Tag Archives: Santa Monica

“And More, Much More Than This: I Did It MY Way!”

I was missing a somewhere, the other night.  I wasn’t really sure which somewhere it was:  Whether it was New York, or that other glorious city up north that I was in the habit of craving.  The skin was calm, but the soul was crawling.  Or at least, the soul was swaying — toward another somewhere, much different from here.

And it was an odd sensation.  I had no obligations to keep me in town, treading the specific ground of here.  I could’ve taken off, at that moment, in my car.  I could’ve driven it for as many gas tanks as my bank account would afford.  And I realized:  I had never found myself in such a here.  Before, there was always something to keep me in place.  But be it my full acceptance of losses or some urgent realization about time — about my now — I suddenly found myself unattached.

No, not de-tached:  for I never let the days pass me with carelessness.  I am not care-less — I am care-free. 

And:  It felt wonderfully.

If there was anything I’ve learned:  I knew there was no use in being frustrated with a lack of time.  Time would keep on doing its thing.  So, instead of measuring my life against the flight of minutes — and their flightiness — I was beginning to choose taking control of them.  (And I’m pretty sure my full acceptance of losses had something to do with it.)

But taking control of time could cause a lot of damage to the human hand.  The only way to actually control it — was to surrender.  To accept the flight of minutes.  To find delight in their flightiness.

Christy Turlington

And the only way to do that — was to live.  Some chose to live it up, in their way:  to defeat time with money.  My way seemed tested by time:  I now live fully, curiously in my here; never putting a curiosity on hold for too long.  For me, the only way to take control of time — was to never let it pass me with carelessness.

For I never was care-less — I was care-free.

So, when I was missing a somewhere, the other night, I thought:

“What if I found that somewhereHERE?”

I knew it had to be a busy somewherea somewhere where other people chose to be here.  It couldn’t be a club or a lounge, because those were always filled with mixed messages and convoluted ways.  In those, one must hunt much harder to find sincerity or truth.  No, I wanted to be somewhere where people walked according to their own nows.  I wanted to see young lovers strolling calmly as if never frustrated with a lack of time.  I wanted to watch friends laughing at outside cafes, kids waking-up their parents with their curiosity.  I wanted to see street artists who could teach me their ways of being carefree.

And so, I drove myself to the coast.  It gets much colder there, I thought; and before starting up my car, I bundled myself in an oversized sweater that reminded me a different somewhere:  NOT here.

I drove in silence, with my windows down.  I remembered the beginning days of cellphone culture:  I was living in New York — a somewhere that’s definitely much different from here.  The only way to escape the clumsiness and unawareness of cellphone users — was to go underground.  Because there was always plenty of stories on the New York City subway, but the stories overheard from phone conversations didn’t seem to be in that plenty yet.  That’s until we would ride out above the ground, at the 125th street:  Cellphones would get whipped out as if in an airborne epidemic; and bits of soundbites from other people’s private lives would flood the train.  And then, we would go underground again, in silence.

So, I chose to drive in silence, the other night, while crawling toward a somewhere much different from here.  (How ever — when ever — did I dare to surrender my moments of daytime silence to the soundbites of other people’s private lives narrated to me over my bluetooth?)

The closer I got to the coast, the denser got the traffic.  There shouldn’t have been any traffic at that hour, but I was glad to navigate it:  It meant other people were driving out, according to their nows.  Other people were choosing to tread the ground, and maybe I could find a little bit of a different somewhere here, that night.

On foot, the very first couple I saw was hip and mellow, and completely stunning.  He was tall and pretty.  She was tiny, exotic, quirky and adored.  They were wearing layers of tattered tees and oversized sweaters.  She sported a military jacket, with feather earrings touching the seams of its shoulders, in the fashion of other exotic girls, in that glorious city up north that I was in the habit of craving.

A homeless man with a full, gray beard was walking a golden retriever.  The dog seemed better groomed — and fed — than the owner; and that other person’s love soothed me with calmness:

“Everything is still quite alright, with the world,” I thought.

He wasn’t — careless.

Then, there was an older couple:  both white-haired and neatly dressed in all shades of blue.  Each possibly older than their sixth or seventh decade, they walked very slowly, according to their nows, very specific and very different from the now of mine.

“What is this here called?” the woman asked in a child-like voice.  She was speaking Russian.

“A mosaic,” he responded, in English, studying the facade of the church that attracted his girl’s attention.

She repeated it, in English.  They were both still learning, waking each other up with mutual curiosity.  And they loved.

“Everything — is still quite alright, with the world.”

A husky voice belonging to an angel reached my ears.  I started walking, quite slowly, toward the curly blonde in an oversized coat singing on the Promenade.  A small crowd had accumulated around her.  People leaned against trees, against their beloveds; they sat on benches, each obeying their nows.

The angel, when speaking, had a London accent — from a somewhere much, much different from here.  She sang our night away.

I never got to the somewhere that I was missing that night.  But I somehow, my here was good enough.

It was perfect, actually.

So, Hush, Little Baby… Don’t. You. Cry.

Guess who just hibernated for half a day?  Not kidding, kiddos:  Twelve hours of sleep!

And I would’ve kept going if it weren’t for my self-delusion that someone out there was waiting for my words; that my art was relevant (some days), and that this daily activity made up my life’s meaning (for now).  On such mornings, I wonder what it would be like if I had a child to feed.  Or a goat.  Would I still exercise such selfishness in my sleeping habits?

And let me tell you, my kiddos:  I’ve got sleeping habits galore.

According to my motha, I was never the child to refuse a midday nap.

“Vera?  Boom!” she would order me whenever she caught me spying on her from behind the bars of my crib.  (She’d always be saying my name in such a way as if I were perpetually in trouble.)

“Vera?!  Boom!”

That shorthand command for sleep would interrupt all of my activity, and I would collapse into slumber.  I could be gnawing on my toe, or constructing caves out of crocheted blankets; or trying to balance on my pigeon toed feet while frowning at our black-and-white telly:  If mother said “Boom!” — I was out, in seconds.

At first, it amused her to no end.  She’d wait for me to be entangled in the most awkward position, like trying to reach one leg to the top bar, or braiding myself into a pretzel.  (Apparently, I was always quite bendy.  Still am, to this day.  My lovers — are so lucky!)  On command, I’d drop everything and hit the pillow; and she would laugh and laugh — in the way that only my motha could:  violently and shockingly loud.  Then, she’d tell my father to go check on me.  (Apparently, tucking me in was his duty alone.  Still is, to this day.  My lovers — are so unlucky!)

For a while there, she swapped my name for “Boom!” altogether.  Why waste her breath, right?

“Boom?!  Boom!”  (She’d still be saying it in such a way as if I were perpetually in trouble though.)

Eventually, the joke got old; and although motha still utilized shorthand for most of her parenting, she would no longer laugh, at my expense:  violently and shockingly loud.  It must’ve made me sad then.  I don’t really remember.

These days, it is my lovers’ lot to suffer through my sleeping habits’ galore.  Many have testified to some violent shit that goes down on my side of the bed.  Some have even had bruises to prove it.  And many have wondered about all the heat and sweat I produced when in the grips of my unconscious:

“It’s like a war zone, in the tropics — sleeping with you,” one of the departed joked.

And if I get comfortable enough, I can fall asleep anywhere; which is why all of my beloveds harbor anecdotes of my naps in the strangest and most unlikely places.

“I was afraid to walk out of the room,” another, most recently departed recently testified.  “I’d come back:  and you’d be flat on you face, asleep…  I’d have to wake you up, just to make sure you were alive.”

Yesterday, I fell asleep on the beach, my kiddos, waiting for a brown honey to join me.  She was running late:  My love.  But while I was dreaming of her hips and soul (both quite generous); while I was listening to my own heart moan with gratitude for this love (one and many); while I suddenly discovered myself no longer alone in this lonely city; someone must’ve said, “Boom!” — and I was out, in seconds. 

Or may be it was the hissing of the Pacific that knocked me out.  It was so violent and purposeful, kind of like my motha’s laughter.  Fucking lullaby.

Or perhaps it was the background murmur by a group of young French boys who insisted on dropping their towels two meters down from my brown ass.

“San-tah…  Moni-kah?” they took turns pronouncing.

“Shhh,” the Ocean joined in; and I was out, in seconds.

Occasionally, I’d wake up, look back over my shoulder and catch one of the boys grinning his silly smile, at my ass, then my face.

“Yourr velkom,” I’d think.  My brown love was still running late; so I waited to go back to sleep while watching the planet do its thing from underneath my Lorrie Moore novel, with which I’d covered my eyes.

At a mat nearby, an aging, balding athlete was fixing a bulge underneath his navy blue speedo.  He would seem ridiculous, but his bulge was no laughing matter.  And he was oh so serious!

“Mazel tov,” I half-thought, half-dreamt, and turned my face the other way.

I watched young, limber women get dressed.  The way they got up, caressed themselves from dust and sand; the way their hair flapped in the wind, like the Golden Fleeces — it made me wonder if they were already in my dreams.  Their curvatures blocked the sun.  (Or was it Lorrie Moore, on my face?)  I watched the intricate workings of their zippers, and buttons, a ties; and they would be so focused and calm, I had to have thought them up.

A handful of young kids walked by my head — each a mixture of several countries — talking their eco-politics.  Oh, they were so of the now!  Bits of sand got separated from their feet, landed in my hair and woke me up — to their now.

I rolled over.

At the other end of the beach, half a dozen of boys were playing volleyball.  I watched them move, so unlike me.  So unlikely.  One young one was standing to the side, with his hands on his locked hips.  He reminded me of a three-year old I’ve never had; and of a man-child I’ve just finished having.  I started to weep, into the open pages of Lorrie Moore.

But:

“Shhh,” went the Ocean.

And I was out, in seconds.