LOS ANGELES AS TONIC After weeks of real challenge, failure and a lot of exhaustion (was I really in Chicago) many things ended all at once. I don’t even want to call them projects, as they seemed to be such hard won expressions and experiments. Maybe a pipe dream, but I tried to do them all, and of course, fragility of mind and body entered the picture, mostly in a middle of the night realization that impossibility was not to be ignored. Yes, I had some epic failures in the last few weeks. I also had some really good breakthroughs, but I am an artist so the failures are holding in my top ten. I see skateboarders jump off of buildings all the time and miraculously land on the smallest of spaces, but I might just be ignoring that YouTube section called ‘Epic Fails’, where trying ends in face splats and divorces. The academy alone can take one down (especially my Trojan academy at this moment of precipice at tenure announcements) but putting art front and center can really kick your ass regardless of everything else going on in your life, as it should, its art, for Oprahs sake! Maybe the hardest part of all is how difficult it is for artists to talk to each other about our work, especially when we don’t like it. The number of times someone said ‘interesting’ or simply avoided me, or even better, chatted me up but ignored the work they had just seen, was fascinating. Yet, I was so happy knowing I was on my own right path towards something, discovery maybe, and so necessary to do it with an audience. Which made me think of the L.A. model for new work, how do we grow something collectively and is it possible to find a common language toward generous criticism? I woke up at 1:30am, my mind full and on overload. I did my best to fall asleep and it wasnt until I read Where The Wild Things Are three times, which was given to me as a gag gift, that I eventually went off to dream of faraway places. I woke up in tears. I wish I could explain why. Grateful to be alive, I suppose. Writing a play moves you so close to the sun, that inner you of feelings, hard truths and the weird duality of joy and pain. And yet, the only thing I obsess about are the technicalities, the truths live out there on their own because I am unaware they have shot out of me. I know, it sounds so precious, but being truthful is hard. It’s so easy to lie these days, it’s almost expected in our culture. I got out of the house and decided to have breakfast in the hood. I went to CJs and there was an ambulance out front. I masochistically still went in. My favorite server, a wonderful Guatemalan with the thickest accent scooped by while I waited to be seated, Somebody choking she intoned in a tone so ominous that it sounded like she said were breaking out of prison tonight... Maybe it was the superstitious look in her eyes and my own fragile state, but I hightailed it out of there and walked down to Bloom, where a couple in British accents right next to me loudly were conspiring about how to get rid of Stephanie at the dance studio. Well, you know where this is going, right? Before long, even before my egg-white Olympus arrived, these two sycophants were at each others throats accusing each other of being jealous of poor Stephanie, who must be doing something right because she’s got these two up in a knot. The woman, in the shortest Edith Head dark bob, cried while the man, in a green Chris Martin Coldplay running suit, accused her of using tears as manipulation, which makes this so interesting when done in proper English accents, neither was so upset that they stopped eating or thought to take it outside. That’s L.A. for you. And there I am, listening as best I can… That’s L.A. too. Still, all done, I was feeling discombobulated as I made my way down Pico. I turned up Curson and noticed a car that said ‘Triple-A, Driving Lesson Car’, with the recognizable logo and blue against white font, with that strip of red. I don’t know why I found it curious that it was just sitting there in front of the strip mall with the Pot dispensary, Thai massage and Haitian haircuts. Which one, I was thinking to myself, when I notice that there is a young couple in the back of the four-door making out. I found it so curious that these two exhibitionists were not even on the lookout, they were deep in romance and tongue. I couldn’t tell if they were wearing Triple-A outfits or if it was instructor and student, either way, I had to slow down and just look, something beautifully perverse and out of the ordinary of the everyday. I kid you not, and this should be no surprise if you are a resident of the Wilshire-Vista, a parking enforcement car pulled up and waited for a few seconds. I hesitated and then impulsively shouted to the amorous couple, “Hey, you guys” at which, the guy looked up and just as quickly shouted, “WUT!!!” in the most aggressive post French-kiss way. Right, of course, love always trumps parking meters. I should have remembered that from my own youth at Santa Monica beach. I started walking away. Still, city revenue trumps horny and the meter man walked up and placed a ticket on the windshield without acknowledging the activity inside the car. Perfect. My self-loathing is erased, in the scheme of the everyday, I don’t really matter all that much. Here I am fretting about art and there it is happening in front of me. Someone chokes in the family diner, someone British cries in the hipster coffee shop and lovers in Triple-A driving lesson cars don’t stop for parking restrictions. Thank you Los Angeles, your embrace is sobering. And healing.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 20:29:55 +0000
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