So it is that my wicked stepmother-- I am not using words that do not apply-- she let my wonderful cousin Ruth who had attended to my father die cold and alone and pain-wracked without offering any assistance or succor-- finally let go, reluctantly, I am sure, at 98. Thus it is that not that early in my own day, I am able to return to Beverly Hills in what I assume and hope will be the prospect of some comfort, not to mention ease, at least until the next earthquake. (My father's will did not allow for me until she was no more, and being as spiteful as she was cruel, she of course lived for Almost Forever.-- There may be a song title in that.)
Now I course, slowly, naturally, through Beverly Hills, looking for a place to live, as this is where I want to be, I am finally clear enough to know for sure, having been and actually lived everywhere in the world I wanted with the exception of some parts of Spain, and several places I never even thought about before I landed in them-- Weinheim, and Amsterdam, for example. The first I went to because I was trying to overcome everything I feared-- the German language, and the Germans themselves-- the second because the only one way air ticket I could get out of Glasgow was to Amsterdam, and Providence put me in a seat beside the charmingest man in the world, Daniel, whom I will come back and marry in my next life... we already made a deal...so I felt safe and cosseted to live in Amsterdam as long as I did.
Now I have experienced what almost anyone else in this town would make into a TV series: trying to get a Beverly Hills realtor to call me back, so I can give her money. I believe I have found what I am hoping is the perfect place, a half block's saunter from this magnificent hotel, the Montage. I thought the name of it affected, but that was before I stayed here. It is the current domain of my old friend, Frank Bowling, the world's best hotelier with the possible exception of Natale Rusconi, my great love who was at the Cipriani in Venice, where I lived for a while pretending it wasn't cold and wet and sinking, and writing a book as I seem to do almost everywhere but New York. That should tell me something.
Last night I went through my computer, half-way at least, trying to eliminate old writings that didn't seem important to me even if the world were to discover who I had been and care. Probably this was triggered by a nightmare visit to the Apple store, with a line outside and my having to wait for an appointment once I was able to ask for one until sometime weeks from now by which time I will have forgotten what it was I needed to learn. So I asked for the manager, another ordeal, and actually managed to get back the money I had paid to be able to make appointments, simply by being obnoxious, something that comes easily to me even after all these years. But I did connect with someone who works there who has another career as a musician, as did all my friends who were Apple technicians in Amsterdam, where at least you could get an appointment. I wonder how these bright people manage to maintain their souls, and if Steve Jobs is in Hell. I hope not, as he was inarguably brilliant and probably meant no harm but just had bad parenting, when he could get hold of them.
But going through all the old stuff I found several books/movies/plays I had started and even some I'd completed, that I had no memory of, so was able to discover myself as a lost writer. One was a book into movie, I thought it was clearly, that must have been the one that captured the attention of my beloved Annie Bancroft, a woman who had been a close friend early in my game, disappearing for a long while into the arms of Mel Brooks, another pal, who showed up once when I was visiting Mel. I remember so thoroughly the glint in her eye, and how lovely she was, though older. And I understood only last night reading it why she had opted to re-connect, and that was because there was a really good role for her in that never-surfacing work. If only she had spoken up, been direct, as actors apparently have a hard time doing, unless they are Jamie Curtis. I would have broken the ass that Don said it was a shame I didn't have, to make it right for her. And maybe she would have lived longer. Who knows.
Who knows if it is satisfaction in our work that makes some of us who are worker bees buzz longer, more happily. It is my hope now to do something fresh and fine if I get the apartment. If I can remember where I stored my furniture, and have a desk. If the realtor calls me back. If there is a God. And it isn't just climate that fogs up the hill I can see from my hotel window that suggests you place not too much faith in the Hollywood sign.
Now I have experienced what almost anyone else in this town would make into a TV series: trying to get a Beverly Hills realtor to call me back, so I can give her money. I believe I have found what I am hoping is the perfect place, a half block's saunter from this magnificent hotel, the Montage. I thought the name of it affected, but that was before I stayed here. It is the current domain of my old friend, Frank Bowling, the world's best hotelier with the possible exception of Natale Rusconi, my great love who was at the Cipriani in Venice, where I lived for a while pretending it wasn't cold and wet and sinking, and writing a book as I seem to do almost everywhere but New York. That should tell me something.
Last night I went through my computer, half-way at least, trying to eliminate old writings that didn't seem important to me even if the world were to discover who I had been and care. Probably this was triggered by a nightmare visit to the Apple store, with a line outside and my having to wait for an appointment once I was able to ask for one until sometime weeks from now by which time I will have forgotten what it was I needed to learn. So I asked for the manager, another ordeal, and actually managed to get back the money I had paid to be able to make appointments, simply by being obnoxious, something that comes easily to me even after all these years. But I did connect with someone who works there who has another career as a musician, as did all my friends who were Apple technicians in Amsterdam, where at least you could get an appointment. I wonder how these bright people manage to maintain their souls, and if Steve Jobs is in Hell. I hope not, as he was inarguably brilliant and probably meant no harm but just had bad parenting, when he could get hold of them.
But going through all the old stuff I found several books/movies/plays I had started and even some I'd completed, that I had no memory of, so was able to discover myself as a lost writer. One was a book into movie, I thought it was clearly, that must have been the one that captured the attention of my beloved Annie Bancroft, a woman who had been a close friend early in my game, disappearing for a long while into the arms of Mel Brooks, another pal, who showed up once when I was visiting Mel. I remember so thoroughly the glint in her eye, and how lovely she was, though older. And I understood only last night reading it why she had opted to re-connect, and that was because there was a really good role for her in that never-surfacing work. If only she had spoken up, been direct, as actors apparently have a hard time doing, unless they are Jamie Curtis. I would have broken the ass that Don said it was a shame I didn't have, to make it right for her. And maybe she would have lived longer. Who knows.
Who knows if it is satisfaction in our work that makes some of us who are worker bees buzz longer, more happily. It is my hope now to do something fresh and fine if I get the apartment. If I can remember where I stored my furniture, and have a desk. If the realtor calls me back. If there is a God. And it isn't just climate that fogs up the hill I can see from my hotel window that suggests you place not too much faith in the Hollywood sign.
