22 Hours/Sanctuary: A Dispatch from the City of Angels

For the second weekend in a row, I've gone to L.A., thanks to the willing and competent M who has been here cooking and dispensing pills to her grandmother.

I went to my friend Elizabeth's book salon and got myself an Air BnB room a few blocks from her house. The house where I stayed was a former rectory or convent (the owner wasn't sure which) and exhibited a very Catholic vibe which played nicely into the backstory of the main character in "The Book of Salt."

At the Salon, there was appropriately themed delicious food:

Feast your eyes on this piece of edible art from Elizabeth's own hands:

The big picture and my very own slice resting on my very contented lap.

This morning I continued the French theme with a baguette for breakfast and two non-chain store lattés from two different cafés within walking distance of the Air BnB. Next, I went to LACMA  and looked at this:

It's called Levitated Mass, and you walk right under this 340-ton granite boulder.

I suppose an art installation might like this might seem silly to some, but seen in this mid-city context, where you can stand beneath it and look out at the high-rise buildings in the neighborhood, it seems way more poetic than those buildings do--and just as futile.

It's also an interesting counterpoint to the Page Museum next door, where bones of creatures from the ice age lie entombed in tar pits.

So levitate or get stuck, I say.

I also looked at a lot of art by the artists that Gertrude Stein (she is a character in the "Book of Salt") collected. Matisse, Picasso, etc., then finished the morning looking at Thomas Wilfred's light art. I was not acquainted with his work until I sat in an easy chair for about 20 minutes this morning, watching colors and shapes unfold. I let my mind wander and felt like I was watching the history of the universe.

And then on the way back up LaBrea toward the freeway, I saw again the windows of all the furniture stores that, last night, were tastefully lit tableaus.

Imagine these windows an hour past dusk, dear readers, warm lights drenching the sidewalks of the City of Angels, and beneath each one, a homeless person bedding down for the night.

“I was certain to find the familiar sting of salt, but what I needed to know was what kind: kitchen, sweat, tears or the sea.” 
― Monique Truong, The Book of Salt

Friday Morning Beach Report

A sea like something out of Winslow Homer, abandoned except for the windsurfer and this boat rocking its way towards the harbor.

The Play's the Thing

I tried out a bereavement group yesterday. It went really well. As well as bereavement groups can go, I guess. Still, if there were a pedometer on my heart, it would have read well over 10,000 steps. I came home and did this:

Today I'm doing this:

because I feel guilty when I go up to my room and put a pillow over my head. I mean, my mom spends a lot of time in her room, and I think I should be around when she comes out. From this vantage point, I can see her immediately if she heads for the kitchen, so it's a chance to check in. I have a lap desk that makes it kind of comfortable to lie on my back and write. So yeah, here I am, flattened by I don't know what. I'm not actually sick, just...flattened.

I had an actor's nightmare last night although it's been years since I performed in a play.

I missed my entrance and heard the actors on stage making up lines and re-cuing me. I entered in my underwear instead of my costume and began improvising. It was sort of a plot to cover up my mistake  because it was my fault that I'd missed my entrance, but I wanted to make up an excuse about a stuck zipper in my costume. So we improved and got the scene back on track, all the while the three of us on stage were eyeballing one another with that actors' panic. When I exited I didn't have long backstage before my next entrance and I was so rattled that I really needed to look at a script so I could read over the next scene. I asked everyone if they had a copy and no one did. "I really need to see the scene in print before I go out there," I said. "I have to see it on paper." I said that over and over again to everyone, but all the other actors were off book and no one could help me.

At the end of yoga this morning, as I lay on the floor in savasana, it occurred to me that yeah, I would really love a glimpse of the next big scene in real life. What to say. Who'll be there. Do I stand, or sit on a pretty chair, or lie on the floor in a heap? What does my costume look like? Do I have any props? Is the play a tragedy or a comedy? Anyone? Does anyone have a copy of the script? I just need to see the words in print. I need to see it on paper. I promise I'll get up.  I won't miss my entrance.

Monday Morning Beach Report

Yesterday's gray washed away, now

the clouds are like benevolent giants,

and curlews rule the sand.