So it was
Easter, and I had the glowing privilege of spending it with the daughter of
Muggy, my dearest friend from Bryn Mawr, and her beautiful (mostly handsome)
family, Heidi, or as she is known in more serious circles, Cecil. We went
to her church in Santa Monica, St. Augustin by the Sea, where all was Love and
Light and sweetly dressed babies whose socks matched the bows in what there is
of their hair, the sight of which inspires a reaffirmation of Life, the things
you reach for when there is a need for connection and a hope for what is
higher. I really think it doesn't matter where you go to believe in
something-- the important thing is to have an aim and make sure the aim is
true. So to be with people you love on an occasion meant to be uplifting
is probably as good as it gets.
The
day before had been spent looking for an apartment here. It becomes clear, in a
smoggy way, once back in LA, that pointless suffering is, indeed, pointless,
and there is no downside in being comfortable. The sun here has been less
than radiant and hot. But it is sun, and that distinguishes
it from what has passed this winter, extended, in New York: a sky that would
have given pause even to registered Depressives.
So
I checked out a few places for rent in Beverly Hills, the walking part-- that
is to say there are a number of sidestreets within actual footsteps of
restaurants and stores that have places to live on them that might work for one
who has decided not to engage in the traffic that deadens minds and aborts patience--
in other words I have decided not to have a car, to be the only one in Los
Angeles who walks. And I saw some not bad places to live, one of which came
with its own homeless man, who had found the door open, and apparently took a
shower, as his chest, exposed, was wet, and it wasn't hot enough to be sweat.
I don't think he was included in the rent.
This is a strange journey, as I believe it's true
that You Can't Go HomeAgain, but as I have never really known to my core where
home was, I guess it's okay for me to flop around the universe, at least this
side of it, while I still can. +Frank Bowling, who was once and shiningly
the manager of the Bel-Air when it really was the Bel-Air, used to say 'Welcome
Home,' the mark of a brilliant hotelier who imbued you with a sense of
obligation to love the place as much as he did. But those days are past,
as are most things to which we were attached before this Age of
Not-Really-Communication, the loss of eye contact, as people fixate on the
little device in their hand, which only the very high-minded and conscious seem
to turn off even in the presence of friends with whom they are having a meal,
so afraid they might miss something they miss the present moment, which, as
Jack could tell us, is All there really Is. "The past is memory, the
Future is Fantasy," he said, obviously correctly.
But as
I still buy into Fantasy, since that is what largely sustains dreamers, which I
admit I am, I have to play this one out. I told Heidi yesterday I had
been thinking of giving up my dream, but reflecting on that, I realized you
can't give up your dream, or it wasn't really a dream. Something elusive,
like Faith, like Love, which, even when lost or evanescent, is still shining,
moving you ahead. Making you look up. Or at least, not at your
I-phone.
