Going away

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You can't make a new old friend

_{Chad Roberston, Zombie}

This from my wise friend, The Art Teacher, who dragged me to a wine bar tonight and whom I, in turn, dragged to the local bookstore so I could buy a used copy of The Day Of The Locust, the next book on my self-prescribed LA reading list. The Art Teacher also quoted fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, but it was in an entirely different context which bears little relevance to what I will be getting into here.

We were talking about life. About growing old and feeling young. About how to greet each day and grab the most you can from it. How to keep passionate in the midst of banality, how to hang on to your values in the midst of a valueless culture, how to be strong and defiant and unique and courageous even though you are constantly doubting yourself, your ideas, and the outfit you donned when you were still feeling frumpy in the morning. Today was another tough day for me. A crying-on-the-freeway, getting-lost-in-the-valley, irritating-errand-running and wondering-what the-hell-I-am-doing-with-my-life day. Nothing that a well-priced Malbec and a conversation with a fellow comrade couldn't cure. But curing I needed. And it took someone who understood me unequivocally, who could call me on the kind of bullshit I slung around daily, and knew, too, when to shut up and just let me bitch. An old friend, you could say.

We are both having a hard time in this city. Even after three days where I felt semi-victorious, somewhat accomplished, and mostly loyal to the things I agreed were important to me, it only took one morning of another marine layer, 3o minutes of driving in traffic, and the growing suspicion that I was perhaps starting to PMS, for the good intentions to go straight down the toilet and the dam to burst open.

I know I complain a lot around here. And I am sure you get that that is the point? Right, mom? You needn't worry.

BUT:

relationships can make you feel insecure

old friends are hard to make

you can be whomever you want to be in a new town

profiteroles are one of The Art Teacher's favorite desserts

patience is not one of my strong suits


That was sorta the gist of our conversation. And, I must say, it put me in a better mood. So thank you, too, for listening. I feel even better now.

Watcha

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From here to there

The nights here are strange. The weather is warm, the windows are rolled down, dining is done al fresco, and I, I go to the movies alone. In a strange coincidence of events when I entered my local, rather-fancy-yet-open-late grocery store, ABC was playing by the Jackson 5. Now that may not strike you as strange, but it happens to have been the number one song for the year I was born. And I happened to have been reading that curious fact in a little pamphlet I was perusing under the fluorescent lights. Somehow, the combination of seeing a movie alone, the warm nights, and rather pedestrian coincidence led me straight to the spirits aisle, when, in fact, I was only there to pick up some milk. Instead, I found myself choosing from a selection of Kentucky bourbons, stealing two cubes of caramel from the bulk candy section, and plumb forgetting the milk. I bummed a cigarette outside, drove past my high school and saw a ragged--ok, when aren't they--coyote running down the road in front of me as I drove up my canyon. My canyon. It sounds weird. Like not quite right. Or not quite real. I heard a rolling sound from the back of my truck bed and someone had thrown an empty beer bottle back there. I guess, you could say, I am getting used to my new life. A life that constantly reminds me of the last summer I spent here, back when I was 18 and freshly returned from my first year of college.

It's not the worst thing feeling like you're a kid again. And it was a spectacular summer, particularly because I knew it was my last. Because I knew I was changing. Because I was somehow outgrowing this vast metropolis. And here I am again. And every turn I see myself driving down the same streets in my old yellow Toyota Corona with the bench seat, girlfriends beside me, ready for adventure, ready to see what the night would bring. I used to love driving as a teenager. Hell, who didn't? It was so liberating, so grown up. We could drive for hours. And did. Aimlessly. Windows rolled down. Stereo turned up.

The good news is I am exploring this place in a way I never did as a teen. I s'pose I took it for granted. All the history here. All that it has to offer. For chrissakes, I live right next to Thai Town which is adjacent to Little Armenia. Where else in the world do those two populations make neighbors, let alone make neighbors with me? I walked to this city's famous sign, I rode my bike 30 miles on an errand I didn't even need to make, I went to the 98 cent store and it was good.

But I kinda feel like that aimless teen again, minus the girlfriends. Where is this all gonna take me? When will the journey end? And yet, like any teen will tell you, the destination is not really the point.

The red shirt

_{Paul Mullins, Sugar}

The red shirt is the red t-shirt and it's what I wear to bed at night. I wear it because it smells nice, it is made of a synthetic blend that is rather soft, it fits me well, and, oh yeah, it's not mine, it's his. Call it the equivalent to a locket of hair, a lipstick-kissed envelope, or a perfumed handkerchief. We work with what we have when we don't. Our imagination grows in direct proportion to our loss. The mind is a powerful thing.

On the drive back I listened to This American Life. It was an old program, one about love, specifically romantic love and, appropriately, it was called Chasing Love. The thing about romantic love is that it is a relatively modern invention. In it's absence we are miserable and lonely. In it's presence we are, at worst, confused, insecure and, often, still lonely. It prays on our fears. It continually alludes and yet, occasionally, when all the planets line up correctly, it pulls us in, draws us forth and we feel like super human beings because of it. For a brief moment in time we are satisfied and fulfilled, we are plump with desire, we are drunk with passion. We are not alone. We are, in fact--despite our darkest doubts--lovable and desirable and, more importantly, understood.

It is no biological accident that we are driven to choose--or obsess over--one mate to the exclusion of all others. We need someone who will stick around when the babies are born until the children are capable of taking care of themselves. And, Lord knows, that could be years. Scientists are now proving that our brains are hard-wired for romance. "If you think of romantic attraction as a kind of drug that alters how you think, then in this case it's allowing you to take some risks you wouldn't otherwise." Yeah, remember that Roxy Music tune, Love Is A Drug? Apparently, some people have a stronger romantic drive than others.

The red shirt is also my equivalent to the red shoes. I can't stop missing him when I wear it. It is hard to part with in the morning. But it is equally hard to don it in the evening because I know, full well, what it will conjure up for me. His absence. The distance. My loneliness in this new town. I have worn it so much, the red shirt no longer smells of him. It smells of me. And in that sense it becomes only a reminder of my feelings for him. And those are quite complicated. And on some days, quite impossible. And on others, quite sustaining.

Some people would rather have their freedom, their time, the space in their heart. They could do without the heartache. And some would give up anything for love. They are in love with falling in love, they easily become empty only to be filled by someone else. With only 400 or so years of romantic love as a social convention we are still figuring it out. 300 fewer years if you figure it no longer has to have anything to do with procreation, or even marriage. What is the social contract we sign when we say I love you? Surely, it's different that I do? But nonetheless we place a lot of weight in those three tiny little words. We imbue them with meaning far beyond their capacity. Three tiny and rather unpoetic words. The key to our happiness? Or merely a mirage?

We are taught from an early age to be individuals. We are encouraged to think for ourselves, to reach for our dreams, to develop our independence. At the same time, all the books, movies and music around us hold up love as a holy grail, the highest form of enlightenment, the purest path to self-fulfillment. It is between those two contradictions we get caught. One definition of romantic love is that it must take you by surprise. And it's true, it is an impossible thing to go out and look for. But it is easy enough to put on a red shirt. And, although I no longer remember what the red shirt looks like on him, and I can hardly recall him even wearing it, there is a man out there missing his red shirt and I, now wearing it, am missing him.

I am Spartacus

There has been a lot of talk here in California about the various marches for immigrant rights held throughout the months of April and May. You will know where I stand on the issue when I tell you that I found myself crying in the middle of the day in the middle of a cafe on the pages of my new town's free weekly paper and it's articles devoted to the May Day march. Much like the day of the march itself, which I attended in yet another popular Californian town, I get all weepy and teary eyed when large groups of people band together in the hope of change, optimism and solidarity. And I beg the question, how can you not?

Really. Is it not a beautiful thing to want to better yourself, your family and your community? It makes me want to sneeze just writing about it. That and the fact that, during the previous march that took California by surprise, when others complained about the fact that there were too many un-American flags defiantly waving overhead, those same people and their supporters understood that reaction and pulled out all the stops with American flags galore for this recent march. Honestly, I have never even seen so many American flags any where let alone, Fourth of July or at the height of any Gulf War. And not just waving them, but wearing them. And when have you ever heard of a McDonald's closing in support of it's workers? There is a movement underfoot. One not led by liberal, educated and middle class white people. One not led by idealistic student revolutionaries. One led by those in the trenches. One led by families, by abuelitas, by children at school, by nannies, by construction workers, by gangsters, by AM shock jocks, by small business owners, by your neighbors, by your day care providers, and by, yes, even your priests. Who doesn't want to join this winning team?

Duh, it's a complicated issue. You can't let everyone in and you can't simply kick them all out. Who would do all that work for chrissakes? Who would take care of our kids, pick all our food, wash all our dishes, change our grandparents' bedpans and build all our homes? Who would do this work? Where would we be? How would our economy function? Do they not spend nearly what they earn within our country's borders? How could our already over-crowded jails hold even more people just for being here illegally? And without these workers where would all the bosses be? And when the bosses start recognizing the need for their workers to have certain rights and allowing them to take the day off to protest and, in fact, joining in the boycott themselves by shutting down their businesses for one day, do we not pay heed? Are they both not telling us something important?

And oh, about the anthem? Isn't mimicry the best form of flattery? How many languages, after all, has the St. James Bible been translated into? And oh yeah, Our Star Spangled Banner? It's already been translated into German, not to mention the fact that it was translated into Spanish some 80 years ago. Does that not just attest to it's power and poignance? Wouldn't you want your words, if you thought they were important, translated into as many languages as possible and heralded by as many people as possible?

I leave you with this, because it sums up my general feelings quite succinctly:

Besides, entering America illegally, agitating for rights, and watching as a foreign government grants you recognition under pressure isn't a sin: It's called the Declaration of Independence.--GUSTAVO ARELLANO