Returning From LA

13 February 2017


We are parked again now. A spot closer to the water than the first. The beach was one of our destinations after all. I wasn’t sure. There had been talk of beating the traffic.  I know so little of LA traffic.


We walk down to a cove. A hidden gem. 


It is easy to find a place a place to unfurl a blanket. 


Young teen girls, blonde, still fair skinned, athletic- California to the core- play pyramid and splash in the surf. I wonder at their two piece suits and that they are not in school.  

Older folk, more clothed, sit and let the sun dissolve their thoughts. 


In time, both of my companions strip and aim themselves at the waves.  

They let their bodies be jostled by the water giant. 

Content with my notebook and pen, I do not go be laughingly drowned.


I turn my back to the sun. Under my hat, I feel rising heat tug the water out of me. 

A man sits topless and cross legged in the dry sand to meditate. Or so it seems. 

In the very next moment he is spitting into the sand and laying down. His actions registers as repugnant to me. 


I look away from him uncertain if I want to spend any observational effort on such a self-involved creature. 

But inexplicably he begins to walk on his hands. 

I give him a few more seconds of my time.  


Clearly, he is very proud of his physical accomplishments. If only his spirit were in such capable shape. 

Time is moving differently. How long will we stay here? 

A couple of hours to avoid the general rush to get home? Is that possible to avoid? 


The amused girls squeal. 


A crow calls. 


The freeway is far away. The country I am in is far away. Mexico is far away.

Adrift thoughts anchor as I my drenched friends return to the blanket. They dry and dress once more. Though I am content to sit and write, I am invited to explore the tide pools off to our right.

I accept this offer. 


One agrees stay to watch our belongings. 

Two are free to clamber over rough and wet surfaces. 

I feel unusually certain on this terrain. Using all my limbs every once in a while for balance feels very natural. 


We peer into so many different scrying glasses. Every possible reality just a bit different than the next.


Careful not to disturb any of the pools with an indelicate step, my canvas shoes soak through from the tide’s unpredictability anyway. 
 

A guide is available to explain the shore life to us. On such a lovely day there are three or four of them leading on small groups of curious people with fancy cameras. 


They boast that the cove’s ecosystem is recovering after some sparse years. All thanks to their preservation efforts.


In direct opposition to the posted (and guide reiterated) rules, I keep two small shells in my pocket. I remain confident the cove will continue to mend itself just fine, in spite of my transgression. 


Just before feeling that we have over-indulged ourselves in this daydream retreat, we go. Back to the car. Back to the freeway. 

Happy to have been there. Happy to get moving. 



 

International travel – like a rock star

 {photo credit missing!}

In the company of my fellow artistic collaborators, I finally made it to Canada: the stomping grounds of my French ancestors. We would be there for no longer than a day.

In the Montreal airport I saw many obvious Mexican immigrants. Remind me again- which country has that big green statue and that lovely poem about huddled masses?

During lunch, I sat in a vegan cafe alone in Mile End. I had been ditched there so more errands could be run before show time. It was my impression that no one wanted to share ‘healthy’ food with me either.

The clouds gathered enough to let down a spring rain. The musical selection connected me back to NYC. Brooklyn Rider played. I’d been in a performance with those musicians!

The time with my own thoughts, scrawling long hand in a note book was not under appreciated.

Part of me was wondering why I didn’t speak French; part of me wondered why I was born in America; part of me wanted to go to sleep in a comfortable bed, in a lying down position. There was no hostel, motel, hotel or b and b (air or otherwise) reserved for us on this trip.

Pictures weren’t snapped. I was not in tourist mode. I was running on a scant few hours of sleep and was expected to get on stage to do a performance. That was why the three of us went to this northern city: we wanted to expose Heroic Procession to a different crowd. It was something they did not expect. Of course. Other performers who stopped to watch us voiced their admiration for our efforts, I can’t say how anyone else roving the Rialto received the work.

After the dj’s interminable set faded out and the last of the booths were stripped, we taxied over to waste time at a 24 hour dive unremarkably called Joe’s Panini. It was right next to a happy ending massage parlor with an honest to Venus barker inviting males to enjoy the heights of relaxation and pleasure. He didn’t stay outside of the establishment very long though. He noticed we weren’t potential clientele and ran along to find more likely types.

It was the small hours of the morning. The rain of the day was still soaking in. The panini place was quite busy. There were lone super drunks, a lesbian couple, an EMT guy wearing pink camo patterned trousers.. who knew 2 am would bring a rush?

I ate a questionable soy veggie panini. It was absolutely perfect given my setting.

One of the super drunks went off about bacon being the best kind of vegetable. He was trying to get a rise out of someone he perceived as vegan – I wondered if he pegged me as such? Sometimes drunks have magic powers after all. And he was supra-drunk.

This large inebriate had ordered a panini. He ate it. Then ordered another panini heavy with bacon, plus a large portion of mac’n’cheese. He ate everything. He was so far gone, I don’t think he would even remember that he ate enough for three and a half people. I avoided eye contact.

At the airport: I over heard a couple of gentlemen who sat at the same gate. Their conversation moved between what sounded like Scottish accented English to full on Quebecois. That was a treat for my ears.

We still had so many hours to kill before our flight. The airport was too loud for me to sleep more than a moment or two. My animal self felt too vulnerable.

I survived this adventure in one piece. Or so I thought. The effects of stress were merely delayed. It hit me a week after arriving home: Vomiting. The runs. Menses. Missing out on work.

But anyway- What’s next?

A jaunt to New Orleans?

(Come on, Papa Legba. Help a white woman out.)