Romanians I met, in general, do not put such emphasis on the importance of work and profession in informal conversation. Far more frequently discussions and introductions revolved around family, the neighborhood, how one's wine turned out that year, marital status, and/or some passionate comment (usually against) the gypsy community.

In general it is considered rude to start meetings, even in the work place, about business--that was saved for last. First a tea or coffee, maybe some soda if you'd please and let's get to know each other. Building foundations of trust on something a little more solid than how you earn a living was far more central. Some attribute this to a communist past in which your neighbors could be government spies waiting for just the opportunity to tell some official you got two chickens instead of one from the ration lines, so they could get two chickens instead of one from the ration lines.
Whatever the reason behind the differing approach, I had gotten use to it. People were not defined by what they did in the workplace but more so who they were. I know we're in a recession right now, but believe me, jobs are even scarcer there and far less lucrative. Most people had two. Most people I knew didn't like their jobs. It was always a concession--giving your time to some dick boss so you could pay some of your bills (not so different from here right?). Maybe that explains why the "What do you do" question wasn't tossed around very often. Listening to people list out their occupations like recalling the number of lashes against their backs isn't exactly going to charm the audience.

Ten days into LA I have already began asking the question of others, what are they doing? Though I cannot quite yet answer myself. I realize the altterior and beneficial motives to these tactics--namely networking. Still, I cannot help but feel there is something personal missing from the average (believe me, not all of them are!) conversation with my fellow Angelino. Days ago, in the wee morning hours on some strangers patio I sat next to a man under a colorful hat and asked him the infamous question. "Well," he responded, "I really like being in the sun. Music too. And women." The unusual response was inspiring and when he turned to ask me the same I was forced into being, and lets hope it never happens again, clever.

That's just it. I'm not discounting the valuable information discovered through any questions, work or otherwise. I am not arguing for anything really, just sharing a newly aquired perspective since defining oneself by work just didn't happen as often in Romania. And being that I am currently unemployed the question stabs at my side every time I hear it. Unfortuately, since we don't talk about homemade wine in LA, my conversations are that much more empty.