Does anyone work?

My son and I went to the pool in this apartment complex, which feels more like a hotel in Vegas than a family residence in the middle of LA. The water was appropriately azure in color, inviting my little boy to get in despite the cool temperature. There's nothing significant about any of this except the fact that the pool was crowded at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Thursday. Each lounge chair was occupied, a female or male form splayed out, their bodies turned toward the receding afternoon sun. The only thing I could think as I looked around was, 'what are they all doing here in the middle of the day. And why don't they have jobs?' It's a thought I've had often as I drove past a Starbucks, the outside tables full of able bodied men and women sitting, drinking, conversing, all quite leisurely, none of them dressed as if they were coming or going to work. This culture of leisure manifests in movie theaters being nearly full for an 11:00 AM showing, middle level executives going to work dressed as if playing a round of golf instead of conducting business, and men and women going to work dressed much like a twenty year old in designer jeans (purposely faded by the Designer) and a t-shirt emblazoned with some rock band's logos.

My book club has been reading the memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat, Pray, Love." The book is a good romp, but the interesting thing that has given me something to contemplate is how she asserts that every city can be summed up in one word. For instance, Rome's word, one of the cities that she visits, is Sex. We can surmise that the word for Washington, DC is Power. Gilbert asserts that the word for New York City, where she lives, is Achieve, whereas the word for LA is Succeed. I thought about the differentiation of these two words: achieve and succeed. The dictionary defines achieve as: to perform or carry out with success; to accomplish something desired or intended. It also defines succeed as: to come next in time or succession; to follow after another; replace another in an office or a position. These two words chosen by Gilbert is so appropriate for the two cities, both places obsessed with success, with winning. Yet, how different the tempos, the drives behind each to reach this desired result.

In New York, everyone has the appearance, real or a pretension, of being busy, of moving quickly toward the next spot on their board game. When one thinks about New York, I see people walking, moving, all in constant motion toward their destination. In LA, it is the opposite since this sense of leisure, of time being elastic, is the epitome of success, where the appearance of doing very little--even if a pretense--is the measure of how successful you are. Hence, the ease with which all of the residents of the Palazzo can sit, or rather, lounge around in the middle of the day without any anxiety about missing some opportunity to get to the next rung on whatever ladder they are trying to climb.

The dictionary definition for both words also signifies how one word is about moving forward toward a desired goal, whereas the other word is about waiting for that succession to be awarded to you for merely being next in line. The difference is significant, and manifests in many interesting paradoxes in both cities. I'm not passing judgment here, but I will say that my uber-Preppy, East Coast upbringing makes this idea of sitting around for "success," to be bestowed upon me by divine intervention, incredibly anxious. What? No drops of salty perspiration? No tears from complete exhaustion? How can that be? And if one is lucky enough, fortunate enough to be have reached your desired level of success...with so little effort, or so it appears, does that mean the success can just as easily be taken away?

I realized with this move to New York, I will have lived in all of the four major East Coast cities: Boston, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and New York City. And since I've lived in London, well, the only other place left for me dream about would be Paris. Isn't that part of the East Coast person's plight, if Achieve is our word, to always be looking ahead? So, I have yet to get to New York, but I'm already setting sights on a beautiful, small apartment on the Left Bank. I know, I know, it is insane and irrational. But then, well, we know sanity, rationality are not words easily associated with me.

Chatter,Chatter, Chatter

Chatter is what the chattering class does, and does rather exhaustively and extensively. Chatter is what I hear, none of it scintillating, none of it original, but most of it incredibly gossipy and, at times, a bit mean-spirited. Yes, I'm talking about adults, and not those that are under four feet. It's fascinating to me how so many conversations are centered around others and not ideas-- no never ideas. Why is it that people with leisure time spend so much of their time obsessed about others? What I find so endlessly amusing is how all of this talk is, in the end, so circuitous. X is doing so and so, said by Y. Then X will discuss how Y is doing so and so to T. T will then tell Y how X is doing so and so. You can see what I'm saying, right? It's a bit like the algebraic equations that made my life a living hell in 8th grade. And in the end, each person will get discussed by the other to one of the other in the group, thereby making a perfect circle if one could diagram the talk. I suppose this is more geometry than algebra, both of which made my life absolute hell. I won't get into what Calculus did to me or that ridiculous AP Physics class. It is a bit Dorothy Parkeresque, if only any of them had ever read Dorothy Parker.

Anyway, I'm not claiming to be above the fray since I'm usually X or Y, depending on the circle. But rather, I'm just alarmed and dismayed that this circle of talk seems to occur more often than not. This chatter doesn't occur with all my girlfriends. I do have a few, those that are keepers on the friendship shelf, that can, and do have conversations about so many other topics other than people, or people we know in common. This chattering seems to reach a crescendo pitch in certain communities like churches, schools, sororities, secretarial pool (is there such a thing anymore since all secretaries are now referred to as assistants), English departments, any place where people spend an inordinate amount of time working, believing, supporting, and socializing. And with my penchant for joining groups, I find myself involved in lots of chatter.

I'm not a poet by training, although that is a secretly held dream of mine. Yes, my husband would surely be upset now since we know how much money poets make in this world. I mean, everyone reveres John Ashbery, well, language poets do anyway, but how many people actually buy his collections, right? Or know who John Ashbery is for that matter? And like I had said about chatter in English Departments, albeit a rather eloquent chatter, poetry workshops were notoriously contentious and mean-spirited. I heard from many poets that the rooms would divide between language poets versus narrative poets, all in the fight to death about which form is the valid form. All funny stuff, really, but very serious to the participants.

Nonetheless, I have started to write a poem or two. Nothing grand, nothing publishable. But this chatter to which I was referring was something that was the genesis of a poem I was recently working on.

I will share here...please bear with me as it is many drafts away from being ready.

Whispers, secret glances, flowing hair huddled together.
Why do we pretend we are all friends?
Why do we keep up social graces?
Keeping up the charade all is perfect.
As whispers gather, each utterance about someone we know
The cumulus of deceit darkening our pristine houses.

Whispers, secret glances, shoulder blades jutting together.
Invitations extended and rescinded.
Words now louder
Gusts of gossip, careening through our sedate streets
Overturning sedans, uprooting the ficus tree.

Whispers, secret glances, hands clasped together.
Competition to be Queen Bee
Now a thundering stampede
The ground quivering under the weight of such busyness
Toxins seeping into our water.

And so we say we are all friends.
Glasses clinked in celebration.
As one more heart is savaged.
Another Queen Bee's coronation attended.

Slow The F**K Down!

Those four words are on homemade placards placed along 6th Street, not far from my son's preschool. Although, today, I noticed that F**K has been taken down, so that the three remaining placards read, "Slow The Down." This bit of 6th street, east of LaBrea and West of Western, a road where 35 miles per hour is the speed limit, is a bit like a freeway. Some poor homeowner, most likely with young kids, has taken the matter into their own hands by placing these signs along the roadside. I can understand their outrage.

Like I've written, which feels exhaustively here, driving here, where it is a bit like being a defensive tackle for a football team, is something that brings out the worst in me. Today, I found myself so irate about a poorly parked car that I wrote a nasty note on an envelope, which I left on the offending car's windshield. The note, I'm chagrined to admit, said something along the lines of, "Learn to fu**ing park the car A**HOLE!" I know, I know. There is the issue of the split infinitive, but I was enraged by this person parking their car, effectively blocking me in. And why, oh why, have we not passed a hands-free cell phone use only law? Why do we have to wait till 2008 for this law to go into effect? It's bad enough people talk on their phones, but what's terrifying for me is when I see women--I hate to cast a bad light on my own sex, but it's mostly women I've witnessed doing this particular thing--with their cell phone tucked under their chin, driving, if you can call it that. Whenever I see this, I usually pull over till they pass me because I don't want to be rear ended. This culture of cars has turned what is supposed to be a vehicle for transport into a transportable living room, merely another extension of one's living spaces. Really, the things I observe driving around this city is enough to make me never want to step behind the wheel, if only that were possible here.

So, my nervous-nelly driving is compounded by the fact that I'm always on the defensive. And let's get this off my chest: I have a particular opinion for those who like to drive the flashy Penis cars--the Porsche, the Ferrari, the Lamborghini. Really, these fine machines are meant to be driven on stretches of road where reaching speeds of triple digits is the norm. They are not meant to be driven by insecure people--my judgment again about those who feel empowered behind the wheel of these cars--who become aggressive in these machines. Actually, I witness lots of people behaving badly when behind the wheel, behavior that would get their asses kicked if they behaved that way anywhere else. If they walked around the streets, cursing at, yelling at, throwing their hands up at, anyone, particularly another man, they would, more than likely, end up in some altercation where a visit to the hospital would be the end result. But no, behind the wheel of whatever car they drive, they exhibit all sorts of such unacceptable behavior. Yes, I don't drive fast, or rather, I drive observing the speed limit, which really are signs posted to suggest a speed, not the actual speed itself. And I am always looking in the rear view mirror where some driver is tailing me, finally darting around me, shooting me a look meant to convey their outrage at my observance of the law. Now, the speeding issue wouldn't be an issue if we had enough police here to man the roads. But since that's a wish rather than a necessity for a functioning society, the roads, to me, feel like anarchy.

And each section of the city has its own driving hazards. When in Beverly Hills, where cell phones seem to be plastered to every driver, one has to watch really expensive cars being driven badly by people too focused on what their friend, business associate, is saying on the other end. When in Koreatown, well, there is the adage, "Driving While Korean," which seems to apply to every ethnic group. And since Koreatown is really Koreans and Central Americans, well, driving here takes special rules, which really means there are no rules at all. And since we are east of LaBrea, there are the buses to contend with, which is another problem entirely. Anywhere in Hollywood means you have to be cautious around those with the hyphenate careers: actor-receptionist, writer-delivery person, director-Border's desk clerk, and so on.

I don't know if it's the new surge in gas prices, but I have noticed more bikers on the road. When I see them, I actually marvel at their courage. Really, to don clothes with a backpack strapped to one's back, biking to work seems like a risk not worth taking. What's a few more carbon emissions when everyone else is participating, right? Can you imagine the amount of aggression people feel entitled to dish out on to these poor schmucks? I mean, really. There is only so far one has to go for a political, environmental conviction.

I know it seems there is nothing about driving that I could possibly miss. But, there are some aspects of driving, not the actual act of driving itself, but what happens when you're cocooned inside this vehicle, the sense of invisibility and privacy, that I will miss. I know, one shouldn't pick one's nose or perform any other bodily functions since this sense of invisibility is really an illusion. But this sense of privacy gets heightened when you listen to the radio. It feels as if the announcer (for those NPR Devotees) is speaking to you, and only you, as they relate a story about a life far away. Or that pop song that would sound tinny and cotton-candy syrupy anywhere else seems to be talking about your life in the cliched lyrics. I've been known to sit inside my car, parked in my garage, waiting to get out as I finish listening to some story on NPR. Listening to the radio is something I associate entirely with the car. I rarely come home to switch on NPR on any number of radios in the house. Funny, why that is for us, this generation raised with the car and television. I know for my father-in-law and his generation, listening to the radio is something you did as a family, not this solitary act that it has become for so many of us.

Well, I am sitting outside on a patio of the huge bookstore across the street from our temporary apartment, which I will have to admit seems to be a stopping place for divorcees and others whose lives are in transition. When I glance north, I see houses precariously built into the hillside, the surrounding landscape now more brown than green. Well, now that I have cataloged all of my books, and they are all in boxes, I will go browse the bookstore shelves in search of some poetry. Our handsome mayor--the New Yorker did a great profile on him--has pleaded with the citizenry to conserve water. I guess those half hour showers are now going to have to be a thing of the past, well, at least for the remainder of my time here.

The Life of the Gypsy

Were it not for the husband and child, I am finally living the life of the peripatetic--the gypsy. But now that I have the permanence of marriage and a child, well, my my new life living out of suitcases feels less like freedom than marking time. I know the 'farewells,' will really start in full throttle now. Five years ago, my husband had demanded what is was I wanted from our life--to come up with a five year plan. This loaded question would, for the normal person, have been ignored as the frustrations of a spouse tired of his wife badgering him about why we had to live here, of all places. And yes, five years ago, Chicago was sounding like paradise to me, so you can imagine how desperate I was for us to move. Well, I took in his question, really a demand for me to assess where and what the hell I was doing, and sat down and wrote him a letter, which he's kept all of these years. The letter, remember I am the writer, was a thoughtful picture of the ideal life, including places we would live and jobs we would have.

The irony of this letter is that my husband has, as of this writing, done all the things that I had hoped for him. And now it is my turn to actualize my part of this ideal life: get my book published and write more. Someone recently suggested I volunteer in New York with the New York branch of an organization I had worked with in Los Angeles. I didn't want to be rude, but I know the pressure for me to 'get on with it' is going to be so much more immense once my feet step on to that island of 8 million people. There will be no excuse for me to not get busy, to shop my book more assiduously, but more importantly, to start my next project, most likely another novel. And my time, which I spent here--most of my grad school peers and mentors would accuse as being frivolously--will not, can not be repeated in New York. This life of working quietly, unacknowledged my most, or understood, is difficult, to say the least. When your life is dictated by something other than the normal validations of a work life--money, advancement, titles--the internal drive becomes the only thing that can afford you some measure of peace and sense of fulfillment.

My therapist has said that she needs me to focus once in New York, to not let myself get distracted. I've thought about her concerns for me as I embark on this new life, how I'm now being given this opportunity to make my life something so different from what has been. And how I may not be given this chance again in my life. For any writer, these middle years become a time of real serious work. So the big question is for me to find my way to this next project. I've stopped badgering myself about why I haven't done so already because, as you are by now well aware, this badgering could consume all of my time and energy, thereby preventing me from getting on with it.

Sometimes I feel like the needed isolation, quiet for what I do is, in many ways, a very anti-social way to live. Also, when I am in the throes of any project, it is impossible for my brain to stop living in it, even after the computer has been turned off. It becomes this other life, sometimes so much more appealing than reality. All of this is fine if you didn't have people that depended on you to be present, to be available. And perhaps that is what has prevented me from diving headlong into another project. After the birth of my son, it somehow felt selfish, to divert my attention away from his needs to seek solace in this impossible thing of putting together words to paint a picture of feelings, emotions. But now, after years of being miserable because I haven't been working, I realize that I need to do it regardless of how present I am or not. Ultimately, our son, poor child, will seek the couch in his life, I'm certain. I'd rather he sit there moaning about what a distracted crazy mother I was instead of complaining about what a miserable, unhappy, and crazy mother I had been. Yes, I realize no matter what I do or don't do, he will always consider me a bit insane. That criticism I can live with because there are so few people I meet that are truly sane. But the other stuff, well, those would devastate me.

The sun, thankfully, has come out today. This city is unsuited for gloomy days. There are certain cities where fog or gray adds ambiance to its character, but not LA. This place is at its best when the sun blankets every bit of the expansive landscape in that brilliant iridescence, absolutely indescribable. And so, I now spend my time pondering this loaded question of what I will work on now. My last novel, the genesis for the idea, hit me, literally, as I was cooking dinner. It was this one moment of realization that set me on my way to sit down over the course of two plus years and write this book. I guess I'm waiting for this same thing to happen again. Although I'm now thinking that I may be waiting the rest of my life for such a moment, so again, I must simply get on with it, plant my ass for more than the time it takes me to write this blog, and work. Plain and simple, if only it were so.

Moving Day a Deux

It is day two of the moving extravaganza. I am now truly a high-tech geek, having purchased a portable wireless card for the lap top. Our entire lives are in boxes marked NY1, NY2, or MVY. We have decamped to one of those horrendously bland, corporate apartments across the street from the Grove for the remainder of our time here. All of our nostalgia about our lovely cottage, really a euphemism for a large box with lots of character, has waned with each box being loaded on to the back of the semi-diesel truck. The worst of our sadness was during the last night we slept in our house amid the piles of our belongings all marked for an intended destination. When the packers arrived the next day--I was nursing a bad hangover from the party I attended the night before--we were just insuring our belongings that we would need the first year was going to arrive timely to our apartment, and not be sitting in some warehouse on Long Island. The house, this place that holds the secrets of any house where lives been lived, where tears have been shed, now looks nondescript; its character, really the character of the inhabitants all removed in one clean sweep. It is now ready for its new owners, to make this place their home, to allow these walls to hold their secrets, fears, dreams, and the sadness of any life.

Neighbors have stopped by to say a last farewell, each one promising to call for drinks, which none of us expect to take place. I drove away from this house without a glance back. I don't know if that's what I'm feeling entirely...I will most likely sneak by and peak at it surreptitiously, allowing myself to be sentimental about it all.

We finished this long day, really the culmination of so much work of all these weeks, at our friends for dinner. I've been thinking about how friendships are, in their own way, an issue of timing really, much like any relationship that is about chemistry, attraction, affection, and intimacy. There are some people that you may have crossed paths with at some earlier point in one's life, yet found them wanting in some way--perhaps not exciting, perhaps too exciting, intellectual, too intellectual, too alcoholic, not alcoholic enough, superficial, not superficial enough. The point is, friendships, like any relationship, is as much about when you meet someone as the individual. I only bring this up because in these last two years, I have have met a few women who are the ideal friends--each sassy, funny, smart, accomplished, and tough--for me. And for me at this point in my life. I think about how ironic this is since I've complained about how so few people, namely women, I've met here are truly friends material. Yes, I have ridiculously high standards, but I'm always seeking the types of friendships that you see on TV shows and in the movies. You know what I'm talking about. It's the foursome, threesome or twosome where they get together for coffee, drinks, or a meal and have an ease about sharing of themselves and their lives. And yes, I've had most of that, but I guess I'm always seeking that posse of girlfriends to see you through husbands, kids, divorces, deaths, and face lifts--if one is so inclined. Of course, just as my life was to take such a dramatic turn...I meet a couple of women, who would be the ideal friends for the long haul. In fact, one friend, really such an ideal mate, is someone I just met a few months before my life was to take such a turn.

Anyway, these friends of ours, had us to dinner, all serving to remind me of the loss of leaving. There is sadness, which seems to linger with each conversation, each meal, yet, I can't help but look forward. Again, I am in that place of looking ahead, yet the tug to turn around overshadows any excitement.

I am no longer a true Angeleno with no address or phone number, other than my cell. Yet, I'm not a true 'visitor' since I still live here, have connections here, my doctors, friends, hairdresser, and all those people who help maintain you or your life all here. But like the packing up of the house, each of these relationships, no matter how tangential or relevant, is coming to an end. When I went to my dry cleaners for the last time, I, of course, brought a home baked pound cake. The Korean owner, one inclined to complain about the weather, asked, "This it?" To which I answered, "Yes, this is it." She went on about how the weather in New York is so bad, her concern written all over her pale face. In that one exchange, so oddly intimate, there was a twinge of sadness for me and for her. I'm certain she and her husband had endless discussions about me--how much stuff I seemed to bring in each week--and my 'black' husband, biracial child, etc. But during these five years, we had built a bond. I'm certain my dry cleaner in NY will be Korean, and we will establish the same strange familial cordiality that I had with this one. I'm sure this new one will find my life as fascinating as this one did--for all the obvious and not so obvious reasons. But again, it was the last time I would pick up my clothes at a place so close to the infamous Hollywood sign, the one image synonymous with dreams being made and dreams being shattered.

Spanglish no more, Spangkorean anyone?

In today's Wall Street Journal there was an article about the phenomenon of Koreans learning Spanish to better communicate with their employees. And the Spanish workers learning Korean before English since Korean is the second language they hear and speak next to their native Spanish. For us Koreatown devotees, this is not news. I have always marveled at having my Korean groceries bagged by a Latino bagger, who could speak more Korean than I--a slight exaggeration since I can speak as much Korean as a kid in Kindergarten. This cultural intersection is so wholly LA. Nowhere else can you have the concentrations of immigrants that form these pockets of communities where new boundaries, new rules, and possibly a new language--Spangkorean, are created. Buenos dias, ajuhshee! This cultural intersection goes beyond language, and into food, the next universal unifier. There are as many Latinos, who live and work in Koreatown, who eat as much kimchee as a Korean. And on the food shelves of the Korean grocery markets, Korean items like kim sit alongside tortillas, tofu next to Mexican cheese. It is the new world order. Yet, this world of East meeting West, namely the Southwest, is another hidden secret of life in this city. I'm sure until this article came out, very few people, particularly those who have never ventured farther east of LaBrea or east of Van Ness, would have known that this new cultural fusion was occurring blocks from their manicured lawns and gated homes. Yet, this is the LA that is the LA of the future. I predict that this new fusion will result in some savvy chef opening a restaurant of Korean and haute Mexican--kimchee served with chicken in a mole sauce.

These intersections, crashes of two binary forces is what I find fascinating about Los Angeles. This is the heart of the city. It is not in the Entertainment Industry, despite its attempts to appear as if it is the bloodline of the city. It is the unnoticed lives of people, getting up each day to manifest their dream of what it means to live in America, but more importantly, Los Angeles.

Our house is ready for the movers to arrive early Monday morning. All of my pictures have been sorted, organized into photo albums--our memories of life here tucked behind cellophane covers. The strange hollow echo of empty spaces have not set in yet, but I assume this will happen all too quickly as furniture gets carted out of our Rose Cottage and on to the back of a truck.

Excitement and anticipation is settling into my chest, alleviating the empty space of so many good-byes and so many last times. This push and pull of the past and the future is the main emotion now. After today's post, I am going to spend the remainder of my time in LA, documenting my LA with pictures of places that I associate with this city. It will be my pictorial farewell of those favorite restaurants in an ugly strip mall that serve the best shabu shabu or kalbi, those places that rarely get written up in the food section of the Times. Again, when I think about how I'm going to spend the rest of my time here...food is all I think about.

NY1, NY2, MVY

There are a plethora of white papers taped to various piles around the house marked either NY1, NY2, or MVY--Martha's Vineyard. Drawers are being emptied, streamlined, and marked for either of the three eventualities. As of this writing, we will have three nights left in this house. The weather here is fittingly gloomy with the marine layer that keeps the sun from appearing, the closest thing to weather we experience in the spring and summer months. Everything in our lives is being overhauled to fit into boxes, reduced to absolute necessities. And what I'm discovering is that there is a certain liberation in compacting your life to fit inside something easily transported. That four drawer filing cabinet, each drawer begging to be filled with useless, worthless papers, is now in two portable file boxes. Imagine, four large drawers reduced to two! All of this work to reduce has gotten me thinking about the way we live today in our culture of hyper-consumption. Do we really need, not just one, but two garlic presses? Or four sets of measuring spoons? What compels us to surround ourselves with so much stuff, sh**t, crap? Is it to stave off the emotional voids, as if the purchase of that label maker will somehow make the isolation, loneliness go away, even if briefly?

Yes, I own a label maker, although I've never gotten beyond typing in four letter expletives, printing them out, which I found endlessly amusing. Quickly, I had a neat pile of these labels on my desk until I realized how insane this would look to anyone other people, so my half hour amusement ended up buried in the bottom of my trash can. The label maker went the way of most things meant to make our lives easier, getting tucked into some drawer never to be fully utilized. As a writer, I have no shortage of writing tools, all meant to help in my work. I've uncovered a desk drawer of pens, unopened; endless notebooks of varying sizes with half-filled pages of ideas or lines. Again, how does one accumulate so much? I suppose that's a quandary worth contemplating versus so many other disasters that could befall a person.

I did bake a few more goodies yesterday. The idea of not baking in this kitchen propelled me to churn out some coconut cakes and a chocolate Bundt cake. Now, I will spend the rest of the day distributing my goodies and bid 'adieu' to my neighbors.