City Experienced Through Movies

When I was in LA, a condition I have a hard time categorizing as living since it felt more like treading water, I used to savor and devour any, and all, movies shot in and about New York. No matter how inane, sentimental, absurd, or just plain bad, I would sit through any movie that captured this city on film. You can imagine how rabid I was about watching "Sex and the City," since the city was a character as much as those singletons desperate for love. You know it's bad when I made my husband sit through "Autumn in New York," one of Winona Ryder's last movies, and for good reason if anyone has seen it. And Woody Allen, pre-scandal, was at his most prolific when allowing this city to be the main feature of his movies. I think it interesting that as he gets older, more jaded, and less creatively prescient, he has headed across the pond for inspiration.

When I found life too grim, which could be most days in that sunny environ, I would rent out all the classic titles starting with Woody Allen's "Manhattan," and ending with any of Nora Ephron's films set in this city. The day would be spent aimlessly watching the movie, not for story sake, but simply to absorb the images of this much beloved city. Yes, I have watched "You've Got Mail," more than any sane person should admit to. My husband, who knew the drill too well, asked recently how many times I had watched a certain movie, which happened to be on one of our many movie channels, being watched, yet again. He teased that it must exceed ten, if not hobbling toward 20. I laughed along with him because, well, in my few sane moments, I knew how crazy all of this was. But a part of me realized that all of this living vicariously through film had now come to an end. That I was now living the life I'd imagined for so long. And being me, well, that has created a certain anxiety--much to be expected for those familiar with my particular peculiarities.

I have corresponded with an old neighbor about how the fires have, or have not, affected our old neighborhood. She was full of complaints about the air quality, which on a fire-free day is just on par with Mexico City. I couldn't imagine how bad it must be, and to see no relief in sight to clear out the smoke and ever lingering smog. It was during such days when our son's asthma would kick in with a severity that would require him to stay home from school. The drizzle that made umbrellas a necessity on our morning walk to school felt like a gift from above. The chill in the air feels like it will stay awhile.

My son rarely mentions LA now. He no longer complains about walking everywhere even on those days when it is rainy and gray. This new life is now every day for him, and for the rest of us. We, each of us, is rejuvenated by the changes, the pace of this new city life. My work is going well, or rather, I'm working again after so many years of not. I find the hours between 8:30 and 2:30 passes too quickly as I look up from staring intently at the computer, only to realize it is time to pick up my son. The somnolence of the last five years have come to an end as everything in my life has gained such clarity: my work and my family. Reading, something that offered and continues to offer such solace, is like everything else clearer. I'm no longer reading to escape my world, but reading for all the reasons a writer is supposed to read.

I feel this last half of my life as a writer will be the most productive. There may be another book in me, if not a few more books. I know the blistering pace at which I work will not put me in the category of Joyce Carol Oates, although very few writers are in her league. But I hope and pray I shall not suffer the fate of Harper Lee, who spent the rest of her life trying to write another. God willing.