tondo

I haven’t been in the mind space to write. The kind where I’m stuck knee deep in my thoughts that somehow get all over me.

The kind that allows me to escape the world for a while as I sit on top of a perch surveying life and what it all means in my little cubby of existence.

I’m not saying I have writers block more like an aversion to push a moment that is not presently available.

Please hang up and try again.

I have just enjoyed being in the moment. Enjoying the ride from the A line to the E, watching the city pass outside my window anticipating each stop.

Walking down Sunset ready to capture the decisive moment but putting no expectation on myself if I don’t. There will always be another.

Sitting in a cafe, that feels like my own private Blade Runner scene, while I enjoy a Mexican Coke and a rib eye taco, all the while, trying desperately not to get up and dance as “Oh, Honey,” marinates the space.

I just want to be in the sandbox sometimes. Get it in my shoes. Throw it around, perhaps. And, then laugh when I get it all over the place when I get home and question, “How did it get there?”

Knowing the words will eventually come.

Just not today.

down south

I was recently driving around the area near Portuguese Bend chasing the memory of one of my favorite writers, Joan Didion.

I was keen on retracing the steps of where she once lived. Where her and John wrote. Where her daughter Quintana was brought after she was born.

I wanted to know if the coastal air brought in inspiration during the early morning. If the unstable land beneath gave a sense of urgency and if the vastness of the Pacific put everything into perspective.

Though I read all of her books but one (Run, River), I wanted to find what was felt in between each word, sentence and paragraph–the elusive transition from good to great that she achieved.

As the sun was about to set, I made my way down the winding road, to the land of Bukowski where I found myself none the wiser but inspired nonetheless.

the gift

I knew a man who once said, “the older I get the slower my music gets.” Come to think of it, he may have said, “the slower my music becomes.” Either way, I know what he meant or rather I know how he feels now that I am in my older state.

These days I find myself in a Malibu state of mind as I make the turn off Sunset onto the highway running alongside the edge of the frontier.

There I allow life to unfold naturally, as if I had any control in the first place, as it helps  me lean into the quiet days. A place where memories are made that will be held onto long after I’m gone.

It’s the slow life. The life of not chasing tomorrows but relishing in all the day has to offer. Where the mornings creep slowly as the first cup of coffee turns into two while I dog-ear the page of that book that I may get to later.

With the vastness of the great Pacific just beyond my tent, I become aware of how small I am, like a speck of sand beneath my feet, understanding life will go on with or without me.

It humbles me. Puts everything in perspective and gives me a feeling of surrender—allowing me to be present.

For that is really all we have.

A gift as they say.

rocket man

It was a night of doomscrolling that I stumbled across a post. Its content wasn’t something I was familiar with but the choice of song piqued my interest.

I’ve heard Rocket Man many times over the years but for some reason it hit a little different that night particularly when Elton sang, “it’s lonely out in space.”

Though firmly grounded in my reality and responsibility, there are times that the space I live in is the expectation I conceived in my head for my life.

Just one more shot. One more mile. One more client. Thinking that if I just go one more it will get me “there,” wherever that may be.

“I think it’s gonna be a long, long time,” played in my ear like a mantra or prophecy, conditioning me for the potential outcome of my journey.

And as I looked at the moon from my bed, I came to the conclusion I am nothing more than a rocket man often on a solo flight to my desired destination albeit a lonely one.

Seeing the promised land from afar but ultimately realizing it will be fulfilled by another.

everything changes

We sat in our chairs, as our now oldest slept. We refer to them as our therapy chairs, bought in lieu of a television. For years we sat with a glass of wine and talked about life. Our struggles. Our defeats. We talked and talked. And talked some more—probably enough to the solve the worlds problems if we cared to do so. We were being intentional with our love for one another one heart-to-heart at a time.

It was in our chairs, we decided that two is more than one. Companionship is what he needed and that our desired outcome would be long and winding with potholes to fill.

Then one morning you arose with a feeling of life inside. A promise made and a promise kept. And though we were older, we felt our renewed hope would fuel us for what was to come.

After the passing of the season, you called one night.  Our communication was few and far between that day, “You should come home. I think it’s time,” you said. Our “only” fast asleep only to wake hours later as our oldest.

We sat in our chairs, as our now oldest slept navigating the change. Living in the promise. Living in the results of decisions made months ago—understanding two is more than one and four is more than three. Love and pain. Both can be true.

Understanding it may take time to get used to. We take it day by day.

Everything changes. Everything changed.

la

Did I tell you I miss you? I’m sure you know. I have found myself in a new situation that may come between you and I. Don’t worry, it wasn’t something you have done. It was more of something I did—but let me tell you it was a decision that even you would have made.

It was about fulfilling a dream not just for me but for someone I love. Yes, I love you too but you should know a thing or two about following dreams, right?

Let me tell you, she shines as bright as your lights as I hold her. She beams with joy like you do on a sunny day off the coast. Actually a part of you is part of her, in spirit anyways.

I am sure you will meet her some day soon. Perhaps off Sunset, say 12:30 in the courtyard?

I just know you’ll love her, like I do. And soon enough, she’ll fall in love with you too.

if only

I was late to the game. Missed it in the moment and only became aware long after the fact. It’s possible if I would have seen Sofia Coppola’s movies early I could have diverted the stints of therapy I experienced in my teens and early adulthood.

The connection to the characters exposed me to our collective flaws, insecurities and feelings of loneliness in an otherwise crowded room. The topics raised, taboo to some, to me normalized the idea of conversation that led to discernment of how to approach the fragility of self.

If only.

It’s never too late though just arrive before you leave.

da rosa

It was a lazy Saturday. The news cycle was slower than usual and I found myself enjoying the morning as it inched towards the afternoon only to fade into the early evening.

As I started to make dinner, Nunca Mais filled the room as my head started to nod in sync with the bass. Measure after measure, I was transported or was it teleported to the land of Verocai though I could make a credible case that it is now the land of da Rosa.

His recording gave a performance like rent was due. The instrumentation, the timbre, and arrangement gave the music substance as if he was reliving an old memory that he allowed you exclusive access to. And though I don’t speak Portuguese, I felt EVERY single word.

As it ended, I picked up the needle to play it once more and then again for good measure.

That’s how you know…

That’s how you know.

I

I am often drawn toward my inner thoughts. I find them in the crawl space of my mind, hidden away yet visible enough for me to see them, to feel them, to meditate on them. 

In the best of times, expressing my internal feelings has been an outlet for me and helped me grow. In the worst of times, it replays the moments I’ve missed the mark, where regret and pain live side by side. My only hope is redemption lies in the middle of right where I fell.  

Steve Jobs once said, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward, you can only connect them looking backwards.” And as I collect the images and words that will comprise my first book, which has eluded me for so long, I can start to see the path I’ve taken. I sought refuge on the streets of a city that I feel a symbiotic relationship with, one that many see as broken and misunderstood. And yet I’m reminded of a time I was in Australia listening to a man proclaiming, “You are not your circumstances.” 

There is beauty in the ashes. There is hope.

And, as I was walking the streets of LA, I was searching for the beauty all around: in every nook and cranny, in every corner, in every interaction. In reality, I was searching for the me that was lost. I was trying to find the grace and mercy I couldn’t give myself. 

I was trying to find the beauty in me among my ashes. The hope I had lost long ago. A self-induced unraveling. 

The city, its streets, and its inhabitants have been my therapy, my safe place. And with each step taken, it has allowed me to forgive myself.

*excerpt from LA Diaries.