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.