Tag Archives: seasons

“Oh, the Weather Outside Is Frightful!”

Oh, my!  It’s really coming down, today.

Just the other day, I was bickering to myself about the 72-degree weather we’d been experiencing, mere three weeks before Christmas.  But how else was I supposed to get in the mood for the holidays, if I couldn’t pack away my tank tops and tees; my sarafan dresses and gypsy skirts?  Wasn’t this supposed to be the perfect time for cuddling up in oversized sweaters and knee-high socks, and coming up with a slew of excuses to stay home, with one’s beloveds:  A case of marshmallow overdose?  A failure of the alarm clock due to the shift of the Milky Way?  A brutal paper cut from the wrapping of Christmas gifts?  A finger burn in Santa’s kitchen?  A sparkles attack from the unpacked box of Christmas ornaments? An all-nighter spent counting the falling stars and making wishes?

It has been pretty cold inside the house as well.  Something to do with the angle of the sun not hitting my windows.  But inside the greenhouse of my car, I could easily bring back my summer’s tradition of driving in a bikini top.  And how was it, that I was tempted to drain my battery by running the AC — this time of the year — than to sweat through my sweater dresses and tights?  to peel off my shoes and roll down all the windows?

But today, it had began to come down — finally!

While in this City, I am unlikely to see any snow for Christmas.  Instead, it would be a season of downpours for which none of us, year after year, would be prepared.  Until the first heat wave in the late spring, I would have to switch to primarily driving in the left lane due to the plugged-up gutters and failed draining systems.  ‘Tis the season:  for bad driving, perpetually broken traffic lights and potholes of gastronomical diameters.  Alas, the joy!

Still:  The drop in temperatures would be a lovely enough change.  The City’s women had already been sporting their high-heeled leather boots and quirky Uggs (mostly hated, as I’d learned, by men — no matter how much quirky).  Just the other day, I noticed some furry numbers on a tall and lovely creature with long legs and straight hair.  She was walking arm in arm with her texting companion.  He — was sporting a beanie hat and sparkly converse shoes without laces, a la David Guetta.  On top, however, the girl’s ensemble was finished off with a wispily moving chiffon dress, the color of eggnog.

“How is this winter?” I thought.

Diane Lane diane-lane-19

But this morning — finally! — it had begun to come down!

At first, through my dreamless sleep, I heard the traffic along the main boulevard.  I could tell LA-LA’s citizens were speeding, just a few minutes before 9:00 a.m.  (What silly creatures!  Didn’t they know about the slew of excuses that came with this season:  A cookie dough invoked stomachache?  A hoarseness after Christmas caroling?  A carpal tunnel from writing letters to Santa’s elves?)

Normally, the tires would swoosh against the asphalt quietly, like the whisper of Tinker Bell’s wings.  Or like some hooligan little wind trying to squeeze into the invisible to the eye rift in my windowsill — to gossip about the foreign coast on which it had been born.  So, unless the morning rush turned audibly aggressive with honking, police sirens or car alarms, I would sleep right through it.

This morning, though, the cars chomped and slurped as they gained speed.  And when the rain drops hit the shiny surfaces of tree leaves, on the trees right outside my window, they sounded like metallic brushes against the taut skin of drums in a percussion orchestra.  The sounds blended into a monotonous flow, and it had to be the white noise nature of them that had actually woken me up.  Having lived in cities all my life, I had been reprogramed to be soothed by the typical aggression of urban sounds.  This monotonous lullaby, however, was unlikely.  Unusual.  And, finally idyllic!

A message from a beloved buzzed my iPhone before its alarm.  From under the covers, I responded:  Love — right back at cha!  Going back to sleep was tempting but impossible:  What with all that change happening outside!  So:  I sat up.  Got up, made coffee.  Thought of which holiday excuses could be utilized today:  The too slowly drying nail polish with Christmas decals?  The scratched up limbs from the night of trimming the tree?

And while my coffee machine laboriously percolated on the kitchen counter, I peeled on my lover’s sweater and a pair of well-worn knee-high socks — and began studying the raindrops, crawling along my window.

It was really coming down.  How magical!

“Try to Remember the Kind of September…”

This absolutely must be the last of it:  this heatwave, right?!

I’m sitting in my friend’s backyard:

“Dang, this joint needs some work!”

The flower bulbs are waiting to be put to sleep, for the winter…  What winter?!  I’ve been chasing fucking butterflies this morning and playing pingpong with the bodies of wasps.  (Don’t worry!  I’m so not into the whole animal cruelty thing.  But these monsters are curiously attracted to my papaya perfume.  So, I give them a lil’ push and watch them fumble away, with their dangly legs, above my head.  That’s right!)

The wild weed that broke through the pavement three years ago, when I first met the man, is now a wild shrubbery in dire need of trimming.  It’s now taller than the fence.  (His child is also taller by now, but she still crunches my heart every time her strawberry chin is in my vicinity.  And she looks more — like me.)

The rectangular flower bed usually filled with pungent bright orange flowers that remind me of Russian Septembers is completely desolate right now.  I wonder if he had even planted anything this year, or if nothing simply could survive this heat.  I have spent most of my summer on the beach; or more north of here, with more tolerable climates and more grounded humanity.

Here, we’re just fried all the time.  Baked — out of our better minds. 

I noticed it yesterday:  this heat-induced irritability that enters all of our faces and makes us lose ourselves, in want.  I was craving the caramel-colored heart that my barista draws in the foam of my lattes, in the morning.  So, I stepped out, to hunt for it.

Surely, I expected warmth that day.  But not this heatwave!

“Coffee?  Am I crazy?!”

The traffic along Venice was crawling Westward.  The sweaty face of a motorcycle cop showed zero delight in response to my wave as he waited for me to cross:  He seemed annoyed, exhausted.  Baked inside his helmet — and out of his better mind. 

A man in a white tank-top with yellow armpits was walking ahead of me, with two panting Rottweilers, without a leash.  In his left hand, he carried an open bottle of beer, super-sized.  Be it the heat or the liquor, he swayed and zigzagged quite dramatically across the walkway.

“I hope this poor guy doesn’t collapse from a heat stroke,” I thought and looked back at the irritable cop, in a helmet.  He was gone.

I would have caught up to the poor drunk, but the two bitches next to him were meaning business.  So, I slowed down too.

I waited for him to get ahead enough, so I could sneak into the door of my barista’s coffee shop, but the red-faced man turned and noticed me.  He started staring.

“So pretty,” the man slurred as I took a few hesitant steps to pass his bitches who by then got busy sniffing the streetlight’s pole.

I hesitated and took a sudden turn into the thrift store to my left.

Inside, the heat punched me in the lungs:

“There is not enough air around here,” I thought and looked through the glass door at the bitches outside.  Yep, still there.  “Fine.  I’ll take a look around.”

“Take a look around!” she said.

She had appeared out of nowhere:  A face that I would cast for a children’s most feared witch.  I thought of the strawberry chin, and it crunched my heart.

“I have a lot of good stuff here!” she continued, sweating and bulging her eyes at me.  “And I have a dress I’d love to show you:  IT’S SO CUTE!”

A good day for the crazies to be out, I thought, counting myself into that camp.  It wasn’t even noon — and I was already starting to feel on edge.  Baked — out of my better mind.

Maybe it was the fault of the full moon, from the last couple nights.  At first, I thought it was cool:  Its roundness reminded me of my motha’s face — and of Russian Septembers.  (And neither occurrence — is to be fucked with, by the way!).  But then, the heat would not subside even at nighttime.  And I would rummage through my linens, in nothing but my ex’s dress shirt, until I would find another cotton sheet to soak through, in my sleep.

The strange face would follow me, from one rack to another.  And when at the back of the store, I noticed the backdoor:  “Freedom!” I thought.  And I charged out.

Once outside, the heat, that seemed to have increased in the last few minutes, punched me in the lungs.

“Fuck coffee!  Am I crazy?!”

I made my way back home.

And now, I’m sitting in my friend’s backyard, on the West Side of the city, where the temperatures promised to be more tolerable.  The metallic surface of my laptop is now hot enough to fry a stake.

I’m getting messages from NYC about gray skies and blue moods.  My comrades wish they could be in the sun.

“Not this much sun!” I respond and bury my hand in a flower pot full of potpourri as dead as… well, potpourri.

To the left of me:  A plate full of seashells is sitting on a cracked asphalt.  In the winter, I had seen this thing filled with water and moss before; and it used to remind me — of Russian Septembers.

But now, the surface of each shell is whited out and chalky to the touch.  I reach out to rearrange them:  If I put them to the ear, I think, I bet they are too arid to echo the Ocean.

“Coffee?” my friend sticks his head out, through the back door.

“Coffee?  Are you crazy?!” I respond.

But then:

“Well, sure.  What the hell!”

“And It’s a Hard, It’s a Hard, It’s a Hard, It’s a Hard: And It’s a Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall!”

It was her first fall in LA-LA.

“What is — this place, out here?” she thought, when she noticed that beauty wasn’t throwing itself, suicidally, into her face.  Or, humanity, for that matter.

“May I, at least, have some humanity, around here?”

On those first mornings when she woke up in soaked sheets, she would slide open the windows to air-out her bedroom.  But it made no difference.  The heat would keep hanging at the ceiling of her top floor apartment — much more spacious than the one she dwelled in, back in New York.  And by the end of the day, its molecules smelled of smog — and of her own sweat.

And the sweat was different here, too.  In the heat of August that made New Yorkers flee the City, she loved to venture out into the streets, still just as crowded, but mostly with baffled tourists — not locals — who would jump out of her way, startled by her outraged footsteps.  She would walk around for hours, feeling the unmistakable humidity that made the City smell like rotten garbage and, yes, human sweat.  And while she stood on subway platforms, she could feel the drops of her own perspiration slide slowly from her ass cheeks to the back of her knees, under her long skirts.  She felt the whiff of sex, hers and others’:  And it promised — more life.

There seemed to be some unexpected romance in those days:  For the first time, she finally felt like she was belonging.  But how could she belong in a place she was leaving, so soon?

The one-way ticket already had been bought by her mother, who upon hearing the news of the divorce, put away her dramatics and got stoic, for a change:

“You’re coming to California,” motha said over the phone.

“You make me sound like a folk song,” she thought, in response.  Yet, she obeyed. 

It was the wisdom of the women of her motha’s clan — to never plead or grovel for a man to change his mind.

She was going to California.

There would be plenty of chaos upon her landing:  Finding an apartment seemed easier; for there always seemed to be plenty of departing who packed up their shit into double-parked U-Halls, sweating and swearing at the city’s expense.  But the city’s leasers seemed indecisive and slow.

“Everyone keeps acting as if they’ve got better choices, out here,” she told her best friend in New York.  “Or, they just namedrop.”

Like the little man with glistening eyes who, despite being bound to a wheel-chair, managed to lurk over her when interviewing her for a roommate position.  On his living-room wall, she could see a framed, autographed poster of a recently released indie flick that was pretty well reviewed in The Times, that summer.

“I produced that,” the little man said, reminding her of one those exotic birds on the Discovery Channel that puff themselves up into alien shapes — just to get some tail.  From under the smeared lenses of his glasses, his narrow eyes were sliding up and down her body.  His face was glistening with sweat.  She got up, feeling like she needed a shower at the closest motel she could find, on Sunset Boulevard.

“Well, what do you think?” the little man wheeled after her, to the door, lurking.  “I could make you a star!”

She walked out.

“Really?” her best friend said calmly.  “Do they actually say things like that, out there?”

And then, there was the job search, in which every lobby looked like a waiting room for an audition or a cattle call.  And no one else seemed to be breaking a sweat, after driving in the apocalyptic-degree heat.

“We aren’t making any decisions right now,” the interviewers kept saying.  “But we’ll keep your resume on file.”

“Then, why did you waste my time?” she actually said to a group of young entrepreneurs who looked like the cast of Entourage and, after sliding their eyes up and down her body, asked her to tell them “something they couldn’t have known — by looking at her”.  (She told them she was good at harakiri.)

She walked out, got back into her car and wasted more time.  The heat outside was still insatiable!  And in the midst of it, everyone was always up for a hike.  Or “a coffee date, sometime”.

The rain would finally come by the end of October.  And it wouldn’t stop.

The roads would get shiny at first, and for the first time, since landing, she would smell the nearing of another season — not of her own sweat.  The nights would get cold, and she would insist on walking, to any outside cafe, on Sunset Boulevard, and getting soaked. It was the first time she would cry the tears worthy of the women of her motha’s clan:  They weren’t filled with self-pity anymore, but with rage.  And rage — was always better, for survival.

 

Finally, there would be a callback for a maitre d’ position at some pretentious overpriced restaurant, on the West Side, with a diva-chef in the kitchen.  She would swim in her motha’s decade-old clunker to other side of the city.  Driving in the middle lane seemed safer, but some maniac in a German car would always honk and zoom past her, on the right, and give her car a full rinse with the filthy water from the gutters.

“You’re terribly overqualified,” the general manager with a bulldog’s jaw would tell her, at the end, after the two-hour drive.

She got up and tried to make it to the door without breaking down into another outraged tear shed.  Her scuffed shoes made a chomping sound:  Her feet were soaked.  So was her hair.

He would follow her, to the door:

“We’ll keep your resume on file though,” he’d say.

“Please, don’t!” she actually said.

Because it was the wisdom of the women of her motha’s clan to never plead for a man to change his mind.

She walked out.

“So, Let It Rain, Rain Down on Himmm… Mmmm…”

Oh, but it’s raining.  So, I think I’m just gonna stay in bed.

Yes.  It’s raining.

No, not just drizzling, in a typical fashion of LA-LA’s summers, when a few dirty raindrops smear the layer of dust on the windshields and rooftops of our cars; and for the rest of that week, we all drive in polka-dotted vehicles, too superstitious to wash them.  Because the law of LA-LA-Land is such:  Washing a car — brings on new rain.  The drizzling type of rain.  The rain that smears the layers of dust on the windshields and rooftops of our cars.

But today:  It’s raining.

Now, I wouldn’t call it “pouring”, for I have seen some of the worst rainstorms, in other spots along the planet.  I’ve seen the traffic stall in Moscow, its yellow cabs glistening with rain while their drivers, numbed into indifference by common despair, would pull off to the sides of the road and wait out the chaos.  And I have witnessed the swamps that rain makes out of Russian villages, like the birth place of my father; and the people would make portable bridges with loose planks of wood to walk across endless puddles of rainwater and mud.  Because Motha Russia is notorious for its unkept roads:  She is too enormous — to upkeep.

And I have seen the New York Subways shut down entirely, flooded overnight with aftershocks of a storm going much further south.  I have walked along the black-clad New Yorkers, obeying the barely comprehensible instructions over the groveling radio; so that we could take the bus shuttles, already overcrowded, above the ground.  And I watched them endure — the owners of those magnificently strong hearts — and they rarely complained.  Because that City — is not meant for weaklings.  In the last decade, that City has learned to persevere past unthinkable tragedies.  So, what’s a little rainstorm — to warriors?

The most nonchalant characteristic of San Franciscans — is their readiness for the whims of weather.  I have been amazed before to watch their instantaneous transformation into rain-ready attire, as soon as the first heavy raindrops give them a warning.   Sometimes, it’s just a few minutes of rain.  Other times, the precipitation comes down violently and all at once, as if dumped onto their heads by buckets of an impatient laundress.

And then, it passes.  It always passes:  The San Francisco blue.  And when the sun peaks out of the gray layer, suddenly the streets are filled with girls in summer frocks and boys in flip flops.  How ever do they do that:  The exceptional residents of their exceptional city?

But today, it’s raining — in LA-LA.

Oh yes!  It’s raining!

Photography by Russell James

I heard it, early in the morning, when I woke up amazed at my uninterrupted night of sleep.  There were no nightmares today.  In my bed, I wasn’t missing my beloveds.  Neither was I stuck with my chronic prophetic visions, on their behalf.  Neither did I catch myself dreaming.  No.  Today, I rested, lullabied into the sleep of the just — the sleep of the fulfilled — by the drumbeat of heavy raindrops, outside.

And when I first opened my eyes this morning, I thought:

“Oh, but it’s raining!  So, I think I’m just gonna stay in bed.”

But then, I looked outside.

The windows appeared streaked, and the pattern of the settled down moisture reminded me of other windows I had looked through, in other spots, along the planet.

I have watched the water cascading down the tiny windows of my grandmother, in a house she had moved to, as a widow.  She would arise early, to tend to her livestock (and whatever other magical business she couldn’t help but conduct).  But before leaving her tiny wooden house, she would sit in front of a poorly isolated window and unbraid her long, graying hair.  Unleashed, the hair would fall below her waistline; and she would hum, and she would sigh, while running an ivory-colored tooth comb brush, up from her temples and down to the knees.  She could’ve been a siren — a mermaid — playing a harp for her long awaited lover.  For surely, there had to be some magical business she wouldn’t help but conduct!

The windowpanes of our apartment in Eastern Germany would leak, quite often, when rainstorms came to town.  Motha would fuss.  She would dig out all the old towels from underneath our tub, divide and distribute them along our windowsills.  Flabbergasted, she would eventually storm out of the house — “to fix her ruined manicure” — and leave me with the task of wringing out the drenched cloths, until dad would arrive home, to help.

And when he did, the blue of the day would suddenly depart, and we would have an adventure:  stuffing all the cracks with putty and cotton, covering them with tape.  Motha would return to find our windows sweating from the inside, and the two of us — flushed, soaked in rainwater and giggling.

“Well!” she’d command over us.  “I guess I’ll be in the kitchen — slaving over soups.”

And we would pretend to help, but only until motha’s blues would depart, and she would start howling with her very specific laughter.

I would do the same trick at my Riverdale basement apartment, for three years.  I would use it as an excuse to make pots and cauldrons of soups, and play house, for a while.  I would scrawl down my speed dial to check which one of my beloveds was nearby — and hungry.  And I would wait for their very specific laughter to steam up my windowpanes, from the inside.

Ah.  But it’s raining today.

Yes, it’s raining — in LA-LA.

And I think it’s just the perfect day — to stay in bed.

“Mama’s Lil’ Baby Loves Shortenin’, Shortenin’: Mama’s Lil’ Baby Loves Shortenin’ Bread!”

It was a long and sleepful night…

That’s right:  I said “sleepful”.

It was a long and sleepful night, for a change!

And I do love to sleep so!

To this day, motha often pontificates on my possible genetic relation to polar bears.  Because I don’t just sleep:  I hibernate.  And once awoken, it is better for others to keep a safe distance until I get that first cup of coffee, in me.

Over the years, motha and I have figured out how to maneuver around each other, after I stumble into her kitchen, barefoot, in search of my caffeine fix:  We prefer to have at least a town, in between us.  It’s just better that way.  Because two stubborn, moody Russian broads unleashing their wild hair and temperament at each other — never makes for a safe situation.

So, instead, motha leaves me cryptic notes on her counter, next to the pot with burnt coffee on its bottom; and she gets the hell out of her house (about a town away):

“Went to store.  Fear to wake you.”

Or:

“Call me when you go.”

So, okay:  I do love to sleep so!

But it is always a pretty rare occasion for me to pack the mandatory 8-hour gap of rest into a night.  Because there is seemingly never enough hours in my day; and after hour of writing and tending to business, after my rituals of fitness and nourishment, I tend to retire to bed quite reluctantly.  There, I arm-wrestle with the ghosts of my nightmares first; then, I eventually drift off to sleep.

When the alarm goes off at an ungodly hour (because there is seemingly never enough hours in my night), I yank its cord out of the wall and try to nap for a bit.  But before I pass the hour at which I would start calling myself “a sloth”, I leap out of bed and stumble out into my kitchen, barefoot, in search of my caffeine fix.  The thoughts of the day flood in with the first inhale of it, and I’m off:  Chasing the hours, of which there is seemingly never enough in my day.

And I’ve heard of the luxury others entertain when they decide to spend an entire day in bed.  In order for me to do that, I must be deathly sick.  If not, the town is better be going through an apocalypse.

And every single time I’ve entertained the idea of a vacation this year:

“Ah, shit!  I gotta write in the morning!” I would think immediately after, and that idea would be put to rest.

Because there is seemingly never enough hours in my day — and just way too much work to do, in my life!

But today, it was a long and sleepful night.  And before I leapt out of my bed right at the hour at which I would start calling myself “a sloth”, I wondered:

“How ever did I manage to get ten hours of rest?”

Let’s see:  Yesterday, I wrote and I tended to business, as usual.  There were rituals of fitness and nourishment, punctuated with more writing and more business.  I’ve even managed to repack my bags and reshuffle my joint.

But right around the time when I would normally freak out about seemingly never having enough hours in my day, instead of brewing myself another pot of coffee —

I cooked!

I made a meal, for a change.

After a late-night run through a park with maple trees that haven’t yet changed their leaves — but surely seemed to be entertaining it — I decided it was time for fall.  And with fall, it was time for pots of magical thick stews with flavors of the world whispered through a whiff of exotic spices.  And although it wasn’t time to change the clocks yet, it was time — to change the pace.

So, I ran back home and I started a pot:

The eggplant was caramelized first.  The trick there was to be patient:  to give it time.  Fussing with it would ruin the slowly forming crust.  Eggplant is a vegetarian’s stake, and it demands specificity.  Because there seemingly may not be enough hours in the day, but in cooking — it is always about the time.  With time, last night, my patience paid off:  And soon enough the joint was filled with aromas of meatiness and slowness.

The red peppers were caramelized next, married with the sizzling garlic a few minutes later.  And there is nothing more domestic — than the smell of sauteed garlic:  My joint was beginning to smell like home.

The spices went in next:  cumin, coriander, yellow curry, cayenne pepper and sesame seeds.  With spices, one must move quickly.  Because if the mind drifts off — they burn and lose their magic.  By then, my nose had adjusted to the unleashed aromas of the fall, and I had forgotten that I never started that last pot of coffee of the day.  Instead, I was tending to my spices, fully present and perfectly patient.

By the time the rest of the vegetables and liquids joined the stew, I was beginning to dream of cooking by a campfire, on some Moroccan adventure, with all of my comrades napping in surrounding tents.  They would wake, of course, to the smell of slowness and patience — to the smell of home; a world of difference away from the aromas of caffeine.

And I thought of all the future meals I had yet to make in the slower hours of the upcoming winter; of all the pots of magical thick stews with flavors of the world narrated through the whispers of new spices that I had yet to learn to cook.  And I thought:  There is still so much time, in my life!

According to my recipe, the stew would taste much better the next day.  So, I retired to bed quite willingly last night, looking forward to the new flavors — and to waking up in a joint that smelled more like home.

According to my recipe, the stew would taste much better the next day.

And it does.