The Djinn Descends (to the Red and Blue Line)

I grew up riding buses and subways. I did it for 27 years, through grammar school, high school, college and law school. This was the 60s and 70s and the New York trains and buses, but particularly the trains, were no bargain for the regular rider. These were the days of aged cars and even when they were updated, the graffitti (which people insisted on calling art, as they still do today rather than the thuggery it is) so covered everything, including the windows, so you couldn't even see your exit station name. In those days, train riding was like being sucked into the vortex of a cesspool.

When I came to Los Angeles, I rode the buses for a short time until I could afford a car, and after that, circa 1982, I was no longer a rapid transit (that too was an oxymoron in new York; rapidity eluded the MTA in them there days) consumer. I have spent the last nearly 30 years happily ensconced in my various cars (I have had four altogether). Even traffic did not deter me, the memory of my days on the cramped, urine smelling, hot (or cold in winter) cars remaining fresh in my mind.
 
I won't say that I swore I'd never ride in another train, but I can tell you I sure as heck was never planning on it. 

Life changes, and I won't bore you with the details, but a recent opportunity actually "requires" me to have some familiarity with the still developing LA system. So, today, I descended into the bowels of the Hollywood and Highland station and took my first red line train to Union Station.

It was not horrible. In fact, it was a retro experience, but on newer, less bumpy, less smelly trains. I even saw someone cleaning a station!  Unheard of in a city long ago and far away.

It felt almost as if there had been no intervening years since I had travelled an underground regularly. I found myself doing what I used to on the way to school or work in the Big Apple.  I dozed warily.  I mean there are still a lot of people even in this driving city, in the subway, and just this weekend they had their first ever murder, a stabbing, and well, it was at Hollywood and Highland, on the train. So, warily is a watchword in public transit, like it or not. Still, I am remarkably still used tot that, and I had no particular concern, and I was intrigued by the smoothness of the ride and the fact that the lights did not go on and off as they used to when I rode as a child, adolescent and young adult in New York. I got on the train at 8:17 and I was at Union Station in less than a half hour. I even had time to get my morning cup of coffee before my appointment. 

But it was not over, this sojourn into this earthly netherworld.  As part of my education, we rode the rails again, the Red and the Blue line, with several wonderful LA Sheriff's Deputies who showed us some of the behind the scenes things we need to know about fares, tickets, tapping (you'd only understand that if you actually ride these trains) and the general background of the still novel system in LA. I went past my old office building inside one of the trains (as it went above ground toward Long Beach) instead of outside as has been my usual view. The Blue Line is actually the first line in the City of LA and they have since increased the width of the trains for more comfort.

The thing is, I didn't hate it.

There are issues though as some of you know. The stations are often far away from where people live and so, I had to find a space near Hollywood and Highland to park my car (for free as it would defeat the purpose of using transit if I had to pay 20 dollars to park). I had almost given up and was about to drive to downtown LA, when I found the perfect spot, safely away from the bad men towing folks who were parked against the signs.  So, I cannot say that I will rush to ride the rails once more but, I am no longer an opponent.

Eating up (Figuratively) "The Journal Keeper, A Memoir" by Phyllis Theroux

My unscheduled freedom has provided me opportunity to do more reading. I have, as usual, a pile of books to get to, and several partially read to complete, but I have actually gotten through one relatively quickly, and I enjoyed it beyond measure. The Journal Keeper. 

Perhaps part of its appeal is that I am a journal keeper of many years, although I do not write nearly as well (she is an inspiration, therefore, for me to be more cohesive and thoughtful and less complaining). I feel a kindred spirit and with the shake-up of my own life of late, her experience and digestion of difficulty and change at upper mid-life, just riveted me. It is rare that I want to read a book over at all, let alone immediately. This is one that I do, and might, if only I do not get distracted by the need to dive into one of the others beckoning me.

The context for this published part of Ms. Theroux's journal, spanning the period from 2000 to 2005. When we meet her, her aged mother, who suffers from macular degeneration has moved in with her, in Ashland, Virginia. It is the same house in which she had previously lived a domestic life with a now ex-husband and three now grown children. When she leave us, it is three years after her mother dies and just after her marriage to a persistent, loving man named Ragan. 

I am reminded as she meanders incisively that each life has a story, and each story, though it unfolds almost without our notice, is really quite the fascinating drama with bits of sometimes comic, gentle relief. She writes with such innate loving of her mother, their easy relationship, and the one she initially resists with a man whose differences frighten her but whose decency and kindness compel her.  Change slips into her life, and while, initially she is reluctant, she embraces it and gives us all courage to proceed, and with a good amount of joy. 

I was bending pages and underlining segments throughout. As in all good tales, journals, fiction, or non-fiction, there is the reminder that we ought to stay in the present, not the past or the future. The first is done. The other we cannot control. One line I leave you with, and suggest you read this book, "Life is more intense when one is all here to live it."

I had begun to see that before I read this book; now I must not forget as I wander from one moment to the next.

And continue my own journal keeping.
 

A (nother) Day in Paradise

I don't know if the real paradise bears any tactile or emotional relationship to ocean blue, sand, and sea gulls, but I am putting in my order!
 
Yesterday, I crossed a small item off the old "bucket list" by tooling down the Pacfic Coast Highway (or PCH to us natives!) to a really old time spot, called Paradise Cove Beach Cafe. When someone says, "it's right on the water" they are not kidding. I cannot imagine what a storm down there does in winter, but no matter, it was a lovely overcast (then sunny) cool and warm day (yes, there can be both!) that found me and Anonymous from the Deluxe Barbara Judith Apartments down there having a most splendiferous lunch. Getting there at just before 12 noon, we had no problem with parking. And the wait, well, let's say gazing upon the water sitting in comfy Adirondack chairs was a breeze in the breeze. And then we had our outdoor table on the sand. By the time we shared the truly home made guacamole and chips on ice, I was already pretty full and could not quite manage my mix and match tacos, fish, shrimp and steak. Mr. Anonymous, however, well acquitted the interesting cheese, shrimp sandwich, a la grilled, and clam chowder. Oh, did I forget to mention the Strawberry Mojito I had!  No, not any more. . . .

After lunch we could not go on what appeared to be something of a makeshift pier that was crowded with private party goers, but we found a nice spot on the damp sand watching the waves, the gulls and the kids, either boogy boarding or diving into the about five foot waves at a height. Yep, breath deep that ocean air and mist and relax in a way that is truly ethereal.

Anyone want to play hookey and join me say in about a week or so for a day at the Cove?

Beginning another Canvas

Well, I suppose I am doing that in a figurative way, in light determining what is next. But this time, I also mean, I really am beginning another literal canvas!

I have had this long piece of one sitting in my backyard for a couple of months or more. I had intended to paint a slightly ajar open door on it. Perhaps something ethereal, like a blast of golden light coming out of it. But yesterday, as I was sitting out there, I noticed the tilt of the sun making its own shadow drawing. There was the trellis and the bouganvilla cast upon the white. And suddenly, that was the painting to be!

I traced the shadows, rather badly at that, freehand as the way the canvas was leaning I could not put pressure with a ruler without dislodging it and removing the shapes of the shadows. And then I put it aside unsure if that was what ought to be on there. As if ought had anything to do with such a thing.
Today, I met a colleague/friend for breakfast.  We tried a place I have passed since it opened about a year ago, called Shaky Alibi on Beverly Boulevard. The quirk of this independent coffee shop is that it serves liege waffles. Ever heard of that?  Me neither. But there we were. You could have dessert ones, or real food ones, as we did, me the poached egg with cheese and turkey. The powdered sugar gave it a unique taste. My friend and I are finding, finally, nearly five weeks after separation from our jobs, that the sense of hurt is slowly attentuating and what is left is a kind of curiousity over how the office's new direction will take shape, as it was the reason for our forced exit--i.e. "we are going in a new direction" (read, "and you are not going with us").  So far, from what we have heard nothing has changed but we retain a wistful interest. But the lessening of the sense of the ego blow is a relief.

After we parted ways, I went to Mass. The gospel was about sowing a good seed. I hope I will do that in this third part of my life (God Willing, that is, there is a third part!). I brought my bicycle into the shop for a shakedown and repair, as it is my hope, yet again, to use it. Then I called someone about a former parishioner of my chruch who had died and some issues related thereto.

And then, there was that badly sketched canvas. I pulled out the paints. I am a childhood trained artist, which means that I really am not trained, as my last formal guidance was when I was between 8 and 11 or so. I have, I think, a certain primitive skill, but that means what I do can either be pretty good or really awful. I cannot under any present condition draw the human form. Something to put on the ever expanding list of things to do, take an adult oil painting class. But anyway, I started in the breezy outdoors replicating what I thought I saw on the trellis.   Here is it at the very start.

Kind of cool, no. I did not paint it next to the actual bush (to the right), but after I was done for the day, I placed the canvas as you see and this is the visual result!   Auspicious eh? Well, at least I think so. The little discoveries of the non-working life!  And you get to see the thing in progress.  I worry a bit that this is it at its best, but I shall continue and see what appears.

Quiet Time

During the nearly last month, I have had maybe two days of outright, "didn't have much to do".  I try to have at least one appointment, social or otherwise each day. I am somewhat, no, very, fearful of falling into an impenetrable lassitude now that I am without a regular job for the first time in 30 or so years.
 
This is probably a silly concern as by nature I am energetic, oh, let's rephrase, intense. Some things cannot be forced, and today, quite simply I had little pre-planned to do. I rose fairly late, at 10 a.m., in part because I could not sleep last night, and in part because, well, I could. I had that indispensable cup of coffee and went off to Mass, which I have found, perhaps somewhat unspiritually, or maybe it is spiritual ultimately, has been a stabilizing action of many of my days. I visited with some friends on the parish grounds, grabbed a most delicious salt bagel with cream cheese at my local Bagel Broker and retired to my home to nosh and to read the paper. 

I wasn't entirely able to leave it at that, though. I made the beginnings of a sketch on a canvas, using the shadows of a trellis with some vines. I worked, ever so little, on two writing projects. I viisted with my uncle. By then it was only 4 thirty and I was feeling guilty that I had not adequately used my time for today.
And then it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what I was supposed to do today. That this need to accomplish is ephemeral. I did accomplish did I not?  And the end result was that I was told my services, all well evaluated for many  many years, were no longer needed. If there is accomplishment it is either for God or for one's intrinsic purposes. And it is measured in many ways, not all of them by product or result.

In that sense, then I an accomplished quiet day.

The Benefit of Too Many Notes

       You might recall the line from Amadeus where the Emperor comments on Mozart's musical offerings with the dismissive "too many notes". And yet, those creative detailed notes were the beginning of an illustrious career.
 

In a completely different context, my immediate reaction to all the possibilities of my life post a 25 year job, has occasionally been the same, "too many notes" of potentiality.

Some are those I have presented to myself, like taking a voice over class, downloading a script program for script writing I have yet to do and the odd contribution to some charity; others are the suggestions of others, "you'd be a good mediator", "you could be a canon lawyer", "you could do malpractice defense", "you could teach", "you could go back to finish your psychology degree", "you can take another degree".
 
The truth is, I can only do one or two of these things with any focus. Thus, during the last days, I have found my head nearly literally spinning as I try to decide where I should throw my energies. The result is that I put off throwing them anywhere, and then feel a little guilty that I am not making progress. Of course, to where am I directing this hypothetical progress?

    
I cannot recall if I wrote this anywhere, or if I did, where (as one of the things I am doing is writing for other locales, accepted or not), but I feel as if I am pressed to decide not merely on some activity, but on the larger frame, between the secular and the spiritual. Or, let me add, questioning, and even bargaining over, whether both are possible concomitantly.
 

 It seems that the most religious of my brothers and sisters (that is the ones whose actions indicate a visible decided pursuit of faith, dedication to some form of dedicated or consecrated or communitiy life) foreswear almost frantically (to my observation) any of the world. Where the average among try to be in the world, but not of it, they seem not to want to be in it. I admit to distrusting this a bit, and wonder how one knows whether it comes from a free acceptance of God's Will or a concession to one's own discomfort with the world and hiding from it, not, I think, perhaps self-servingly, what God would want. Cannot the secular and spiritual, the truly Christian spiritual work together? I know of the Third Orders and have somewhat investigated if that is where I would find an answer to this question. Another in the surfeit of notes which I may play.  Along with my piano if I ever get it tuned again!


I suppose the point of this entry is to note (accidental play on words) that all of these opportunities, while a bit anxiety producing are also part of growth of what turns out to be a still energetic middle aged woman and I suspect, will have many benefits--once I settle on something after listening hard and not fearing to answer a call, if there is one.

Sunday Afternoon/Evening RANT!

     A trip to Rite-Aid has usually meant not finding spaces because people going to places other than the area of the lot (an eatery  is really the only other place) park there for hours beyond any normal shopping or dining period. I have always had mixed feelings about the many limitations on parking, but I have never parked in a lot intending solely to go elsewhere shopping.

     A slight disclaimer here. I have gone to the lot's shops as well as nearby areas, and this only on critical occasion (at least to me). I have tried fairly assiduously to follow the rules. Those of us who do so are always punished, it seems, in worldly terms, by consequences which we did not ourselves reap.

     Today, I drove in to find a man,  a booth, and a charge. Although validation was possible, for a half hour's browsing, it was two buck's and up. No longer the free and easy access. I was annoyed. The valet assumed that it was because I was impatient at having to wait for a ticket. Nope, that wasn't it.

     I was annoyed that this inconvenience was caused by those who fail to abide by the standards of civility. After I parked my car, I explained my reasons for being less than charming to him. We were sympatico. My to be validated ticket and I went into the drug store.
   
There were no wagons and the things I was intending to purchase needed more than a basket.  A young man found what appears to have been the only remaining shopping cart in the environs. I was content again.

   I needed a flash drive. Nothing was in the open as there is fear of theft. That's ok. I understand.  All I need to do is to ask and I shall receive one 4 gigabyte flash drive from behind the counter. Another lovely employee retrieved it, but I was not allowed to keep it to continue in my shopping.  Why? Because of that very same danger of theft. I guess those gates at exit doors are no longer enough.

      
      I was annoyed, thrice, or was it for the fourth time!? Not simply because I, who has never stolen anything from a store so it seemed personal, but because the fact that this is necessary is about some person or persons who STEAL thus, once more, punishing the rest of us who do not. Instead of dealing with these folks in any meaningful fashion, society tries to block them by blocking all of us from our simple daily activities. You say, "what's the big deal?"  By itself, maybe nothing, but one after another of these solutions that do not bear upon the moral centers of the people who cause them to be necessary, in fact compound the problem. Rather than deal with the miscreants, we limit our freedoms. Oh, rather, they are limited for us. And the uncivil or the criminal simply seek ways to evade the obstacles. The rest of us are deterred while they mock and destroy the fabric of our country and our very souls. 


On the other hand, maybe it is a good thing for me to shop less. . . .