Lunar Eclipse

I suspect this is a lazy way to go--to post the pieces I chose to read for writing class. But, since there have been NO comments...this might just be whistling in the wind. I don't choose to write about my work--I work for an incarnation of the Soviet Union and we all remember what that government did to it's dissidents. No, I'm not going to rag on LAUSD or my specific place of employment--or the students (they are middle-schoolers and live up to the turmoil of that life stage. A colleague who shares some of the same students confessed that they still are cute and lovable in spite of their spite and restlessness.) I'm not going to write about relationships because they are always an amazing experience--I'm down at the bottom of the learning curve when it comes to love. My own children wouldn't speak to me if I wrote about them--so, not today. I've no real thoughts on marriage except I do feel sorry for Paul McCartney. A bad divorce is a bad divorce--with a Jacoby and Meyers attorney or using the top legal experts money can buy.

I saw Robert Graham today as I was walking home from the beach. He was standing outside his house talking to a workman. I love that black statue standing in the circle by the post office so I thanked him. He was very kind--accepted the compliment--some in the neighborhood complained about her missing head and arms--but the rest of her is so juicy! I thanked him for making her. I drive past her at least twice a day. I should have told him to read my blog! (Read about her in the last post.)

Here's this week's piece, in honor of the lunar eclipse soon to grace us:

I drove through the hills again tonight. I drove beneath the San Gabriels and through the Verdugos, past Tujunga and Sunland and Sylmar. I drove through the valley again, listening to Frank and Billie singing Night and Day and Old Devil Moon. I drove through Sepulveda Pass, but didn't crack a window to check for Night Blooming Jasmin. The fog's come in--my hair rebels.

It's been almost nine years since I left my husband in La Canada with his satellites and ion engines. I left him with my sons. I left behind my dogs. It wasn't the plan. There's never a plan. But it's what happened. I drove all the time then: through those hills, through the city. I loved the swerves of the old 110 into the city. On weekday nights I'd exit at Broadway and cruise by Chinatown, the County Building, the State Building. Disney Hall wasn't completed yet--I watched it grow, like a plant, like my children, like me. I'd move south on some one-way street and let the car go on it's own as I took in the windows of the high rises. I'd take Olympic through Korea Town and west, west, west---past where my grandfather played tennis on La Cienaga, past where my mom went to school--Beverly High, past the hang-out of my teen years--Century City, past Westwood, past Sepulveda and on to Federal and north, back home.

Getting out of downtown to West L.A. was a Chinese menu pick: I loved going down Beverly with the radio blaring and me wiggling to Santana. I drove through Rampart to Hancock Park, to Miracle Mile. I'd scout out the Black Davids near Crenshaw. I'd get lit up near Melrose or I'd take Pico all the way instead of Beverly just so I could sit at Pico and Sepulveda where I'd laugh because of the stupid song I adored at 13.

"See!," I'd tell my boys, as we'd drive through downtown on Friday nights, "here's a real city for you!" I'd remember swaying outside of MOCA at a summer Thursday night jazz concert, the horns bouncing off the skyscrapers and the clouds reflected on their sides sashaying by. I wanted them to read my mind as we rode by the Colburn music school and outdoor ampitheater and the Biltmore Hotel.

Tonight, with Billie singing "never ever change, keep that breathless charm, cause I love you..." I remembered a night of driving in which the clouds were puffed up white and proud. It'd been raining near Pasadena, but then it'd be clear in Mission Hills. There was a lunar eclipse that evening and I wanted to catch it. I could not move the cars fast enough on the 405. Stars peek-a-booed in and out behind the clouds. Fat drops fell and then stopped. I was in the pass with Coltran and the windows down for the deer's ears.

As I got close to Santa Monica I pondered getting into one of those high buildings--closer to the moon. I sped on the 10 towards the ocean and purposely picked fourth street's hill to get me to Venice. Over my shoulder, out the left window, over the apartments and houses I sought the moon dancing with the clouds. What stress and yet the music continued...

Down to Rose (where my grandparents lived in the summer of '29) to Main, to Windward and then east a few blocks. Home. I drove around my tiny triangular block to park. I drove around twice--no place to go and the sky wide open. I stopped at the sign at Windward and Andalusia. A young mother held her son in her arms and pointed at the moon. He was perhaps a year or two old. I looked up and watched too, walked to my front yard, and called my sons. The clouds were in La Canada that night. They missed that eclipse.

Canal Ghosts

Here's what I read to my writing class today.  

Here goes:

I hold this white laptop as I recline on my dirty yellow sofa in my slice of a small white cottage that sits on a palm-tree lined street that had once been filled with water. Sometimes the spirits of those canal days, those amusement park days, those days of prohibition and hidden rooms under local hotels, break the water mains to recreate those canals. but not this year. Last year, when the temperature dipped below 32, the spirits converged in the tiny intersection of Altair and Andalusia to set up a geyser that squirted a fountain--like a New York City summer fire hydrant. It lasted for days. On a dark night under the palms and the branches of a giant Chinese elm that droops over the corner and blocks out the light from the street lamp, a workman argued with me. Pipes don't burst from freezing temperatures in Los Angeles, I told him. It was some ghost. I didn't mention that. If I were a ghost and could hose out the concrete and asphalt to reveal the canal in which roaring twenties bathing beauties dived, I'd grab my canoe and paddle over to the lagoon to see if the naked black torso (sometimes decorated with marde gras paper mache head or peace sign stickers on her buttocks and breasts) was still there. In my time she stands facing the ocean, armless and headless, voluptuous, black and gleaming. The spirits pull her into the lagoon--an obstacle hidden under water, to paddle around--or crash into deliberately so as to join her for a wade and a splash. Under the arch-way hotels the drunken spirits sway and laugh, trudge up hidden stairs, sway through hidden pathways to see her gleaming shoulders caressed by waves from the boats. Everyone in! they yell. The roller coaster rails tumble over the crash of the waves. The park workers sleep in their small white cottages fronted with palms with fronds that explode fourth of July all the time. The ghosts of the depression sit on porches to see the fireworks and the stars--to see Altair and Orion.

I live in Venice, California--a mere five minute walk from my door to where the ocean touches the sand.  Although I grew up in a different part of West Los Angeles, my grandparents lived here for a summer--in 1929, when my grandmother was pregnant with my uncle (who's a few years older than my dad).  She told me about going for walks in the neighborhood around 6th and Rose with her dad.  They were all from Youngstown Ohio and thought LA was hicksville.

There are some good websites to learn about the history of Venice.  That statue I mention is by Robert Graham--there is a very funny article in the Venice Free Press (a hippie poet's paper if there ever was one) about him removing peace sign stickers from the statue.  Google Venice History or Venice Free Press (I think it's the August issues).

I'm a student.  Forever a student.

Dating--Waste of Time?

It's not raining--it's windy and gray.  I've not written this week because I've been fighting my cold and trying to wrap up loose ends from the fall semester.  I almost forgot to go to my Thursday night writing class.  But I went--it's inspiring and intimidating.  Such fantastic authors!  They grab my mind and make me laugh.

I've not been in a chuckling mood.  On top of my little money funk, the man I'd been seeing decided that would be a good time to decide to see if he'd miss me if he didn't see me for a while.  I wish he'd had the honesty of the guy who said he didn't do relationships.  Mr. I Don't Do Relationships stated that when I first met him.  I knew with him at least it wouldn't be about love.  This one, I thought there was possibility (because I do think people can love if they want to--if they let themselves).

 The thing is, I can't figure out if that's just the type of man I attract.  Dating isn't fun enough for me to just play around.  I'm not interested.   I don't need validation that I'm attractive or can hold a conversation or even that I'm kind or affectionate--I know I'm okay.   I don't need an f-buddy...that's faux intimacy to me, you might as well buy a plastic doll or use an electrical device. Being intimate with another person--not just physically, but emotionally isn't some little la-de-da picnic.  But I figure if I can give love than I should be able to take it too.  I've not a clue about what the men I've known think they want or why they bother hanging out with women at all.  I realize they are wired to want to have sex, but at some point it's got to be boring without love.

I may be having experiences--but I wonder if it's just a big waste of time.  I had other things I would have been doing that I put aside to give a guy a chance--and it bothers me that for him it must seem that there's nothing there unless there are no problems.  My days are difficult--they are not the highlight of my life.  I'd like my love life to be juicy and interesting--without trepidation.  And yeah--if there are highs, then there will be lows.  Who wants to live without the real in life--that includes sorrow, pain, and joy?  I actually want something out of a partnership too.  Too bad.  I don't know how to attract that right now.  And I'm a little pissed about it.

Clear Skies/Clear Heads Prevail

The rain has stopped and the air is clean.  It's cold (well for LA--50s and 60s is COLD!) and crisp and pretty.  Traffic is better without the drops pounding down, but I can tell that there are more potholes.  I am hesitant to say that the prior week's stress has left with the rain--it looks like things are righting themselves, financially at least.  My eyes are no longer goopy, my throat no longer sore, and my nose no longer runny.  Only a few sneezes today.  Half of my students were out Friday.  I assume we all had the same bug.  There's been lots of nose-blowing and sneezing in class, but even with that the kids seemed healthier today than they did last week.

I spent most of the weekend resting so I've little to comment or report on.  In the years since I was married I've spent many hours in quiet contemplation, meditation or rest.  It is never too quiet for me.  

I find that, for a cold, sleep and liquids, a little extra vitamin C and zinc and some babying is a great cure.  I even had some chicken soup.  But I did nearly nothing except read a bit. 

Salon.com, Slate.com, Huffingtonpost.com, Truthout.org and Truthdig.org all carry the latest political news--I'm following the races and have even received three mailers notifying me of my polling place (these are from the county registrar--not political parties).  I guess someone really does want me to vote early and often (well at least three times!)  It's fun to see the hullabaloo over who might win the Republican and Democratic nominations but I just want a Democrat to win and I hope God blesses the winner--because he or she has an enormous mess to clean up and I wouldn't wish that job upon anyone.

Monkey Wrenches In the Stars? Go with the Flow.

It's be a trying week.  After Christmas, skinny-wallet syndrome hit hard.  I've been waiting for a check to alleviate the tummy rumblings in my poor old wallet.  I've been trying to make the check come to me faster.  Absurd.  It's out of my hands.

This situation, however, rubbed some tender value and worth scars open.  This type of pain takes me back to early childhood and so, like a child I had a temper tantrum.  I don't throw things or lie on the floor pounding my fists and kicking my feet anymore--not like when I was five. But I can throw an impressive pity-party: I gather up the nastiest dark rain clouds for decoration and shake up everything--the soundtrack:  the smashing clouds of my angry-hurt thunder. 

I think the Universe  spanked me for my foolishness--first no check, then a $40 parking ticket, then a dead hard drive ($275!), raised interest rate on a credit card (26%--this should be illegal!), a ripped contact lens--the last one--and I had to drive to work (in the rain) and then work without being able to see very well, Thursday my ATM card was picked up and used by someone (someone who didn't know how to use it, fortunately).  Oh yeah--and I've got a bug:  sore throat, sinus congestion, and hacking cough.   That's not everything--but it's enough to get the idea.  It's funny now.  And I still don't have that damn check!

My temper tantrum-ming is a regression that takes me deep into my mother's and my grandmother's psychic lives.  All went to college.  All were brilliant and creative.  And no one did a thing with it--none of them could.  All married men who weren't giving--men who caused them problems.  And, in fact, both grandmothers married men who gambled all their money away.  Nothing.  They had nothing.  When I get into that state of pity it's on behalf of all of us girls--but it's a useless and ugly performance.

I saw Into the Wild this week and finished reading Eat, Prey, Love.  I like that Ms. Gilbert and Felipe found one another.  During the last nine years on my own, after my own ugly divorce, I've teeter-tottered in my thoughts and feelings about the possibility of having a real loving relationship with a man.  I've dated quiet a bit.  I've seen some men for long stretches of time, but it's just not happened for me--a loving, mature relationship.   I don't know if I hold myself back because I cannot suspend disbelief.  I think that takes some of the fun out of the whole thing for the guys.  One romance was so romantic and lovely--it was worth all the pain when it ended.   I knew when I was in it, though, that it wasn't the makings of a long term relationship--but it was fantastic to feel loved and adored (I was reminded of this reading of Gilbert and Felipe).   I seem to find men who have "commitment issues."  My therapist says they can't let go of their mothers--or, they feel that their mothers wouldn't want them to let go so they can't move on.

I was told recently it'd be best if I  just got over my own childhood.  (A quick note:  I don't know anyone who didn't have some version of a rough childhood.  I suspect we'd all like to have been the only child and to have been doted on all the time by our parents as if we were the only thing going on in their lives.  Then they'd let us go without a pang of possessiveness when it's time to leave the nest--still loving us unconditionally and playing the role of our biggest cheerleaders.)

I told my therapist "you can't get over your childhood."  All these years talking--and finally a breakthrough.  He agreed (but of course you can't get over it!)  "you can't get over it, but you can understand it."

A friend says "you have to accept you have a hole that won't get filled."

But today I say, it's not that there are holes that need to be filled.  For me it's understanding that current situations don't need a five-year-old's reactive response.  Or it's understanding that my gut reactions aren't usually about what's happening now.  So understanding my childhood is informative.  I'm not standing, hands on my waist, stamping my foot impatiently, for the universe to serve up all my desires RIGHT NOW!  

But I still really would like to have that check!

That's Entertainment

There are so many good movies out now.  No Country for Old Men is fantastic.  It is perfection--well-acted, well-written and lovely to look at.  It's super-violent though, so you're warned.  The ingenuity of the main characters is fascinating and I've not been in such suspense since watching Wait Until Dark.  It's very macho.

I saw There Will Be Blood.  I'd have removed the last scene and played with the story a bit more although the acting was fantastic and cinematography was wonderful.  The soundtrack is exciting!  That was more innovative than the script.  I've a bias in enjoying the scenery--I'm Californian and have worked with environmental groups to preserve lakes and animals throughout the state.  I wished I could smell the sagebrush in Little Boston and walk through the stands of oak on the coast.  

I've seen Sweeny Todd--another gorgeous looking movie, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Michael Clayton, Before the Devil Knows Your Dead and several others.

Aside from the movie about Queen Elizabeth and Juno where are the movies about women? Where's my life up on the screen?  I suppose the answer is to write..I'm not on strike.  

Oh...I forgot Sex and the City will be in theaters at the same time I'll be celebrating my forty-ninth birthday.  I've always enjoyed watching that show--but it makes me want to drink and even when I was younger and cuter the opportunities to meet men weren't like in that show.  Also, I'm divorced and have kids and it's lightness somehow avoided, I think, the real confusion of what it means to be a woman today.  In the recent past women had no choice, for the most part, but to have a family.  Now it's a choice--but that doesn't make  the biological imperative disappear.  And the socialization factor that says we all must marry hasn't disappeared.  Sex and the City, to me, always seemed to be so much about expensive shoes and dining out.  That's not my story.  At least not yet!

2008 Relationship Quiz--Ask If You Dare

I've often fantasized about creating a quiz that I'd pull out and hand to a blind date.  In the fantasy I give it on that first coffee date.  In reality, there are questions I just avoid, then I go see my therapist and he pumps me for information about the man I'm seeing and I then blurt out:  "You don't understand!  If I ask all that, I'd scare any man away!" 

But my therapist is right.  There is "stuff" you do need to know regardless of how mesmerizing a potential partner might be.  From a woman's point of view, you want to know if a man loves and values women, because if he doesn't there's no good place the two of you can go together. From the vantage of my almost forty-nine years I believe we are all wounded in some way.  So, it's good to know which scars have healed, and which bumps and bruises might get irritated when two people collide.  I can't figure out the question that would give me the information as to whether or not a man can handle getting bumped a bit--or whether he can handle my own reactions when I smack a bruise that hasn't healed.  But maybe you can learn if he loves women and if he's up to a bit of self-examination.

Today my friend Lily commented that it seems like most people's questions are limited to taste.  After two people decide there is an attraction, they limit their knowledge to finding out what kind of food, movies, music and books the other likes.  Here are some more probing questions:

•  "How long were you married?" or "How long was your longest relationship?"
  
• "Why did you divorce?" or "Why did you break up?" or "Why didn't you marry?"  or "What did your wife die from?"
  
• "Have you had any therapy?"  (I asked a guy who was divorcing a psychiatrist this once--it was funny.)
  
• "How long were your parents married?"
  
• "Were they happy?"  
  
• "Did you have a good relationship with your mother?"  (There's a movie, Shopgirl, in which a cold character played by Steve Martin asks this question of a potential lover.  It made me wince--he clearly only had the capacity to have a sexual affair with the girl, but he asks her this as if he has insight into human behavior, even though he has none about his own.  See the movie--it has a happy ending, but within it are some sad truths.  Martin wrote Shopgirl as a novela.)
  

My therapist gets even more intense:

• "Were you breast or bottle fed?"  (I just can't ask that of a stranger or even someone I know a little!)
  
• "How happy are the women in your family--grandmothers, aunts, sisters--how have they been treated?"
  

I'm only on nine!

• "Why did you/didn't you have children?"
  

I don't know if I can get to twenty.

• "What kind of relationship do you envision for yourself?"
  
• "Why do you want a relationship?"   (I once saw a man who said he didn't "do" relationships.  I didn't know exactly what he did "do"--well I do know, but if you don't go deeper than what some people are content with doing--again, a play on the theme of my friend Lily's comment--you miss an opportunity to learn and grow.  Who else but those nearest and dearest can stir us up enough to learn about ourselves so we can grow?  It's not always pretty--but still I'd like to be "stirred."  I just don't want to be "shaken" so on with the questions:
• "Do you have sisters or did you grow up around other women?"
  
• "Did you date much in high school or college?"
  
• "Do you take any medication?"
  
• "Do you sleep well?""
  

Some of these are touchy:

• "Under what circumstances would you see more than one woman at a time?"
  
• "When do you think it's appropriate to be exclusive with one partner?"
  
• "Are you interested in living with a partner, getting married or just dating?"
  
• "When were you last tested for STDs and what were the results?"
  
• "What do you do for birth control?"
  
• "What charities/activities do you participate in?"
  
• "If a bum asked you for money, what would you give him/her?"
  

That's 21.  I was going to start by asking:  "What's your favorite color and how much do you weigh" because one of my favorite cartoons has a man just reaching the summit of a mountain where a Guru sits.  And that's the caption.  It made me laugh until I cried.  I think there are many more questions to ask.  These, I think are the scariest ones.