death

There was a terrible accident on the freeway tonight. From where I sat, you could see the pile of twisted metal that stole a life.

The single driver didn’t notice the abandoned tire on the left hand shoulder. It didn’t help his old Buick was heavy and slow to respond. The girl following him close behind was staring at the moon. It was so big. “It get’s that way in winter,” a rebellious teen told her before she left work. “We wobble on our axis and now, the earth’s closer to it.”

Tonight the moon was so much brighter than the single driver’s break lights. The impact was sudden and violent. Her car, a 70s classic, slammed into the Buick’s rear. The girl’s head met glass. The inertia of the moving vehicles threw them across all four lanes and back again. The cars danced with one another, barely missing passing traffic before sliding to a halt on the shoulder of the 405. The car that held the girl who had been looking at the moon managed to wrap around a pole like aluminum foil.

She struggled only for a moment. All she could move was her tongue. It tasted blood and then nothing. Numbness stole her fear. Her eyes could see passing red traffic lights leaving trails, through the streaks hung the same white light in the sky that had captivated her before this death.

She laughed as it faded into nothing.

Inspiration From the Alchemist

The desert ate you my dear

Wind shaped horizons and prickly plants dot the stretching landscape

Wide and long and far as the eye can see

Empty earth beaten by the most relentless hands of the sun

reminds me that you are not there.

On your bike you rode away

Searching for dreams and adventures and women and dances under the moon

But I see the desert

Before skyscrapers and track communities and irrigation took it away

And at least now, the view expands further into the sky

Where I look out for your return

Whether or not it’s just a mirage

Whether or not I fall in love again with someone new

Even though I fear you will too

Or that the years will be so many

Undeterred

I will pray to the desert

Patiently wait

that the dry and absent air will carry you back to my open arms.

For both you and the sand have taught me a great lesson

Cherish every drop.

Your memories will be like the morning dew that sustains the cacti

And I will walk alone along the edges of ancient river beds that whisper to me

How time has turned seas to dust and dust to seas.

Living Collectively

How many people do you know who do not collect some thing? Think hard. I’m sure you will find it more difficult than it seems. Whether it’s movie stubs, watches, clothes, fish tanks or cars, I can’t think of a single person I know who doesn’t reserve some spot on their walls, under their beds, or in their hearts for a particular pleasure. I even have friends that actually collect people, though they may be unaware of their subconscious motives. It’s flattering to be part of their assortment.

The thought haunted me. Why do we collect things? Do all of us? Surely all of us can’t, right? Eventually the idea became words that spilled onto my brother’s girlfriend, Honey. I asked her, randomly at the moment it happened, when we were watching my brother play video games. “Do you know anyone that collects nothing? What would someone who collected nothing be like?”

I imagined, similar to a vagabond, with perhaps many unusual and exciting adventures to share. Barren, un-owned walls and a hippie beard. He probably wouldn’t shower much. It seems the probability of it being a man would be greater as well—women tend to carry bags everywhere they go. Maybe it could only be a monk, dressed in orange robes thinking about thinking. What would this anti-collector if you will, be like? Would they be the violent type, capable of maiming kittens and old ladies? Would their anti-collecting ways foreshadow their sadistic future? But then again, even serial killers collect lives.

“Actually, come to think of it…I don’t collect anything.

It’s me. That kind of person is me.” Honey looked at me like a child admitting to pouring dirt in the coffee tin.

I thought about it. She did not really have collections of trinkets or pets or people. I couldn’t concede to her theory just yet. Not everything one accumulates is obvious.

“I have no hobbies. It’s me.” A pouty frown followed her shameful sounding confession.

“Is it you? You are what someone ‘like that’ is like…?” I said looking at her with new found interest.

I had found my specimen. Or had I?

A day later and it’s safe to say, she’s not it. I’m sure she has a pretty decent purse compilation. One could make the argument that some collections have “themes”. Like accumulating things that bring you comfort, this I believe she does well. All the pieces are there. A super fine mattress, TV, socks, shower gels, and everything one needs to prevent unpleasantness. For now Honey can rest easy, it seems she's no different then the rest of us.

So who are these anti-collectors? Is it even humanly possible? I guess if you wanted, you could argue that even the vagabond gathers his stories and the monk his enlightenment.

Pues, if we are all collectors, what will be in yours?

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.