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.