Category Archives: friendship

This Is The Year

This will be the year.

I feel it in my bones, the way I did nine years ago, heading into a year that was a supernova in countless ways.

2013 was all about blowing it up, detonations, demolitions, middles not holding and sinkholes opening up and swallowing decay and dysfunction. It was the beginning of the end.

2014 was the beginning of the beginning, year of fire and ice, of burning away and freezing out, of true freedom. My home my own, my truths undenied, my house cleaned, my spirit claimed by crows and drowned ancestors (I’ve never lost a war, and never will), my body reclaimed and given back to the world.

I come into this year surrounded by love and abundance – the love of many friends and second mothers, the promise of opportunity, the brink of prosperity, the certainty of long-awaited travel and the deepening of connections on all levels with so many people of substance and quality.

Here is to the loss of all that is dead – extraneous relationships, outmoded arrangements, paucity, fear, powerlessness and grief; and here is to all that is coming – courage, opportunity, pleasure, prosperity flight, growth, good decisions, connections, and an endless and overflowing abundance.

A Lot of People Say A Lot of Things

“A lot of people say a lot of things,” someone once said to me, under particularly harsh fluorescent lighting, in a particularly unpleasant place, when I had professed my loyalty.

“That’s okay,” I responded, “In time, you’ll see that I’m one of the people who mean what they say,” and I was, at least in the context I meant at the time, though whether he would agree with that may be up for debate.  That said, his words haunt me. As the years have passed, that simple phrase has reared its head time and again and proven itself a fundamental life truth. A lot of people say a lot of things.

That’s true – yet not a lot of people do the things they say they will, are the people they say they are. It seems so simplistic, so ‘walk the talk,’ so very obvious, but again and again, we are all fooled by the words that fall from the lips of people we want to believe.

In our culture, we place so much value – overmuch, perhaps – on the value of the word. When we discuss communication, most of the time we’re talking about the way we speak to each other, even though science has generally proven that most communication is nonverbal. What I’m thinking of, though, has little to do with tone, body language, or words – it boils down to deeds. Action. Real acts in real time that are the living proof of all those words.

In this era of Facebook likes and ‘single-serving friends,’ the ubiquity of the word ‘love’ and sentiments like ‘ride or die’ and ‘BFF (best friends forever)’ can obscure the real struggle to connect with flesh-and-bone individuals who actually show up when it’s, like, possibly inconvenient, messy, or requires work.

So now, I don’t pay so much attention to words – the potential invites, the professions of love, the vows of fealty, the ‘maybe someday we’ or ‘hey we should’ scripts. I shut my mouth and I take note of how people show up, or don’t. Those who will drive over the bridge to visit – or not. Those who buy the plane ticket – or not. Those who take care of their children, their animals, their friends, themselves, the way they say they will. Those who stick to the plans, who make the call, who show up for the day – you get the picture.

I’m not such a harsh taskmistress as I may be making myself out to be. Life happens. I’m as overwhelmed, stressed out, and busy as anyone. I get it. I don’t always feel like Doing The Thing, and I’ve been known to back out and engage in self-care when absolutely necessary – but I’ll tell you this: when the chips are down, when the shit hits the fan, when it well and truly matters, I am there. No matter how far I have to drive, money I have to spend, hours of sleep I have to lose – I show the fuck up, and I mean what I say, because that shit is important. I don’t want to be the person who says a lot of things – I want to be the person who doesn’t say a lot (<–probably not doing so well at that)  but when she does, means it and delivers. And most of the time, I am.

The tricky part is not being in love with all those words people say. Words are so seductive, and I believe that for some people, speaking is the same as doing, when it isn’t really at all. It feels good to say that you’ll do or this or that, it feels good to profess this or that sentiment, but without the act behind the words one becomes just another person who says a lot of things. Just another talker. Another vehicle for pretty, empty sounds.

City of Angels

Coming down from the sky LA begins as a trickle of houses on the mountainside and then explodes into what looks like a glowing yellow motherboard from 37,000 feet. I am fascinated by the grids within grids; the massive boulevards and freeways that stretch on without relief until the whole thing tumbles into the sea. But I don’t see the sea yet; all there is are roofs, black ribbons of road, cars crawling like beetles everywhere, and as we descend a football field with Crenshaw
ougars
 emblazoned in the grass.

As it is when I travel by train, I find the poorer neighborhoods more interesting. The houses are small, boxy, with postage stamp yards in front. Most sobering of all are the large blocky apartment complexes, places where I imagine there is little respite, little relief. There are no pools. I begin to see huge industrial campuses, not pretty at all; giant Lego warehouses and Soviet office blocs and I think, people actually work there, and are glad to, and suddenly I’m overcome with gratitude for the beautiful mid-Century building I work in, nestled in a valley surrounded on nearly all sides by trees (but let’s not forget, its own hellish, permanently-clogged black artery of a freeway, too). As we head west the houses expand and so do the lawns and then come the inevitable aquamarine jewels dotting the landscape. Swimming pools, some of them drained, which makes me think of skaters from my childhood.

My best friend, R., and his man pick me up and we pull off the Harbor Freeway and go eat at Mercado La Paloma, trying desperately to choose between Oaxacan, Thai, or American. We have steak. Rice and beans like you only get in LA.

And I buy R
la5.’s man his first ever Thai iced coffee, which he loves and ends up completely jacked on. As we drive home we fly down the wide streets, strangely free of traffic, De La Ghetto’s Es Dificil, which I’ve never heard before, blasting from the speakers. Everything – the breeze, the music, the slanted gold light that you find only in LA – crystallizes into overwhelming emotion and R. turns back towards me and as
ks why I’m crying and I answer I’m so happy, and I am.

We get home and they leave to go see Pink Martini and I’m alone in the huge blue house. I try to read but I’m too tired. Sun going down and the last hint of light in the sky, I go sit on the balcony. Downtown lights glittering, the peacocks, now seasonally free of their heavy tails, roosting in the telephone poles. I take a few photos, text a friend. I’m so tired my bones hurt. I lie down and sleep, waking up near midnight and suddenly everyone’s home.

1am five of us pile into the Jeep and head west on Sunset towards the grocery store. Five carts, each with a list, and we’re all done in a half hour. Like all kids who grew up in hard times, we buy too much. We stop for Mexican takeout, machaca-style, please. I feel joyous at the life on the streets; people everywhere, even in the middle of the night – I miss this. We get home and begin prepping, Didi grinding up her Dominican marinade for the steaks. Finally at 4 I barely manage to fall asleep, on the floor, looking at the downtown lights through the sliding glass doors.

Sunday morning I’m the first up as always, brewing the French Press and reading about the Kennedys. Slowly the dead arise and then we’re all machines: no one is washed, we’re barely caffeinated, but tla2ogether we are a heat-seeking, party-throwing missile. Driving on the freeway to Fontana to pick up R.’s Mami, putting together salads, fueling up the grill, skewering meat, coming in with more bags. We are ready.

The people we love start coming. Mami comes in and almost starts to cry, telling me she thought she would never see me again. The house and garden smell like Jamaica, mon. Azara, 17 months, dressed up in skeletons and smiling big. We smoke, unapologetically. Hussy makes a pitcher of Southern Kisses and we all get kissed. Then Didi makes her mojitos and R. adds strawberry soda (ghetto! but I love it!) and it’s on. There’s too much food and it keeps coming. Chips, salsa, pita, hummous, pasta salad, fruit salad, green salad, cucumber salad, steak, chicken, shrimp, burgers, dogs, veggie burgers, corn, it never ends. The smell of clove cigarettes and discussion of how they’re about to be illegal. So much laughter. The birds overhead and the ants under feet.

Night comes. We herd inside, try to play board games, but it’s futile. We are a box of firecrackers, set off and sparking every which way. Eventually we all trickle away and it’s just me and Didi and Hussy catching the last episode of Project Runway. I can’t keep my eyes open and soon it’s morning and I’m up with the French press again. Didi comes out and we have our one on one time on the patio. I have missed her so much, and I relish getting her to myself for a minute. I pack up and she drops me off at Olvera Street. The Virgin of Guadalupe weeps on me, or at least I want to think so.

I spend every last dime in my wallet. Earrings, a cross, a bracelet, a lot of little gifts. I eat my ritual shredded beef taco, the delicacy thatla3 all exiled Southern Californians grieve for. I stand at the foot of Olvera, across from the Chevron and the train station, and watch the flood of people go by. A lot of cops. A woman says she loves my earrings. Guys in their grey sweats, just released from jail, carrying plastic bags of their belongings, yelling to one another across the boulevard, going somewhere, going nowhere, going back again. Soon.

The ride to the airport is quiet. We listen to Seal: ‘Everyone says you’re amazing, now that you’re clean.’ The houses back up right to the freeway, the signs are endless, there’s no green relief. When the boys drop me, R. embraces me, his vanilla-musk scent a cloud around me, crying hard.

Herded through security, I get pulled over and patted down again, like I did coming south. The plane is tight. The ride is fine. I suck down airplane coffee and read the story of Sarah Palin’s daughter’s baby daddy dishing about the reality of the Palin household. Scandalous. Landing at SFO, I notice a really pretty girl in a cute print dress getting off the plane with me. As she’s walking ahead of me I think her skirt’s maybe a wee bit too short and on the escalator behind her I get a full view of what she’s got beneath it (commando!). I consider telling her but figure this is not a sisterhood moment.

In the car, up the road, the fog comes on and then I’m going slow down Skyline, barely able to see. I stop in the City, at the ocean, to say hello. Everything is wrapped in cottony mist. Once over the Bridge, the fog lifts and I’m not really happy about it. I notice how our freeway, brutal as it can be, is lined with dark green trees. I pull off my exit. I am home, but not sure I want to be.