It’s been a very busy few weeks since I’ve been back from Massachusetts; parties, work, guests, Forth of July, an earthquake, all on top of the usual chaos that can be my life. Another friend gone which added to my usual melancholy and sense of loss. Not to mention the ache that accompanies the swiftness of time passing.
Now I’m taking a few days to banish the brain fog that is the result of too much socializing and tequila and not enough solitude and decent sleep.
Today was spent relaxing, reading, writing, walking, eating salads and drinking a gallon or so of water. I don’t quite feel normal, whatever that means, but it’s a start. At least I’m staying hydrated.
The earthquake I felt a few days ago was a 7.1 out by Ridgecrest about a hundred miles east of LA. Here in Santa Barbara my house rolled gently for about a minute causing the Tibetan chimes I have hanging in my living room to ring. Certainly when the Earth shifts on such a massive scale it’s hard for the mind to grasp. It was felt for hundreds of miles in every direction from the epicenter. One more way that Nature can make us feel like insignificant specks. The world gives not one whit for our collective well being and the sensation of the cosmos being completely indifferent to our existence is overwhelming. But somehow, for a time, we endure.
I wonder if I’m losing my edge. I was very nice and cordial to the Jehovah Witnesses who showed up at my door yesterday. I shook their hands and accepted their cartoon pamphlet and wished them a good day. Should I refrain from this kind of graciousness? I know it will only encourage them to return with more of their nonsense literature.
They haven’t bothered me in a while, almost a year, and I kind of thought they were through with me after our last encounter. They caught me in a foul mood. I was sitting out in my yard reading poetry and drinking wine. I generally don’t like to be disturbed when I’m trying to concentrate on life’s finer offerings.
“Good afternoon!” Said the woman who was maybe in her late thirties and accompanied by a younger girl of about fifteen. Snare them young is a tactic of all religions.
They both had slightly goofy and harmless smiles. I smiled back.
‘’If you have a moment we would like to talk to you about grief.” The smiling woman said. And I felt as if I was lobbed a perfect pitch. I was wondering how I was going to scare them off.
I lost my smile and gave them my most intense million-mile-away stare. “I’m your guy.” I said as true pain and heartbreak overflowed from my essence. “I’m just back from burying my younger brother. And I’m hurt.”
The younger girl’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath. The woman placed the flimsy flier on my table near the wine glass and for a minute was at a loss for words and unable to maintain her smile. “I’m sorry. Maybe reading this will help.” She offered.
“Thank you, maybe.” I said.
They quickly scurried away. Was I cruel by hitting them with that? I truly wasn’t lying. It had just been the worst month of my life. And I was grieving deeply. I tossed the flier in the trash because I knew at this point the only thing that was going to help me was family and friends who understood me and let me be who I was and let me suffer in my own way. I didn’t need white noise from strangers. Perhaps the young girl learned some sort of lesson from this battered agnostic on that beautiful afternoon.
Another time a different couple knocked as I was dancing around my house in my bathing suit and a tie-dye tank top and Black Sabbath’s The Thrill of it All was playing loudly from my giant Polk Audio speakers. Oh, and I held a tumbler of scotch in my hand. Needless to say they also made a quick exit.
You would think that by now they’d steer clear of my place. But they are a persistent and dedicated bunch. I feel we will continue to torment each other.
A week of eventides, not too high, not too low. The days are bright and warm. The surf calm and the beaches are pretty crowded. Volleyball nets are set up and BBQs send the fragrance of roasted meat through the breezy air. There is lots of beer being drank. The micro bikinis are rather distracting, but in a good way.
I sit outside until almost dark. Later when the waxing moon sets Jupiter is the brightest light in the sky. I gaze at the massive planet through my binoculars. I need a telescope because it still looks like a tiny star.
I have been sticking with my cleanse. Water and vegetables.
At the bar the other night a girl said an odd thing to me out of the blue. Perhaps I was coming off as daft and not as clever as I usually act after having a drop or two with Jim. We only sip to improve our charm and make the customers more tolerable. Sometimes it even works.
“I’ve read more books than you!”
“What!” I snap and she must have seen something in my eyes that made her suspect she was wrong.
“What are you reading right now?” She asks.
Easy one. “Saul Bellow and Kenneth Rexroth. You?” I say.
“Faulkner.”
“Love him.” I say even though I haven’t read him in years.
“Favorite writer?” She asks.
“Poet or novelist?”
“Two different things.” She claims.
“Not if you’re a Jim Harrison fan.” I reply.
She’s not familiar with him and I recommend a few of his book. We banter a bit each promising the other a book. I haven’t decided what to get her yet. I’ll see if she ever comes back in first.
It takes a lot to get me to Los Angeles these days. The traffic is maddening and exhaust fumes irritate my eyes and throat. Driving through the city does indeed make you think that “the world will sink under the weight of the human race.” Like my brother Mide used to quote.
Last month it was Dead and Company who got me to make the trek to Hollywood. And it was worth it to visit with great old (long time) friends.
Last night it was Sam Harris and Mingyur Rinpoche in conversation at the Wiltern Theater. I love the Wiltern. I saw my first show there in 1988. The Jerry Garcia Band. Bob Weir and Rob Wasserman opened for them. That, as they say, was a time. I’ve seen many other shows there over the years. It’s a gorgeous Art Deco theater built, I think, in the 30s. It’s a wonderful room.
So I braved once again the traffic on the 101. It wasn’t as bad as I’ve seen but still frustrating. I got there early enough to wander around for bit, checking out the neighborhoods and realized like I always do that I could never live down there. The rush of people and crush of noise would simply be too much for me.
I stopped at the Lobby Bar at The Line Hotel, another favorite spot, for a quick (double) vodka. Then down the street I had some mediocre sushi. The cold nigori sake, however, was refreshing. It seemed a tad sacrilegious drinking before attending a talk from a buddhist monk, but, I figured I should drop my attachment to sobriety and it seemed like as good of a time as any. And when I got to the theater there were long lines at the bar. The young crowd reminded more of a concert than it did a serious discussion about enlightenment. And I was delighted.
The conversation was about meditation. Something I’ve had limited success with. Harris, as usual, was witty and asked excellent questions and gave Rinpoche plenty of space to answer. Rinpoche was humorous and charming displaying a playful wit of his own. This was the first time they had met and they quickly showed a mutual warmth toward each other. Harris had studied in the past with Rinpoche’s father so he was familiar with the teachings. Rinpoche led the sold out theater in a five minute breathing meditation. Which is about my limit these days. He spoke eloquently about awareness, impermanence and then talked about his four and a half year Wandering Retreat. That is what his latest book, In Love With The World, is about. I’ve read it and it’s stimulating. I bought Amanda a copy.
I have always been a bit of a closet buddhist so I found the evening to be rather up-lifting. I must have needed the reminders that everything we have will someday be gone so pay as close attention to your life as you can. Be aware and be awake. I pondered these thoughts, especially about the meaning of bardos being interludes between periods of awareness, as a drove back to Santa Barbara. I was home by midnight.
I turned down a job in Los Angles once. Much to Dad’s dismay. A good friend of his offered me a sales position at his very successful company. The pay was tremendous for the time. It would have required a lot of driving and even back then, more than twenty-five years ago, I hated LA traffic. And I knew that if I had to live down there I would slowly (or maybe quickly) sink into a madness from which I would never really recover. I’m not kidding. It would be a soul (that word) devouring endeavor for me and I refused the job as gracefully as I could. It was the correct decision. Even though Dad was (slightly) disappointed.
After a few hot dry days my beautiful peach tree has exploded. Most of the fruit ripened in forty-eight hours. Now they are falling off the tree faster than I can eat them. But I’m doing my best. I had one with breakfast, three with lunch and one more after dinner. Tomorrow I’m going to give a bunch away. They are small and sweet and juicy. Delicious.
Sunday afternoon. I walked downtown to retrieve my Jeep. It was a long tiring work-night and I got a ride home instead of driving. To reward myself I took one of the crystal champagne flutes that Steve and Crissy gave me out of the freezer, picked a fresh peach off the tree and made a mimosa, actually the original Bellini, with it. Ridiculously refreshing. I drank it quickly in the sun and it went straight to my head. A glorious sensation.
My house is full of reminders of people who are gone and also of people that I simply miss because they are far away. It cheers me up to look at pictures of Mom, my brothers, Marcus and the Wus. Pictures of Dad and Mide, Dot and Nan, Carpenter, Lovejoy and Bobby are more sobering. And Mide’s ashes are in plain view. A constant reminder of how fleeting everything, yes everything, truly is.
I wore a tee-shirt the other day that Bobby gave me twenty plus years ago. It’s ratty and worn thin but I can’t bare to get rid of it. Likewise a hat from Australia that my friend Allan gave me from his last big trip. I treasure it. There is on my bookshelf a peculiar knick-knack from MSteve that keeps his brilliant sense of humor alive in my mind.
I used a few days ago a wood handled corkscrew from the Ahwahnee Hotel that Pete gave me. I’ve opened many bottles of wine with it but never again will I open one with Pete. And that sucks.
A small original handbill from a late 60s Grateful Dead concert was a thoughtful gift from Don French that keeps his memory fresh. I have a lot of music he gifted me as well. I also have music (BACH) from Big Steve.
A playlist of Mide’s music I play every few days. Sometimes it makes me dance around the room and sometimes it makes me cry. And sometimes both.
And then, oddly and hard to explain about those who have no reminders around the house because they are so seared into my heart that it’s impossible to ever forget our time together and what they (she) means to me even though it was a long time ago. But time is meaningless in this context. Or so Einstein used to claim.
I am reminded of a quote by Richard Powers from his magnificent book The Overstory: “There are consolations that the strongest human love is powerless to give.”
And Salman Rushdie writes: “You can measure love by the size of the hole it leaves behind.”
Another birthday slips by. I am humbled by my friends and family. A massive outpouring of love and warmth. My heart is so full from the attention of so many beautiful people. Every now and then I feel like I’m not giving back enough to those whom I love but after the last few days of dinners and gifts and drinks I am truly astonished by how many people reached out to me. My tender vanity has been touched. I will try not to let it inflate my ego.
And just like that the peaches are gone. I notice there is only a single ripe fruit dangling from a high branch. I touch it and it falls into my hand. By the end of the day it would have fallen to the ground. It was less than two weeks from eating the first peach to taking this last one. A furious pace for the small tree.
Amanda stops by after running the stairs at the stadium. And just in time. I muddle the peach in two glasses and then pour in a generous amount of Casamigos Reposado. The day is hot with a gentle ocean breeze. We sit in the sun sipping our tequila and marveling at our good luck.
