Inspiration, spray paint and a thrilling sense of adventure = powerful education

Reality. New beginnings. Million dollar grossing weekends. As January moves into its second week I am under House Arrest like in some police drama. The pain round my leg is literal. Plans shot not by an automatic pistol, but genetic malady of some sort, doctors say, so instead of prescheduled live music over draughts with friends at a hip local spot, I watch one of last year’s pre-3D super money-makers–all you can do is stay off-it, medical experts have advised repeatedly about my pain: let it rest. So I let it rest.

The film’s visuals and action sequences are impressive, not original, yet uniquely told and innovative, even after having watched it once before. Not long into the second act I drift and brood over all the other heroes we’ve seen on screen. No legs, blind, mentally challenged, misunderstood by society, cheating spouse and evil parents, the malicious CEO. I replay how often watching others go through hardship only lasts for the usual 90 minutes or, if the film is masterful, all the way home, yet our Suspension of Disbelief almost always makes the possible reality distant, unaffecting, even if it does come back unannounced weeks later.

Not exactly the same as this spontaneously imposed R&R that hasn’t eased since the pre-dawn wake-up call of pain yesterday morning. Not only different, but almost silly when I realize that I’m the actual hero.

Hopefully I’ll remember once I’m feeling better that this happened, will again since my diagnosis is years old, and, unlike in the movies, I cannot suspend its reality because it is reality–my reality.

Writing this I remind myself that living through hardship makes it–strangely–more satisfying. When I juxtapose an actor alongside my real self, my story has just as much meaning, more meaning, actually, as it should. I remind myself that even though the only ones that watch my performance of pain, struggle, and grueling voyages to the restroom with the help of a cane, are my wife and kids, I cannot forget that living is much more exciting than watching a rich stranger pretend for a million dollar studio. Even though the pain is tough to take.

I regret missing the live music the other night, but even enjoying a night out with friends falls second to this, obvious, often ignored, realization. In a masochistic, yet invigorating way, the hope of getting through my unnoticed weekday bomb at the box office makes it worth it, personally profitable. $170 million I’d say.

Much more profitable than some 90 minute overhyped film on a Top Grossing weekend. Don’t you think?

No, me neither.

Nostalgic, I loudly hear the restroom code asked for. Twelve-ten the barista says, lidding a plastic cup, not even looking toward the guy who asked for the secret code.

What would we do without humanity’s secret codes, huh? The everyday chores and routine mean nothing without the knowledge needed to get to the things that really matter to us. If no goal or want, desire or care leads us to the next thing, then what is the use of anything?

That’s what I think at the moment anyway. Was it last week? Sometime in November? Is it all a fictitious recreation. . . . There’s something in there, somewhere. A secret code, maybe.

Hazard Wetlands

For years now I’ve noticed how those women and men without regular shelter find the most exquisite places to rest and, possibly, sleep. So do those that drink beer from forty ounce bottles that end-up askew by a tree or rolled-under a shrub, some wrapped in lipped-over brown paper.

Today, creek side, the thought comes in as I take a morning walk through the Hazard Wetlands. Other days, evidence of these urban sages comes as I hike Griffith Park or Radio Hill or on some beautiful old bridge across the LA River.

My walk continues and more thoughts. When will more people, maybe with regular shelter, find these almost–sacred spaces? Will they, or will the beer drinkers keep green spaces, architectural marvels and citywide views to themselves?

Stopping starts it all. A return to the innate organic patterns of the world. How many times has this branching spread caught my eye? Whether in a drying tree, from a splattered water spill on the sidewalk, or in a searing frying pan as yoke and white begin their stilling form over crackling oil, the reaching tendrils spread. Out to something unseen, someplace out there, somewhere. It is out there still. As it has always been. Whatever these organic branches reach for is out there. Noticing this unseen pull while stopping, brings me back often. Back to where I began. The place we came from. The spirit of a life worth living and fighting for while conflict and challenge, frustration and pain vie to make me forget my unseen energy. Neither invisibility nor obstacle can make me forget my inherent Time of the Season. I wont let them.

Push

The doors are open. Gated, yet open.

No need for a wing wide swing, a six inch squeeze. Tight fit: hips pushing snug against cold steel, stretched, crotch shrunk like crawling under chain link fence as a kid. Dust lifting. Shouts hurrying. This time standing up straight for all to see. Quiet, a silent voice encouraging–Come on! Come On! This time getting in for excitement, fun and a little more, something else.

This time for pride.

Yeah, he answers still not knowing what she meant. He wasn’t sure if Carmen had told him about following the thread in a dream or if it really had happened. She noticed his thought.

What’s a matter, Salvador? He liked it when she called him Savior more than when she syncopated Salvador like a percussionist. Her sharp syllables always felt accusatory.

You okay? she asks again.

Within a few hours only impressions of dreams remain. Frames lifting throughout the day. Or emotions. Fear: a lost black wallet–a tight close-up on its scuffed and scratched black leather. Cinematic. His dreams were almost always cinematic.

Carmen didn’t come up all day.

The next thing is the cool morning breeze from the opened window. He hears her downstairs as the hissing oil brings fried eggs to his wake-sleep yawn. He takes in a slow breath. The blankets’ warm on his stomach cools as air pushes under. If I had said something he thinks, black clouds behind closed eyes, thoughts not disturbed by light. What would be different if I had said something last night.