the palms at 6:02, 6:07, and 6:11 a.m. on may 18, 2012

it’s possible that i’m lying.

we all do. everyday we embellish and expand, omit and conveniently forget the truth.

even these photographs are lies for they tell not the actual truth of the moments in which they were captured (time being the first fact to evaporate into the ether of “it doesn’t matter”).

they’ve been manipulated and saturated, the contrast has been swung to the right while the brightness has been toned down/up, but they come close to the way i saw them for the briefest moment yesterday morning sometime after 6 and before 6:30 while taking the dogs for their morning walk (the dogs on a morning walk is true.)

random notes on nothing

i will admit, in print, that i am not a fan of j.d. salinger’s work.  that little red book of post-pubescent anxiety & revolt (the mao book of quotations for teenagers since 1951.) it seems sacrilegious, doesn’t it?  & yes, of course i read it when i was a teenager, it may have been entertaining then (i liked their names, i remember that; esme, franny, zooey, holden, for god’s sake, they all sounded so connecticut & i guess that was aspirational, you know, to have a name that indicated you were of a class, one that was not yours.)  but i can not tell you a thing about any of the books, not the essence or the  ‘take-away’ feeling; i couldn’t  even lay out a cliff notes version were i forced too (teenagers suffer, there are tears, there is revolt, there is hugging & maybe smoking on the sly, was there sex?  i don’t know & it seems never cared enough to remember.)

there is much to be said for the solitary day spent gardening (in spite of the ache-y muscles the following day.)  there are so many moments, vignettes, words of encouragement (& words of wonder & awe) that are like the little death (la petite mort for you francophiles); it may account for the melancholy that sloshes around your ankles, a broken pipe carrying flora dreams away, that sadness that that moment may not be repeated (or ever feel as sublime.)

i really like the traveler’s insurance tv commercial with the dog & the bone, you may watch it by clicking here.   they’ve come out with a second one that i feel is also very good (& if i were in the market for insurance, i would definitely consider them, kudos to the advertising company that developed these commercials.)  they’re terrific visceral advertising (& beautiful to boot.)

favorite color:  i’ve always said green, but of course that was when i wasn’t saying red or blue or yellow (not to mention all of the million or so variations on those themes.)  i loathe gender-specific responses & the pigeon-holing parents do to make sure their daughters love pink/purple & their boys do not.   & don’t even get me started on all of the companies that insist that those are the colors little girls, but not little boys, should love, love, love (i reserve my deepest disrespect, disregard, disgust for their ignorance & promotion of what is right & what is wrong for little children, for criminy’s sake.)

when i first learned that i could make lavendar by mixing red, blue & white paint together (i believe i was 8 or 9 at the time)  & it was in the basement playroom of my grandmother patrick’s house in springfield, illinois, i was, without hyperbole, ecstatic.    the world turned lavender for me that day (no schadenfreude here, but my god, what a sign, & in retrospect if you’d been reading those kind of signs then, that one would have been a cold splash of water in your sleepy face.)

don’t you miss john denver?  i know, i know what you’re thinking, “robert, you’ve gone too far now, i can’t support you on this, i just can’t, he’s too sweet a singer, too saccharine, just too too too.”  but in his defense, & particularly if you ever grew up in the country, the wide open plains, or those majestic rocky mountains, or the hills & dales of any other landscape sparsely populated, grandly innocent, virgin & unspoiled (& even if you lived in a large metropolis & dreamed of those places,) then you know what i mean when i say his voice captured all of that, a clear brook, the sweet sound of the dinner bell, the fresh air.   the innocence & the heartbreak, the love of life flowed so easily from his blond, blue-eyed-ness (those round wire-framed glasses say it all.)

last night when i was walking the dogs i tried to remember what i’d been reading in the new issue of the atlantic & couldn’t.  oh, i did dig around in the dark cobwebby interiors & dusty corners where neurons & atoms & micro, micro synapses of information are doing whatever it is they do, but nothing.  i even tried to not think about it, hoping by turning my mind to other things (anything) what i wanted to remember would float to the top of my consciousness & “ping,” just like that, what i wanted to retrieve would be at the forefront of the carousel (the lending library carousel, you know) & i would pluck it out & say, “ah, yes, that weighty matter.”  but alas, it was not to be & until i laid my head on my three stacked pillows to read again before drifting off to sleep, & turned to the dog-eared page where i had left off, did i then know why i couldn’t remember:  i had been reading about justin bieber.

<insert deep sigh here>  it’s why sweets are so bad for you; all taste, no nutrition.

there is nothing, particularly in the southern california garden, that for me represents the advent of spring more than the sudden explosion of new rose leaves, fleshy, leathery and bloody, that cordovan red, as perfect as a piece of hand-dipped dark chocolate.

to be continued…

a lack of profundity (intended)

I am drawing no universal truths from today.  It was a Sunday like many other Sundays at our house.  We slept in courtesy of ‘Spring Forward’ (even the dogs were loath to get going, sensing, I believe, that time had made an adjustment in their schedule, normally they are as accurate as Swiss timepieces.)  The sun was already up & shining brightly by the time we were out for the morning walk, fortified by a strong cup of coffee, a little blogging, the front section of the L.A. Times (me, of course, the dogs don’t drink coffee, but they do love the Times & you should see their blog.)

I finally got all things pointing in the right direction & headed over to our local farmer’s market, where I picked up the usual:  a bunch of carrots, two heads of lettuce, fresh garlic (3), a bunch of cilantro, asparagus, a three-pack of strawberries (I did complain about last week’s berries, I didn’t mean to complain, it really was intended as an observation, but I guess it sounded whiny & they gave me a $2.00 discount on today’s purchase & when I demurred they told me not to argue with them–which I promise, I hadn’t been,) 3 pink lady apples, 3 pears (bosc), sweet potatoes, and tomatoes.  I considered sugar snap peas, but they were $3.75 per pound which seemed high to me, so I passed.

Back home, M. & I had lunch (wraps & strawberries!) then bundled up the dogs & headed up to Whittier (ugh, the 5 freeway–flowing freely until Firestone, then stop-and-go until we hit the 605) to check out an antique mart, King Richard’s Antiques (for M.’s business) & to meet with the owner who’s putting together a street fair in Whittier this April where M. will be a vendor.

Dogs were only allowed in if carried, so M. went in while I stood outside with Billy & Joey.   Billy is the more outgoing of the two, always open to be petted & fawned over (he’s so soft to the touch, you’d be amazed, & I think he knows how good he feels.)

So soft in fact, that he rivals Jesus Christ, at least in this instance, in his power to demand attention & offer succor to the weary.

King Richard’s was located near a bike/running trail, one obviously well-tended by the city/state with amazing blooming trees, succulents & lavender.

M. finished his business, & then it was my turn to take a quick turn around the store.

One section was eerily lit by a frosted western window that added a note of Los Angeles ‘noir’ to the display, startling me when I realized madam was a mannequin.

But startled or not, I was completely smitten by the light being filtered through the dirt, the ages & the completely tacky 1980s chandeliers suspended from the ceiling.

I stumbled upon several gilt tables reflected in a mirror, that just begged for a photo & it wasn’t until I downloaded today’s visuals that I realized I was standing in 3rd position–gotta dance!

On my way out, I was surprised to see that metallic (the ’80s again!) was making a comeback — at least in Whittier, if not the rest of the Los Angeles basin.

We drove home (605 south to the 91 east to the 5 south) in record time & then the dogs & I went for a short walk, where we stopped to admire the coastline & say a little non-denominational prayer, re: how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful spot on the globe.

But we turned away from the view & headed home (doggie dinner!) but had to stop to admire the sego palm in bloom & consider its erotic aspects, its fecundity, its ancient, pleistocene ancestry.   That’s it!  Draw your own conclusions (I’m fresh out.)

eos (dawning of an age)

I start each day with the dogs, we work our way up the hill from the house to the roundelay & are usually greeted by Eos as she parts the gates of heaven with her rosy fingers & diadem of white feathers, fluttering & ethereal, preparing the world for the glory of her brother Apollo as he drives his chariot pulling Helios behind illuminating our world in a fiery display of nature and physics and things we can only understand intuitively/naturally.

& it is second by second, minute by minute that her handiwork & beauty are revealed/a conductor cuing the larks & the engines of commerce & the crashing waves/as the sounds, each individual one vies for momentary supremacy.  color radiates visually & so dramatically that it has an aural quality.

The dogs taught me that.  That color has a sound & a smell & a tactile quality. dawn tastes of tangerines & peppers; smells of dew & rabbits; feels slick, a coating of oil on rain-slicked slurry, silky, satiny smooth.

And as it gets lighter, more detail is put into relief against the shadowy valleys & sun-kissed (not trite, but true) mountain-tops, when they sing of purple mountains’ majesty you can almost believe that Casper David Friedrich is planted there in front of you with his easel & his pots of paint/a palette of purples/oranges/violets/whites/blues swirling in the misty vales, sparkling in the dewy dawn light.

And as the dogs and I turn away from our easterly promenade we catch a moment (a heart beat) of brilliance slipping up the northern ridge & you do have to wonder & marvel at the brilliance of nature & of our world.  It’s uplifting & maddening all at once–that man can be so amazing & so stupid & that power does corrupt & that love is everywhere you look.

The palm grove stands sentinel on our northern flank, an agenda of their own (grow taller, straighter, bloom, seed, die) leading us around our community, shepherds & scouts & soothsayers.

some nights

each night i walk the dogs sometime between 9 pm & 10 pm (their internal clocks were made by the swiss, they’re so accurate) & i take the 1/2 hour as it comes–listening to the noises of the night in our almost exurban community/with the occasional flutter & whoosh of an owl’s wings/followed by the squeal of its prey (or not)

although there are sodium vapor street lights every 100 yards or so (at every driveway) we’re high enough up & close enough to the ocean to have a darker night sky than most in southern california & when you do catch glimpses of the coast or the valley below, the lights seem remote & otherworldly (having nothing to do with my ‘now’) & it’s fairly easy to drift away with the snuffling our scent-hounds (dachshund & terrier)

one night not too long ago (perhaps last night) there was birdsong, which is completely out of the ordinary, it even stopped the dogs, both of them cocking their heads in unison to listen more closely to the trilling call & response (a gospel, amen) all of which was enveloped in a satin-y mantle of fog/coating my glasses in a light sprinkle of mist which further acted as a filter/gauze over the lens/a scrim behind which the unlit actors prepared for the next scene

what i notice on these walks/the play of shadow & light/leaves & tree branches against metal electrical boxes & the unusual color of shadows from taupe/mauve/teal, never really black, not at least the harsh blackness of a country night where the stark reality of starlight etches harsh, clear shapes that melt into dark chocolate holes, filled but empty, empty

& yet i’m startled by the sudden beauty of a plant/bush/tree that i walk past all the time & how it glows in the reflective creamy light of a pedestrian lamp — that final lap to the house with dog 1 straining at his leash to get there first & dog 2 cradled in my arms, a gentle lick on my neck as encouragement to hurry hurry home for a treat

yesterday on tumblr

Yesterday on tumblr many different things occurred; some of it true.  For one, the sun came up; there were also many holiday/christmas/good cheer greetings/exchanges of recipes/food network photos (o.k., not true,) links to etsy (as if,) beefcake, beefsteak, and a few beefs, good weather, bad weather, embraced by family, missing family, disco balls, punk rock, hard rock, metal rock, soft rock, elvis & nat king cole, fashion (high & low,) literary references, quotes, rants, chagrin, amusement & reflection (you know who you are.)

The dogs got walked.  Please note how difficult it is to focus (on anything) when you’re managing two leashes and two dogs eager to pee/poop/smell every blade of grass.

Nature, as is its want, put on a display of magnificent proportions:  referencing Maxfield Parrish & urban graffiti in equal amounts of color, form & volume; all that was missing was a signature (and a buyer/of its reality/surreality/dada/modernism/conceptualism/minimalism.)

For my part, I thought about content (it’s king!) and I carefully considered composition/color/control (or the lack thereof) exhibited by nature at this hour of the day.

After all these years here, oftentimes it feels brand new–each day–other times–each day–repetitive, faraway, isolated & lonely.  I long for the city again, the energy, the pulse, the horns, the liveliness of it all.  If M. were willing/the housing market too/I think we’d be out of here as quickly as the sun rises.

Even in this day of ‘social media’ where I can connect with so many people so easily (& so smartly–I know it’s pandering to your baser instincts, but who doesn’t like a compliment now & then?) I believe I’m reaching a burnout point–and yet, on fire too, with possibilities/opportunities/youth.

But these contrasts & comparisons(the new journalism) bring to me visions/sightings/dreams/harsh reality/of the frigid dawn/tumescent land pushing hard into the soft folds of the ocean/purple headland diving, diving, diving under the liquid cover of the sea/dragging me down, kelp hair streaming behind, in extremis.

And yet.   And yet.  And yet, the words/thoughts/deeds/action/stasis all draw me, like the line of a jet trail and its symbol of hope/adventure/anticipation gradually building its rhythm & intensity/the roar of its engine ever so faintly falling falling falling to my bony labyrinth, reverberating/resonating/revealing its truth.

Yesterday on tumblr nothing happened, he whispered in my ear as we settled down for a nap.

earth & sky & william blake

Joey, a dog, and I, a human, took in the sights & smells at Skyview Park, just a half mile from our house yesterday.  Joey, as is his want, was much more interested in earthly delights while I (perhaps due to my height and completely worthless sense of smell) was captivated by the views.

Off we went down the yellow gravel path that leads to the ocean should you be so inclined; it’s a rather dramatic descent that makes the return hike an incredible workout, but for a portion of the trail, it is wide, smooth, filled with vistas (and with scents.)

Like a veteran’s cemetery, they have lined up markers along the trail denoting the indigenous flora, although one would be hard pressed to tell the difference as upon closer inspection each plant looked much the same as the last.

The vistas open up as the gravel crunches underneath & your footfalls keep time with the snuffling of Joey as he zigzags from scent to scent, from pee station to pee station.

Aliso Creek/Wood Canyon Park to the north of the trail.

And to the south, homes along the coastline, trying desperately to mimic the western coast of Italy — on a really clear day you can see down to La Jolla.

And as the descent steepens, Laguna Beach appears with the Palos Verde Peninsula humping like a whale in the distance.

Oops!  Pee break.

Before the path narrows and descends to the ocean, you have the opportunity to glimpse, like a mirage, Santa Catalina Island. At this ‘rest’ stop there is a picnic table (as there are scattered along the path to this point.)  This one was covered with graffiti.

Some of which showed promise artistically & philosophically, but others resorted to the usual demeaning tropes — as if ‘sucks dick’ was a bad thing.

But that was redeemed by this quote from William Blake:

“If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would appear as they truly are, infinite.”  In spite of the misspelling, that a sentient human felt compelled to share Blake at this view point in Orange County astounds me (and relieves me as well.)

Which made me look skyward for my own inspiration.

…and thoughts of Titian skies: roiling clouds as backdrops for Renaissance fantasies of religious mythologies; bolts of satin, heaving breasts (female), the plated armor pectorals of gods with swords poised to cleanse the world of its evils.

Baroque beatification of beauty.

An armada scuttling across the ocean with visions of wealth, the reality: death.

But up and out we climbed, Joey and I, toward a form of redemption through friendship grounded, open, and for a moment ours alone.