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23 june 2009

Sordid Tales of Runyon Canyon

Yes, it’s dirty, smells like dog shit, and spotting celebs is like shooting paparazzi in a barrel, but my love affair with Runyon Canyon never dies. I’ve fallen in love, fallen out of love, interrupted a porno shoot, and been pushed down the hill by unseen forces, which left me skidding down the mountain like a kid on a water slide—and still, when I leave LA, it’s one of the first things I miss. Why?

Because like so many angels from the film Wings of Desire, I get to overhear the lives of hikers, who leave you with a gem, then walk on by, never to be seen again. Over the course of my 25-year love affair with Runyon, I’ve come to learn that men talk about all sorts of men-things: cars, Kobe Bryant, where’s the NFL team in LA?, the latest action flick, and do you like my new tattoo? Whereas, women talk mainly of one thing: men; mostly of the He’s Just Not That Into You variety. “Why didn’t he call me back?“ “I finally had to text him, and say, Like, what’s up, I thought we had something?“

I find this disheartening. Maybe because we gals are all about the multitasking. We can refinance a home loan, lease a Porsche on our way to Target, potty train a toddler, AND text the jerk who loved us, then forgot to call us the next day. But we all know men and women think differently. Women tend to analyze, dissect, relive every moment verbatim, all in the hopes of uncovering a secret subtextual clue that unearths the truth we really want to hear: he really is that into you, after all. Men just want to build a bookcase and be done with it.

So, when my actor friend David hopped into town from Australia and said, “Show me what you real LA people do,” I took him up to Runyon Canyon for a hike. I chose the upper parking lot entrance off Mulholland Drive (where Runyon is oddly spelled "Runyan"; perhaps it’s the altitude that turns “o’s” into “a’s,” and where my friend Marshall had her purse stolen out of her car. Beware!). I told David my Wings of Desire theory of small but profound snippets of everyday lives that paint a larger portrait of our world, only to turn a corner and walk right into a porn shoot in the middle of the—how should we say—climactic scene.

Standing right in front of us, stood a director, a cameraman, the sound/boom guy, and the two male actors. One actor was leaning against the graffiti-strewn rock; the other actor was, well, servicing the one leaning against the graffiti-strewn rock. There was one long beat of Whisky Tango Foxtrot silence, then the director suddenly stepped forward, didn’t apologize, as one would expect, and YELLED at me for interrupting the shoot with my big fat mouth.

He then turned to the servicee actor and said, “You’d better be able to get it up—and fast. We’re losing the light.” He then turned back to us and said, “Are you satisfied? You ruined the shot. Now get out of here.”

It was such a shocking reversal (and I must admit, an admirable war tactic perhaps to be employed by me later) that it took me about 30 seconds to come out with a real zinger: “Do you have a permit? Because I like, work in the film business, and I’m pretty sure you need a permit to film here.”

Then I turned to David, and to further emphasize my point, slowly said, “In America, you have to have a permit to shoot on location.” I then pointed to the looming Hollywood sign, as if it proved my point, then grabbed David’s arm and escorted him away and up to the High Bench. To this day, David believes two things about the film capital of the world: porn shoots happen all the time at Runyon, and you need a permit. This particular path on the hike, I’ve now dubbed, “Porn Peak.”

Now, at Runyon, there’s the High Bench and the Magic Bench. The High Bench is a series of small white benches strung together at the highest point of the hike. Here, you can see Catalina Island, stand and scream, “I’m the King of the World,” or you can do your push-ups. The Magic Bench, however, that’s where the magic happens, and it is my favorite spot on the hike. It’s an oversized green bench that, legend has it, was used in Lily Tomlin’s The Incredible Shrinking Woman. I have no idea if that’s true and suspect it‘s probably not, but it‘s a good tale, nonetheless.

When you sit on the Magic Bench, your feet dangle off into the abyss, and that, my friends, is the stardust of golly great mojo. The Magic Bench has a little gold plaque on the lower right side, with the words: “Heaven’s Last Stop.“ The words are faded, but the promise is clear: Make your wish here. They’ll be sling-shotted straight up to the universe, and then baby, you just sit back and wait.

It's been said that life is not measured by the amount of breaths we take but the number of moments that take our breath away. So, it was on my birthday last year that I sat on the Magic Bench and asked the gods to send me someone who would take my breath away. Almost a year to the day, the gods answered my prayer, although the end, much like the bench itself, was not grounded. But we’ll get to that sad tale soon enough.

After making your wish at the Magic Bench, you have two options: the winding main fire trail, mostly paved in asphalt, or the steeper dirt “proper shoes only” should dare to tread trail, which makes me wonder if Dante was so kind as to leave a similar reminder when one descended down his various levels of self-induced hell. A gentle, lady, before you dip into the well of self-flagellation and not good enoughs, remember to wear proper shoes!

So, using a pinch of common sense, I turn around and go back down the main fire trail, where I then run like a bat out of hell down the hill. Now, the Runners of Runyon are in their own little club; we tend to give each other a secret smile, a nod, a little bobble head of, You’re running. So am I. Nice.

Which brings me to Yeardley, a generous soul with cerulean blue eyes that always seem on the edge of spilling one pathos-seeking tear. Yeardley likes to run downhill. When we met, she was in the midst of a divorce and I was in the midst of a breakup, so we became instant friends, running as fast as we could, in the vain hope of staying one step ahead of sorrow, disillusionment, and change.

One morning, we were running downhill with the wind in our faces, a spray of mist from a hesitant rain coating our eyes, our feet mystically missing every rock and pile of dog pooh in our path, when Yeardley suddenly turned to me and screamed, “I love you, Katherine.”

Never missing a step, I turned and screamed back, “I love you, Yeardley.” For in those 20 minutes before we reached the bottom and our endorphin high of an angel’s flight would slow down, our hearts were bursting kaleidoscopic colors because, as we know Marianne Williamson, when your heart breaks, it breaks wide open.

Indeed, there is something to being out in nature that trumps treadmills inside Boom Boom Pow pulsing calorie counting gyms. Nature taps your soul and reverts you back to your true animal form. You’ve left the Arclight black box, the Whole Foods recyclable bags, and the bikini wax that strips away your hairy self, and you’re one with your true animal spirit.

At Runyon, you are surrounded by signs telling you Caution: Rattle Snakes. You hike past horses and goats. There are more water bowls for dogs than water fountains for people, and blue-eyed wolves appear in the morning fog. When a car drives down the fire road, one stares at it with suspicion. What be you strange machine? And we glare as we reluctantly move to the side.

I have three pee spots at Runyon Canyon. Carefully chosen areas where I can pull out my Starbucks napkins and release my double tall skinny vanilla latte into the wild. I’ve introduced my pee spots to my jogging companions. One blithely suggested that I think ahead and actually go to the bathroom at my house before I leave. I quickly countered with I’m a spontaneous kind of person! I live in the moment! Carpe Diem is my motto, thank you, Tom Schulman. Another friend, however, was delighted that I showed her mine, and she quickly showed me hers. And it was at her pee spot that I saw my second act of nature in the wilderness.

Now, this event was not being filmed for later viewing. This event appeared to be a fun little romp of its own seize-the-day variety. As I clutched my little brown Starbucks napkin and skipped to the newly-introduced pee spot, I spied two very happy, smiling men having sex in the bushes. The one in the front was bent over at a 45 degree angle, in the catcher‘s position, if you will. The fellow behind him was standing tall, delivering the pitch. The pitcher and I made eye contact. He smiled. And I—well, I had a flashback.

I tend to have flashbacks in my daily life. In this one, I was taken back a decade or so to my first rafting experience down the Kern River. First came the image of our yellow boat careening down the river, completely out of control. This wasn’t Knott’s Berry Farm or California Adventure. This was the real deal, without tracks, guard rails, and stuffed owls looming overhead.

Several of the other boats had already wiped out on the rocks—and it wasn’t pretty. Rafters emerged from the water’s depths with blood pouring out of their foreheads. I wasn’t in the least bit interested in that. So, when I saw our two lead rowers, carefully chosen for their height and body strength, and because “they‘d been river rafting before,” constantly making out instead of actually rowing the boat in rhythm so we could all follow their lead, I (5’2”, 110 lbs) stood up and yelled to the couple, “I am not going to suck sludge so you two can suck face. Now get your asses into the back of this boat. Now!” You find out what you’re made of in the wild.

Shocked, the kissing couple stood up and got into the back. I took the lead seat and turned to my stunned crew—people I’d never met before and many, like me, who had never been on a river rafting trip before—and I said, “Who here has any rhythm, because I played the drums in high school and I sure as hell know how to keep a beat.”

Another rafter raised his hand and he sat opposite me, and so we resumed. We quickly came up to the biggest rapid and found ourselves thrown out and over a waterfall and hanging lifeless in space, much like feet dangling off the Magic Bench. It felt like we hung in mid-air for an eternity. I just kept yelling out the count and we kept furiously paddling the open air until, finally, we tilted down and went into a freefall, crashing onto the water below. We were the only boat not to capsize.

Later that night I was first introduced to peeing in the wild, singing and playing guitar by a campfire underneath the deepest darkest night, and my first threesome. Perhaps it was the coup de'raft, the high of simply being alive or the life and death epiphany of why the hell not because we only live once?, but that day led to a night of one of the most erotic, smelly, sweaty, wordless encounters I’ve ever had.

I don’t remember my rafters’ names or faces anymore, but in my flashback, they oddly resemble Keanu Reeves and Diablo Cody. Oh, who am I kidding?! In my flashbacks, they are Keanu Reeves and Diablo Cody. So, when I saw my two fellow Runyon hikers enjoying sexy times at my new pee spot, I got it. I smiled and gave the pitcher the big thumbs up and I went on my merry way to my pee spot of old. That path I've now named, "Buttf**k Bypass."

At the bottom of Runyon (where the sign is spelled “Runyon” again), at the Fuller entrance, a Good Samaritan has filled an ice chest with bottled water, bananas, and protein bars. He or she has attached two black mailboxes to drop in dollar bills and has written the words “Honor System” on the ice chest lid. I figure he or she must live nearby, because each morning, the booty is restocked, along with a plastic box filled with free doggy biscuits. I often wonder how the honor system works out for the Good Samaritan. Does he get more or less than he gives? And, as in life, does it even matter?

Either way, when the box first appeared, I was so touched by the gesture that I just stood staring at it. So long that I saw a handful of multicolored artist’s grease pencils dropped on the ground. I picked one up, a deep brown oil paint, and I drew a big heart on the sidewalk and wrote the words “Love Deeply” inside it. That heart and those words stayed on the sidewalk below the ice chest for almost a month, until it faded away. I’ve always wondered, much like the angels from Wings of Desire, how many hikers stopped and looked down at their feet to see it.

There are a lot of miracles at Runyon. I’ve stumbled across a giant peace sign, resembling a crop circle, made out of rocks. I’ve seen a Caution Rattle Snake resting quietly on the side of the road in the late afternoon sun, giving not a care to the crowd staring at its exoticness. I’ve seen strangers band together and scream encouraging words down the canyon to a young woman who was stuck on the side of the hill, unable to get up or down, so in tears, she just clung to the cliff, waiting for help. I’ve seen entire cheerleading squads doing dance routines, track teams in uniform, mommies pushing strollers, and grandparents softly leaning into each other for support.

I’ve taken night walks, where the canyon takes on an other-worldly feel. Gone are the hardcore runners, the celebrities, the tourists with guide books, and the video cameras capturing the downtown LA skyline. At night, hikers carry flashlights, scanning the earth like Scully and Mulder, their disembodied voices filled with nervous energy.

But perhaps one of my most favorite memories of all is the lone musician who made a big circle out of rocks and was playing his instrument at the bottom of the canyon, his music floating to the top to soothe us all. It reminded me of the time I sat at Robert Thurman’s feet in India and we listened to a native Indian play a tale of love lost on a similar instrument, tears falling down his face. Soon, our entire sangha were adding to his tears. We all connected to this man then, and it is that sound that most links me to Runyon now.

For of all the sweat, the scrapes, the unexpected sex, and the wishes flung from a Magic Bench, what Runyon Canyon means most is love—Love of my friends, my family, my lovers, new and old.

So many emails: Hey, I need to talk. Can we do Runyon? Hey, I want to set you up with someone. Why don’t you do Runyon, see if you click? Hey, I really, really, really need to vent. Wanna do Runyon later? Above all things, Runyon has become the sharing spot. The place to pour the tea. Tell our tales. Because, on every hike, with hawks circling overhead, the leaves turning color, and the lizards skittering across the dirt floor, we are closer to nature, and thus, closer to ourselves.

Walking the winding road, we seem to find the courage to choose the path not taken and say out loud what we actually feel. We reveal our deepest thoughts and expose our hardest truths. Perhaps, because at Runyon, we have the time to tell a story beyond 140 characters. A chance to slowly spill its beginning, middle, and end. To really listen, to hold a hand, to run down a hill and scream, “I love you!”

In nature, we have found time again.

So last week, when I finally revealed my own truth—that the Magic Bench had granted my wish, and that I'd met someone who took my breath away, my hiking companion was thrilled. But I held up my hand and said, hold on to your joy, pretty miss. I got my heart broken. It wasn’t the Magic Bench’s fault, really. It was mine. I had forgotten to ask that this breath business be returned.

My friend reached out her hand and held mine for instant. Then she said, “That sucks.” I said, “Yeah. It sucks.” Then we hiked some more in silence. And I realized that at our age, nothing more needed to be said. The Who Was It didn’t matter, nor did the What Happened. We all know what it means to get our heart broken.

Because, truly, if you haven‘t experienced unrequited love at least once in a lifetime, you haven‘t truly lived; although, I don‘t recommend it as a steady diet. And as much as it hurts now, at the end of the day, it’s just another chapter of another story of which a snippet will be overheard on a hike up Runyon Canyon.

***

28 April 2009

How It All Turned Out

I stared at the nude photograph on the wall, remembering that two nights before I had stood nude in a window frame inside a college dorm and wondered, “Is that all there is?” In the span of a week, I had slept with my teacher, my best friend, and my boyfriend.

All three titles belonging to different people. All three interactions accompanied by alcohol. All three experiences beautiful and bumpy – but I was wrapped in the arms of D.H Lawrence and Anais Nin and I yearned for more.

I was a theatre major. We’re dramatic. We try anything. Even if in the next morning, we’re scratching our heads in wonder, we’re also stashing the memory in our grab bag of “moments to draw upon” for the next acting or writing piece. In drama, there is no waste.

Then, in a gallery in New Orleans a week later, I was faced with an image reminding me of my restlessness, my longing for more. I introduced myself to the photographer, Johnny Donnels. I was 21 years old. He was older. He was sitting in a lawn chair, surrounded by his photographs – mainly studies of New Orleans life.

I said, “I want to buy that photograph.” He said, “80 dollars.”

I was maxed out on student loans, working nights at Bob’s Big Boy, and renting out my couch to a med student. He might as well have said 8 thousand dollars. “Okay.” I searched my wallet. No eighty dollars. He didn’t take credit cards. Not that I had one, but it was a logical question to ask.

Where’s an ATM? He gave me directions. I said okay. Two steps out the door, he stopped me with, “Are you coming back?” I turned, looked at him.

I hesitated. I wasn’t in New Orleans to buy artwork, I was researching William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams. Johnny listened to the empty air of no response. I remembered my grandmother’s words, “When there’s that much quiet, I know you’re thinking up a lie.” So I chose to be polite. “Sure, I am.” Don’t we all say that? I’ll call you, knowing we won’t. I’m fine, knowing we’re not.

He walked up to me. He was tall. Clear blue eyes. Fists full of white hair.

“Because if you’re not coming back, I’ll close up shop and go home to my wife. But if you are coming back, I’ll stay and wait for you.” It was a challenge.

The ATM screen kept blinking insistently, as if to ask, “Do you really want that photograph more than dinner?” If I took out that $80 dollars, I’d have $6.32 left.

Back at his gallery, Johnny said, “I didn’t think you were coming back.” I said, “But you waited,” and I handed him the money.

He gave me a tour of his studio above the gallery. He showed me the window where the woman in the photograph stood. After that photo came out, he took many more shots of other women who wanted to duplicate the exact same pose. There were photographs he’d taken during the war, when he was a soldier, images of civil unrest, of famous faces. He even sketched for the FBI and police department, his portraits nabbing criminals. It was a layered life up those stairs, far more varied than the New Orleans street scenes he had below.

Then I remembered it was past closing time.

“There’s no closing time in New Orleans. That’s why we say ‘til’. We’re open until…” We’re done. Are we done? I carried the photograph on my lap on the plane home and back to college. It would be another 5 years until I could afford to get it framed.

It was almost ten years before I returned to New Orleans. I stepped into Johnny’s gallery and said hello. He didn’t remember the college girl who wanted to taste the world, but soon he knew me as the writer from Hollywood. I gave him the DVD of Carolina, the story of my Southern grandmother. I didn’t tell him that his photograph of a woman who dreamt of something more was part of what inspired me to suck up my guts and get the film made.

When I saw him again, he said, “Life is serious business,” quoting the movie. Then he added, “But only if you make it fun.”

When I told him I was writing a script about the New Orleans Saints, flying on the NFL team’s private jet, Johnny just said, “Great. How’s your heart these days?” caring more about me than a career. When The Prince & Me was in theaters in New Orleans, Johnny and his wife sat in the audience with me, alongside Saints owners Tom Benson and Rita Benson LeBlanc. When the film was over, he said, “That was so much fun. How’s your heart these days?”

When Army Wives premiered, he said, “Great. Just get it right.” I assured him we were doing our best, hiring military consultants to get the salutes right, all those things. But he said, “I mean, get the hearts of the women right. They are so brave.”

When I bought my condo in the French Quarter, Johnny gave me a house warming present. A nude photograph of the same woman in the photograph I bought, only now she was sitting on a couch.

I said, “I have the other one, where she faces out the window.” He said, “I know. And you came back with the money.” I was shocked. He smiled. “I never forget a face.” I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me all these years?” He said, “It’s been fun seeing how it all turned out.”

He then went on to explain that, back then, he had a brief spell of losing faith in the young. They say they’ll come back, but they never do. But I did. I restored his faith. I said, you gave me mine.

In Los Angeles this year, I was on the treacherous path of enrolling my daughter into pre-school. I went to public school all my life. You didn’t enroll – you walked down the street to the school nearest you and sat down in a brown wooden chair. But in Los Angeles, it’s an audition. You dress, you meet, you recite what you hope are the right lines. Your child stays home. I walked up to a private school in Hollywood and saw what looked exactly like the teacher I had in college standing outside, directing toddler traffic into classrooms. The moment took me right back to Johnny.

Decades after buying his photograph, I’d learned to take familiarity and recognition as a sign. To follow my instincts. This was the school I wanted to get into. Months later, I did. Johnny left a sign on his gallery door. If the store was closed, call him on the cell. He’d come down and meet you. I’d kept that number. I called him to tell him my daughter was going to pre-school! He laughed. Of course she was. Why did you ever think she wasn’t?

In February of this year, my father and I went to New Orleans to work on my condo. A lot of little repairs, mostly damage from the “Storm,” as they call Hurricane Katrina, as if using her name somehow empowers her even more. It was also Mardi Gras week. But I was knee-deep in paint and dirt and air conditioning vents. I passed by Johnny’s gallery door several times on my way to the market or the hardware store. But I didn’t stop in. I knew if I did, I’d lose 3 hours of time over a glass of lemonade.

On the plane back to Los Angeles, I turned to my dad and said, “This was the first trip I didn’t see Johnny.” He smiled. Years ago, Johnny had given my father a tour of his studio, too. Both men had bragged about their grandchildren and we’d bought a book of his photographs that he signed for Rita.

By now, I had formed my tribe in New Orleans – Rita, Marda B, Johnny, David H, Jennifer C, Daniel, Freddy, Jonae, and Peter - folks I “had to see” on each visit. It was sure strange not to see him.

But I had to get back. My daughter was going to pre-school, my friend Elizabeth was suited up for a battle with breast cancer and I had a career. The next month, I sat in a chair getting my hair highlighted. I was going to visit my friend Elizabeth the next day. I opened my emails. Johnny had written. Almost monthly, he sent pictures of his new photographs, a joke and a smile.

I opened it. It wasn’t from Johnny. It was from someone who had accessed his list to send an email to his friends. Johnny had passed away. Paul came to pick me up in the hair salon and I was just sitting in the chair, sobbing. Not caring who in there saw me. Paul was going with me to New York, the bulk of that story you can read in the previous month’s blog.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. My friend died. He said, “Oh my god. Elizabeth?” I said, “No. No. Johnny. Johnny died.” When we landed in New York, I suddenly shut down. Walking on the street, Paul kept asking questions. I didn’t answer, going farther and farther away. Finally, I said, “I’ve been on pause for too many months now,” filing away this event or that event with the promise to get back to it later. But with Johnny’s death, the pause button wouldn’t hold the pressure anymore. I had to feel it now. Paul left me alone.

When he came back, hours later, I never loved him more. For in those two hours, I replayed all my visits with Johnny. All of our conversations. Thanking him for his part in leading me to the place where I am now.

I took my daughter to New Orleans a month after Johnny’s death. It was her first trip there. Johnny never met her. I pushed her in her stroller straight up to the door of his gallery. There were letters from those who loved him taped to the windows. There was also the letter we all received by email. In it were the final words belonging to Johnny, in the hospital. When he kissed Joan (his wife of 48 years) goodnight he said, “Haven’t we had a great day?”

Next to it was a new letter I hadn’t read. It was from Johnny himself. With my hand on my daughter’s head, my fingers laced through her curly blond hair, I read:

I turned and looked at the man and woman standing next to me. They owned the mask store next door. I said, “Don’t cry? That’s not fair. I just –---.” The man said, “I know. We miss him, too.”

A few days ago, I sat in the audience for the parents only orientation to my daughter’s pre-school. Our host said, “Remember Kimba the White Lion?” I almost raised my hand. I do! I do! But then our host smiled nervously, realizing many of the parents were too young to have watched Kimba growing up.

Then it hit me, my daughter is a toddler. I am an older mom. I am seeing the beginning of her life. She will see the end of mine. I saw the ending to Johnny’s life, but I missed the start.

In the middle of a pre-school orientation, I finally understood we can’t be there for it all. I sat on my hands, bit my lip. It took all I had not to cry in school as I realized the greatest sadness I will ever know is that with Madeleine I will miss How It All Turned Out.

But the greatest happiness I will ever know is that time spent with my daughter, with friends, with family, with life, will always be a great day.

Thank you, Johnny. You gave us all so many great days.

(all photographs by Johnny Donnels. www.johnnydonnels.com)

31 March 2009

What Are Words For

Several years ago, I was standing in a long line in the restroom at London, Heathrow when I started to lose my temper.

I was still overwhelmed by the sights and smells of India. Of escaping a riot, of a battered little boy in a GAP t-shirt teaching me how to hide butter from rats, of riding an elephant and throwing Halloween candy to the village children shrieking in glee below me, of dropping my used tampon down a gaping hole inside a moving train, watching it splat-land on the tracks beneath me (okay, that was for Robin McA), but most of all, lying prone on the floor on the spot where Gandhi had been shot, wondering how he got to the place where he could forgive his assassin before he was assassinated.

And I wanted to pee. On a toilet with real toilet paper. And there was this long, freaking line that wouldn’t end. When I heard a voice say: “Shut up. This is what you said you missed about being human. The smells, the lines, the realness of it all.”

I turned around, looking for the voice behind me only to see a foreign blend of chick batter standing impatiently, none looking my way. The voice was my own – but was it my soul or my delirium talking after the long flight home?

I remembered Gandhi’s quote: "I can neither say my theism is right nor your atheism is wrong. We are seekers after truth.” Who knows what those voices are – only that they contain truth in them. Even in our weariest, most broken down state, there is something glorious about being human.

One of my favorite films is After Life, a Japanese movie where upon your death, you enter a way station where you are given a bunk bed and a few days to contemplate your favorite memory. Once chosen, it will then be recreated and you can take it – and only it – with you. The rest of your life will be erased. Perhaps it’s just easier that way. All the words left unsaid will not haunt you. All the words said you didn’t mean, will be left in your past life baggage at the door so you can move on.

When I boarded a plane last week to visit my friend Elizabeth, it was the day after her surgery for breast cancer. I contemplated what to say. How to make it better for her. To remind her time heals all wounds – of the heart, the mind and the body. But when I got there, I realized there are no words really. Her experience is her own. I can’t fix it, erase it or make it better.

I can only laugh while Alyson’s kids play Twister and smile as Maggie fusses over Elizabeth’s blanket and hope that Amy slowed down long enough to taste the sake she drank at the sushi restaurant. When I said goodbye, I kissed Elizabeth on the forehead and said, "I love you." I know she will be okay.

When I got back to the hotel, Paul had had a similar experience. He had gone for a walk in the park with a friend whose relative had died. He told me: I didn’t know what to say. Everything sounded so inadequate. His long dark hair covered one eye as he sat down heavily on the bed.

It was then that I cried. For him, for Elizabeth, for the voice in the Heathrow bathroom, reminding me that long lines like realness are part of the extraordinary, sometimes irritating joy of being human.

It was through these pathos-seeking tears, that I realized that perhaps sometimes there is nothing to say. Perhaps the most powerful words were already spoken when we boarded a plane and flew across the country?

I had left behind my friend Steve and my friend Tom, two men I love dearly who had just experienced death, the news of their losses coming to me exactly one hour apart. Two different Mel & Rose’s baskets of wine and chocolate were delivered to two different houses that day. When I was on the phone placing the order, the woman said, “What do you want the first card to say?”

Well. One lost his brother to suicide. What can you say for that? And the other lost his father, by all accounts an extraordinary man, proven with just one look at the son. Some will say, well the father was older. It was to be expected. But does that make it easier? There will be no more words exchanged for any of them.

I said, give me a moment. And I hung up. Sitting with it all. When I called back, I had found some words for Steve. And for Tom. They weren’t enough. But they were something.

When I returned home to LA, I saw an old lover of mine for the first time in 15 years. I’ve loved many since then, have a satisfying career, a beautiful child, a stable blessed life – yet when face to face with this old memory, I realized that somehow, we return to the same place we were when we left them. Much like going to a high school reunion where you become the “16 year old theater geek who wrote Blondie lyrics on the bathroom wall,” or to your childhood home, where you become “the wayward daughter who left a promising career in criminal law to major in Shakespeare” or in this case, standing in Griffith Park, you simply become “the heartbroken.”

I had, rather coincidentally, just joined Facebook where I found Pete, my high school crush who was the first to chip away at my virginal heart. He kissed me once, I think, but I am not even sure of that anymore. It was the rejection that I remembered. We chatted, I asked about his father. Carlos was still alive. I felt giddy. But there was no pain here, only the excited wows of look at you, all grown up and out of your Burger King uniform.

But this one was different. This one still haunted me somewhere and I found myself shifting my feet, not knowing what to say. Until I heard: “I was a shit to you and I’m sorry.”

They were the simplest of words, but felt as powerful as a plane flight to New York. With those words, I was able to rewrite whatever feelings of inadequacy I had been carrying around, somewhere in some corner where such things hide. I also felt this rush of inner knowing, almost as if Fate’s loom was rapidly rewriting my story with this newer, brighter thread.

Four years ago, when I set out to have a child, I failed, attempt after attempt. It wasn’t until I shined a light inside and saw how crowded I was with bad memories, words unsaid and old childhood tapes that I realized I needed to clear out some emotional space if I wanted enough room to grow a child inside.

I dug through old address books. A few didn’t return my calls. Most did. I made appointments. I served tea and I said “I’m sorry” to friends, family and ex lovers that I had wronged. I apologized for not having the courage to pick up the phone sooner. That I can hear my daughter in the other room saying “Swiper, no swiping, oh man!” reminds me how powerful those apology teas really were.

And now, four years later, I had a cup of my own. My friend Jane said that Venus is in retrograde - first time in 6 or 7 years. It’s all about the personal right now. Maybe. Or maybe, we’re all getting to the age where we have to leave another chunk behind to grow up again. Only you know which ones those are.

On New Year’s Day, someone wrote the words “Life is Beautiful” on the side of a wall on La Brea Avenue. I took a picture with my cell phone. Months later, my friend Simone and I bundled up our daughters and headed off to Disneyland, when I saw the same words written across a garage door in an alley higher up on La Brea Avenue. I stopped the car and took another picture.

I have no idea if it was the same person, but someone in Los Angeles was picking up a spray can and choosing his or her words very carefully when he wrote: Life is Beautiful. Up and down the street.

If indeed, you too feel like time is speeding up and the merry-go-round is moving too fast and our friends are slipping off, then it’s just as important to remember that just as many of our friends are getting on for the ride.

Because if we all do come back here, again and again, for the bathroom lines, the smells, the realness, the joy and pain of being human… then we must all ask ourselves, are we finding the time, finding the words to give ourselves everything we came back for?

###

27 January 2009

how we survive

I heard a tape once of an African-American preacher from the South preaching fire and brimstone when he said:

If you live in a shack, you’ve gotta be grateful for that shack. If that shack is tilted and run down, be grateful for that too. Be grateful for the broken boards and the leaking roof. Until you are grateful for what you’ve got, the Lord isn’t gonna give you one more thing. When you get grateful, God gives back, but not until you say it and you mean it.

So far, in the New Year, I haven't been very grateful. I've had two close friends announce their struggles with breast cancer, listened to my father's pain when he lost a lifelong friend to suicide, watched two other friends wade belly deep through a personal and career crisis that will redefine their lives -- then to top it off last week, my cat was run over and killed by a car and the driver didn't even stop to leave a note.

All in all though, other than losing my little white cat, these events weren't really about me. They were related to me through the loved ones I have brought into my life.

Hiking up Runyon with David, I said, "I know we are always the star in our own life story, but this month, I seem to be playing the supporting role in other people's lives." As if I am on loan, signing up for a 2 week guest spot as "the best friend" or "the loyal daughter." And can I say - it's a relief to watch someone else struggle to grow and change instead of me? David laughed, "So none of this is affecting you, huh?" I love David. He's a wise soul.

How was this affecting me? First - I was so angry that my cat was killed and the driver didn't even try to find the owner. Then I realized - I don't know that he/she didn't try to find the owner - but I do know, my cat was left dead on the road. So I'll assume only 90% rather than 100% today.

I have learned when I am angry, that I immediately have to do something good to find balance. Sometimes, I buy my friend Marshall a present or I anonymously send in a donation to a worthy cause. But today, I knew I had to go big. So I wrote a letter to Daphne's Greek Cafe, praising my little chicken spot inside the trendy Target megacenter on Santa Monica Boulevard and La Brea. Every time I go in there, the food is warm and fresh, the employees genuinely kind and they always follow-up and visit your table. Was the chicken well-done, like you wanted it? Why, yes. It was.

Having worked as a waitress for seven years, the first time I visited Daphne's, I was immediately suspicious. Must be district manager pay a visit in secret and file a report week and they thought I was a spy. I asked the manager that very question. He was taken aback. No - we really do try to provide good service all the time. We know we can't compete with the bigger chains in volume so we're hoping for good word-of-mouth. I refilled my soda and sat back down, pondering.

Having worked in both film and TV, I also know that most letters written by viewers are generally negative. Rarely does one take the time to sit down and write a nice letter - hey, great episode! No - normally you get, Katherine Fugate, you should be ashamed of yourself for what you did to our characters or hello, Burger King, your restaurant employee was eating fries in the drive-thru when she short-changed me a dollar. So?! I was 17 and hungry. When I eat, I add better. What we do less is send a letter of gratitude, of thanks.

So, I wrote my praiseworthy letter to the president of Daphne's and sent it. That felt better. But was it enough?

I stopped my life and showed up for a friend. Why? Because I am a loyal friend. It's just one chapter in her life, but it's a big one and I was proud to be a part of it. To give the example that not everyone abandons. Not everyone walks away. You can still trust in this world. Standing on the curb at the airport saying goodbye, my friend handed me a tissue-filled blue bag with a present for my daughter and for Ingrid and she thanked me. Really thanked me. That in itself, is extraordinary. She is extraordinary. She stepped outside of the pain in her own life and saw those around her. She was an example of gratitude.

Then I got to wondering - who did I really show up for? Me, my friend - or perhaps both of us? How would it have felt NOT to be there? I would've been anxious, nervous and worried. So in some ways, showing up for her was showing up for me. Perhaps I was playing the lead after all. We all play the roles we're comfortable with - that define us. I was let down so many times early in my life that I don't want anyone else to feel that. So, my act is self-serving. I have to be the loyal friend - because it's how I survive.

The jerk boyfriend plays the jerk boyfriend, because that's how he survives. The victim plays the victim because that's how she survives. The loyal friend plays the loyal friend because that's how she survives. We all played our part, motivated perhaps by our past and the lessons we have learned. Until those past behaviors, those lessons, don't work for us anymore.

David mentioned a difficult passage of time in his life when people suddenly showed up for him. He realized he'd made enough deposits in the Karma Bank to cash out when he needed the coin. My friend had done the same. We showed up for her, because of how she has lived her life. She earned it.

There is a belief that we choose the situation we are born into based on the lessons we are here to learn in this lifetime. It helps explain why one child becomes a drug addict while another doesn't. Why some of us are driven to succeed and others can live on the streets. We can't walk every lesson - and we surely can't walk the lessons of others, as much as we'd like to - but our specific go-around this trip requires a certain lifestyle, a certain family, a certain sex, talent, drive or lack thereof to help us complete our cosmic checklist. Which makes us thankful for every experience we have - good and bad - because they have helped guide us and arm us on the path we have asked to walk.

I met a man last week. He had the album to Billy Jack, the song "One Tin Soldier," prominently displayed in his office. I smiled slightly. I was obsessed with that song. Created the entire village "the kingdom on the mountain" and "the valley-folk below." Named the villagers, even. I still know all the words. "Turned the stone and looked beneath it. Peace on Earth was all it said." Then I noticed the fleur-de-lis on the candle holders. Then the pictures of New Orleans on the computer. Separated by birth, this man and I. He told me this:

A guru once said, "I can tell when I meet someone how they weathered crisis in their life, just by looking at them." When I see a successful, happy person, I know what path they chose when they faced crisis. When I see an angry, shut down person, I know that, too. We all face crisis, we all get kicked down the stairs. But it's how we get up that determines who we become, the friends we keep, the road we walk.

A violinist in the Metro. An article came out last year in the Washington Post. A social study, as it were, about where we expect to find our magic. At 7:15 in the morning, during rush hour, a violinist set up shop inside L'Enfant Plaza in Washington, DC. In jeans and a baseball cap, he played six of the most difficult classical pieces ever written. In the 45 minutes it took him to play these, 1,097 people passed by.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head back to watch the Violinist as long as he could. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

Two nights before, the Violinist had commanded $100 and up per ticket at a sold-out concert hall in Boston. His name is Joshua Bell. The violin he played was worth $3.5 million dollars. Twenty-seven people gave money, most of them on the run -- for a total of $32 and change. How much do we miss when we're firmly locked in our world, unable to see those around us - what they give, who they are?

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living

I want to know what you ache for... -Oriah, from The Invitation

The first time I saw this quote, I was in a store with my daughter. I had just had a long talk with a friend that lasted until 3 in the morning. I was full of regret for having said too much. I tend to be without a filter (better suited for coffee), especially in matters of the heart. But despite my open-book bravado in the night, sometimes I wake up the next morning with a Reveal Hangover, wondering why the hell did I say all that I did?

Usually the Reveal Hangover comes with a splash of Uh-Oh. Did I reveal to the wrong person? Will this person somehow hurt me, abandon me, forsake me because they've got some kryptonite?

There's a reason we draw people into our lives. Usually, we want a change. To grow. If we aren't honest, if we don't speak our true thoughts and feelings, we don't deliver the message. If we don't deliver the message, we fail the greater weaver, who intertwined us in this first place. I came home after buying the Invitation book and was still suffering the Reveal Hangover when Susan's magical box of cookies arrived.

Inside, nestled with the homemade cookies, she had quoted the entire poem from The Invitation, which ends:

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep...

There are usually about 1000 lies out there one can tell, but only one truth. I had told the truth that night. I had the Invitation book in one hand, the box of cookies and Susan's note in the other and my Reveal Headache disappeared.

It was 10pm. I didn't answer the call. The voice was shaky on the other end. We came home from the movie and found your cat, Pax, dead in the midde of the road. I grabbed the phone. She asked me where I lived. On the next street. We picked him up for you - we didn't want you to have to do that. As she stayed on the phone, her husband carried our cat, wrapped gently inside a bag, that was then put into a box, all the way to my house.

He stood there quietly. I said, hoping it was some sort of explanation: I tried to keep Pax indoors, but he learned how to use the doggie door. He longed to be out and to be free. They are wild things, he said, still holding the box. Another beat. Then I took it gently. I didn't open it. He said, the collar is inside. I had to cut it off to read your number. I'm sorry.

I was amazed at the kindness of my neighbor, who I had never met until that night. The next morning, we arrived at the neighbor's doorstep with a box of white chocolate and a thank you card. The gesture seemed to confuse him.

Preston shook his head, bewildered, then said: "It was the decent thing to do."

And I thought yes, it was. We all do what we have to do to survive.

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