What happens when you look into the dark?
When there is no light, no one breathing beside you?
When you don't know how large or small the room is, only that you've walked into one and sat down?
Are you supposed to see something?
Are you supposed to see nothing?
What happens when you do see something, advancing towards you, pulsing, blossoming petals of purple, then black?
Is this psychedelic show what you want to see? Or is someone showing it to you?
One of my greatest fears is not being able to see. I often dream of blindness, the nightmarish sensation of not being able to open my eyes in strong wind or blaring sunlight, the struggle to lift the lids as I fall backwards into an unknown abyss. I don't like walking into a dark room, and often leave the lights on in my apartment, even in the daylight, so they're already on when I return at night. My night terrors have gotten so bad, I occasionally have to sleep with at least one dim light on - more than a nightlight, less than the floor lamp - because when I inevitably wake up and open my astigmatic eyes, I'll see a giant spider climbing the pull string up to my ceiling plan, or two men walking through my kitchen door, or a figure standing over my bed, all the furniture in the sitting area rearranged, or sometimes gone. And as I blink, letting the light in as my pupils dilate, the haunting images disappear, and the scene returns to normal.
But what happens if there's no light to let in? Is it possible to see nothing?
Even if I were blind, wouldn't I see something?
I've often said that I hope there's a vast nothingness after you die. I'm exhausted. I can't handle the idea of an afterlife, or, God forbid, reincarnation. I want it to be over.
But, in my conscious state, I don't want to walk into a black room, alone with my own breath, and wait for something to happen.
However, this is what I chose to do when I entered the James Turrell Dark Space called Dark Matters, a contrasting experience after the overstimulating "hard" version of the Light Reignfall perceptual cell.
The world is full of optical illusions - staring at a solid color for a minute and then looking at an American flag to see its color scheme flipped to the other side of the color wheel - so it's not surprising that after so many lights were flashed before my eyes (regardless of what pattern my brain put them into), I'd see something in a dark room, other than a blackened tableau.
What is surprising is how little other people see, how many people are capable of entering the vast expanse of nothingness and coming back out unchanged.
When I came out of the room, the security asked, "Well, how was it?" and I regaled him with descriptions of a dim, purple funnel of light, encircled by human-like figures. He chuckled and said, "Well, you're one of the lucky few..."
"Wait, other people don't see that?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Most people come out and say they didn't see much at all."
Huh.
I'm not entirely crazy, because Turrell's concept for Dark Matters is to let the viewer's eyes adjust, and then let a faint glow emanate from a low-wattage incandescent bulb. It's so dim, you still can't see the room, so all you can see is the light itself, which bounces off nothing.
Maybe it's because, in life, I choose to see rather than not see. I choose to speak, listen, hear, taste, feel, dream, wake, absorb, plunge. I am soaking it all in.
Perhaps where there is no light, the light will come from within.
Related Posts:
James Turrell Turned My Eyeballs Inside-Out
A Cell for All Perceptions
Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
October 18, 2013
Try, Try Again
"I don't have anything in common with any of these people," I thought to myself last night as I pressed my back against a clear plexiglass splash panel on the wall of the Troubadour.
It was a familiar scenario to me: standing at the back of a concert venue, surrounded by the latest indie rock band from New York with one hit song on the radio. I used to do this for a living.
I looked around at the beards and the beanies and the jeans and flannel shirts, shaggy hairstyles that hadn't been cut in quite some time, beers pressed to chests, cell phone screens glowing, and it all felt like a flashback from a dream I once had, familiar but foreign and confusing.
Concertgoers went their way through the crowd, trying to get a drink, trying to get back to their spot with a drink, trying to find a better spot. A white guy with a scraggly beard and a big, brown afro blocked my view. I shifted weight from one leg to another, and looked up at a flash as I accidentally photobombed the selfie-taking couple in front of me.
I watched another couple make out.
I tried to listen to the band, whose music I liked, whose lead singer smiled and bounced as her green hair glowed neon in the black light, her pallor turned by its purplish hue. I alternately crossed my arms, hooked my thumbs into my empty belt loops, and shoved my hands into my back pockets, already bulging from my cell phone, which I checked religiously. All these things you can do without a drink in your hand.
It was a relatively cheap show, and I'd walked there, leaving my car at home, deeming it about time that I go to the historic concert venue right around the corner from me. Maybe I belonged there in its heyday. But watching a lithe, tie-dye skirted, halter-topped fan undulate her body in a pattern that was more Tai Chi than dance to a rhythm all her own, mouthing words I didn't hear in the music, I knew I didn't belong there now.
And the worst part was, as I observed all those around me, soaking in their faces and their fashions, speculating on their frailties and fraternities, no one gave me a second look. No one looked at me at all. Statuesque blondes stood in front of me as though I weren't there at all. A glassy-eyed guy of questionable sexual preference in a too-big buttoned-down shirt stepped on my foot, and just stood there. No one let me catch their eye.
And as I slunk away from the merch table (which foolishly didn't accept credit cards, and therefore lost my sale), no one noticed me leave.
It was a familiar scenario to me: standing at the back of a concert venue, surrounded by the latest indie rock band from New York with one hit song on the radio. I used to do this for a living.
I looked around at the beards and the beanies and the jeans and flannel shirts, shaggy hairstyles that hadn't been cut in quite some time, beers pressed to chests, cell phone screens glowing, and it all felt like a flashback from a dream I once had, familiar but foreign and confusing.
Concertgoers went their way through the crowd, trying to get a drink, trying to get back to their spot with a drink, trying to find a better spot. A white guy with a scraggly beard and a big, brown afro blocked my view. I shifted weight from one leg to another, and looked up at a flash as I accidentally photobombed the selfie-taking couple in front of me.
I watched another couple make out.
I tried to listen to the band, whose music I liked, whose lead singer smiled and bounced as her green hair glowed neon in the black light, her pallor turned by its purplish hue. I alternately crossed my arms, hooked my thumbs into my empty belt loops, and shoved my hands into my back pockets, already bulging from my cell phone, which I checked religiously. All these things you can do without a drink in your hand.
It was a relatively cheap show, and I'd walked there, leaving my car at home, deeming it about time that I go to the historic concert venue right around the corner from me. Maybe I belonged there in its heyday. But watching a lithe, tie-dye skirted, halter-topped fan undulate her body in a pattern that was more Tai Chi than dance to a rhythm all her own, mouthing words I didn't hear in the music, I knew I didn't belong there now.
And the worst part was, as I observed all those around me, soaking in their faces and their fashions, speculating on their frailties and fraternities, no one gave me a second look. No one looked at me at all. Statuesque blondes stood in front of me as though I weren't there at all. A glassy-eyed guy of questionable sexual preference in a too-big buttoned-down shirt stepped on my foot, and just stood there. No one let me catch their eye.
And as I slunk away from the merch table (which foolishly didn't accept credit cards, and therefore lost my sale), no one noticed me leave.
Unforgiven, Not Yet Forgotten
Sometimes, I think it's better when these guys just disappear completely.
Last night, I saw The Man Who Stood Me Up.
I didn't look at him, but I saw him.
I was in the place where we met. I'd avoided it to avoid him, he a regular, in one of the few places I felt was mine. But by standing me up, he made the place his. By going there, I was entering his territory.
Everything between us - as little as there had been - had already been on his terms. That is, everything since the first time he paid for my meal at the bar. I owed him something then, maybe just a portion of my time. Now, after standing me up and waiting a week to apologize (poorly), he owed me more than an apology.
He staggered into the corner of my eye, his white hair in stark contrast to his dark suit. He was unmistakable, even in the periphery, and so I cast my gaze anywhere but there. I chatted up the lonely, nervous man to my right. I leant my ear to the blowhard on my left. I made eyes at the handsome, gregarious man to his left. I batted my lashes at the bartender.
I tried very hard to look like I was having a good time.
I sipped my first bourbon of the week, which unsettlingly settled my stomach, as I noticed The Man Who Stood Me Up uncomfortably leaning on the bar, letting it hold his weight as he talked to the man to his left. I had the feeling he'd been looking at me, but I refused to meet his gaze. I tried to see if he had a drink in front of him, still wondering if he'd fallen off the wagon and if I could blame his absence on a bender.
But I didn't want to think about him. I wanted to focus on somebody else who would surely stand me up one day, but for now, was a blank canvas, offered me a clean slate, with me stood on common ground.
Although I'd received another message from The Man Who Stood Me Up earlier this week - ironically the only man to call me in weeks - he didn't bother to approach me. Although I didn't want to actually speak with him or hear his voice, I did want him to beg for forgiveness, even though, to me, he did the unforgivable.
It doesn't hurt to see him. I barely know him. I let a stranger hurt me on an important day, and now he'll never be anything more to me than just a stranger, another forgotten encounter.
It's funny: when I'd agreed to go out with him, he more than 20 years my senior, I thought to myself, "Is this where I'm at now? Dating 60 year olds? Is that the best I can do?"
And then when he stood me up, I realized that life couldn't even meet my lowest expectations, of others, and of myself.
If the best that I can do is less than this guy, then I'll do nothing.
If I can't win, I'd rather not play.
Related Post:
The Love I Deserve
Another Excuse, A Week Too Late
Last night, I saw The Man Who Stood Me Up.
I didn't look at him, but I saw him.
I was in the place where we met. I'd avoided it to avoid him, he a regular, in one of the few places I felt was mine. But by standing me up, he made the place his. By going there, I was entering his territory.
Everything between us - as little as there had been - had already been on his terms. That is, everything since the first time he paid for my meal at the bar. I owed him something then, maybe just a portion of my time. Now, after standing me up and waiting a week to apologize (poorly), he owed me more than an apology.
He staggered into the corner of my eye, his white hair in stark contrast to his dark suit. He was unmistakable, even in the periphery, and so I cast my gaze anywhere but there. I chatted up the lonely, nervous man to my right. I leant my ear to the blowhard on my left. I made eyes at the handsome, gregarious man to his left. I batted my lashes at the bartender.
I tried very hard to look like I was having a good time.
I sipped my first bourbon of the week, which unsettlingly settled my stomach, as I noticed The Man Who Stood Me Up uncomfortably leaning on the bar, letting it hold his weight as he talked to the man to his left. I had the feeling he'd been looking at me, but I refused to meet his gaze. I tried to see if he had a drink in front of him, still wondering if he'd fallen off the wagon and if I could blame his absence on a bender.
But I didn't want to think about him. I wanted to focus on somebody else who would surely stand me up one day, but for now, was a blank canvas, offered me a clean slate, with me stood on common ground.
Although I'd received another message from The Man Who Stood Me Up earlier this week - ironically the only man to call me in weeks - he didn't bother to approach me. Although I didn't want to actually speak with him or hear his voice, I did want him to beg for forgiveness, even though, to me, he did the unforgivable.
It doesn't hurt to see him. I barely know him. I let a stranger hurt me on an important day, and now he'll never be anything more to me than just a stranger, another forgotten encounter.
It's funny: when I'd agreed to go out with him, he more than 20 years my senior, I thought to myself, "Is this where I'm at now? Dating 60 year olds? Is that the best I can do?"
And then when he stood me up, I realized that life couldn't even meet my lowest expectations, of others, and of myself.
If the best that I can do is less than this guy, then I'll do nothing.
If I can't win, I'd rather not play.
Related Post:
The Love I Deserve
Another Excuse, A Week Too Late
October 16, 2013
A Cell for All Perceptions
Over the course of this year, I've had a couple of primers to my visit to the James Turrell retrospective at LACMA: my first skyspace experience at the Sheats-Goldstein Residence, and my first foray into a perceptual cell at the Kayne Griffin Corcoran Gallery (which also has its own skyspace).
I knew what to expect when I went to LACMA today. After all, I'd had to reserve months in advance, and pay a not-so-cheap fee to get in.
I knew what to expect.
At least, I thought I did.
Like the smaller Kayne Griffin Corcoran exhibit this summer, the LACMA retrospective includes some scale models, architectural drawings, and concept sketches for Turrell's works, many of which are custom-built (since it's easier to build a room with a planned aperture in it rather than cut a hole into an existing building). Additionally, it also includes some nice examples of his works that have been relocated, donated or otherwise acquired from other places, like the Afrum (White) from 1966 (top) and Juke (Green) from 1968 (above).
And then there is the perceptual cell.
At Kayne Griffin Corcoran, I'd chosen the "soft" experience in the Meditation Room, which leaves the viewer bathed in gentle washes of color with an occasional flicker. Having that under my belt, today I was inclined to try the "hard" experience in the perceptual cell known as Light Reignfall, urged on and reassured by two technicians in white lab coats, who I addressed as "Doctor" upon arrival. And true to my joke, they pulled a drawer-like medical table out of a spherical pod, told me to leave my belongings (including my shoes) in the bucket, gave me headphones for my "soundtrack" and a panic button for easy exit, and slid me back in through a narrow trap door as they wished me good luck.
Upon my elevated, sliding bed, it didn't feel like I was in a room. It felt like I was floating in space.
The perceptual cell experience - this one is specifically a "Gaswork" - started off as expected, solid colors rotating and shifting between blue and red and green and pink and all the transitional shades in between. Surrounded by saturated light. I took my glasses off to improve my peripheral vision and reduce distraction from the frames. But I could still see my nose between my eyes. I held my hand up in front of my face to focus, to remind myself that I was not going blind.
And then it got freaky.
Part of the genius of these perceptual cells is that their experience cannot be captured on camera. They must be seen with one's own eyes, with one's own brain. The strobing light patterns, with their increasing freneticism, simply confuse the lens. The camera tries to capture a moment in time, but the show is about the progression of sound and light in time. And depending on the eye and the brain that sees it, every experience is different.
And in the case of Light Reignfall, like the MRI it imitates, it must be experienced alone. (Meditation Room is built for two.)
I found myself grateful for the multidimensional fractal patterns that appeared before me, giving me something to watch and reminding me that I was, in fact, not blind. I wondered how much I was actually seeing and how much was an optical illusion, a phantom artifact of my brain trying to make sense of the thing, perhaps creating patterns where there were none. I saw black mixed in with hot pink, white, and yellow. Geometric shapes moved in a sometimes symmetric, sometimes kaleidoscopic symphony. Something buzzed in my right ear as a flicker of white interrupted the pattern in my right eye.
I felt a heavy weight on my chest and down to my rib cage, where I'd rested the panic button that I desperately did not want to push, no matter how claustrophobic or epileptic I might get. I breathed heavily and deliberately. I felt I was moving towards the light, or perhaps the light was advancing on me. I don't remember blinking. If I'd closed my eyes at all, I probably would have seen the same as when they were open. I have no sense of how long either of my eyes were open or closed during my ten minutes inside the cell.
As the show ended, the colors desaturating into a pale blue, the light waning, I thought I saw everything spinning into the center of the spherical ceiling, eaten up by a funnel cloud, running down the drain, dissipated by a fading fan blade.
A few hours later, my memory of what exactly I saw has faded. But I remember how I felt, how my body tensed and how I emerged, dizzy, with a headache that lasted the rest of the day. I was glad I'd chosen the "hard" version because I felt like I'd really seen something, though not sure what exactly I'd seen - or what had actually happened in there. Were my brain waves merely being manipulated to conjure my own virtual reality? Does everyone see something different when they are slid into that same sphere, onto that same bed?
Is what I perceived more important than what actually happened?
Related Posts:
James Turrell Turned My Eyeballs Inside-Out
Photo Essay: Hiking Through a Dream Home in the Hills
Photo Essay: Exploring Light & Color in Exxopolis
October 14, 2013
Photo Essay: Relics from The Valley (Updated for 2018)
Ed 12/30/18: In 2018, Valley Relics Museum moved from Chatsworth to a new location at Van Nuys Airport. You can read about it in my post here.
For archival purposes, I'm keeping this post up as-is. - Sandi
This weekend marked the grand opening of Valley Relics, the new museum devoted to archived ephemera (matchbooks, etc.) and salvaged signage and other glorious gems of commercial archaeology, all centered around defunct and extant businesses of the San Fernando Valley, up over the hill from what most of us think of as LA.
Former Valley Girls and Guys - now into their 30s, 40s, 50s and beyond - lined up under the hot sun, in the Saturday Valley heat, to catch a glimpse of their own past, the signs they used to drive by, the businesses they used to frequent after school.
So what was I doing there, never a resident of the Valley, and only a recent transplant to LA?
I guess I can't get enough of commercial archaeology. I love to see those signs get saved and put on display.
I'd first heard of Valley Relics earlier this year, when local news reported that the Googie-style signs from recently-closed Henry's Tacos, apparently a Valley institution, would be added to their collection.
I've never been to Henry's Tacos, or Chez Nous, or many of the establishments represented here...
...but they are in good company with Bob's Big Boy (a personal obsession)...
...with many signs still lit...
...(though not all)...
...and other signs, familiar enough to those of us who love roadside architecture, though we may not have driven past this particular one.
The back warehouse of the museum does have the feeling of a boneyard, and to its credit, many of the signs have actually been purchased by a private collector and now, finally, put on display for the public.
I drive by Dimples all the time in Burbank.
I listen to Art Laboe on Hot 92.3.
Who hasn't enjoyed a Dairy Queen at least once in their life?
Amidst the neon are also some nice backlit plastic signs...
...and a Schlitz stained glass...
...and other rescued Americana artifacts, from foodstuffs...
...to music...
...to icons of our childhood...
...TV and film...
...and car culture.
And, of course, the collection wouldn't be complete...
...without Big Boy himself.
What a great collection, nicely displayed and not just for those on the other side of the hill.
Related Posts:
The Neon of LA, and Its One Darkened Dragon
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard at Night
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard, Vegas
Photo Essay: Valley Relics Version 2.0, Van Nuys Edition
For archival purposes, I'm keeping this post up as-is. - Sandi
This weekend marked the grand opening of Valley Relics, the new museum devoted to archived ephemera (matchbooks, etc.) and salvaged signage and other glorious gems of commercial archaeology, all centered around defunct and extant businesses of the San Fernando Valley, up over the hill from what most of us think of as LA.
Former Valley Girls and Guys - now into their 30s, 40s, 50s and beyond - lined up under the hot sun, in the Saturday Valley heat, to catch a glimpse of their own past, the signs they used to drive by, the businesses they used to frequent after school.
So what was I doing there, never a resident of the Valley, and only a recent transplant to LA?
I guess I can't get enough of commercial archaeology. I love to see those signs get saved and put on display.
I'd first heard of Valley Relics earlier this year, when local news reported that the Googie-style signs from recently-closed Henry's Tacos, apparently a Valley institution, would be added to their collection.
I've never been to Henry's Tacos, or Chez Nous, or many of the establishments represented here...
...but they are in good company with Bob's Big Boy (a personal obsession)...
...with many signs still lit...
...(though not all)...
...and other signs, familiar enough to those of us who love roadside architecture, though we may not have driven past this particular one.
The back warehouse of the museum does have the feeling of a boneyard, and to its credit, many of the signs have actually been purchased by a private collector and now, finally, put on display for the public.
I drive by Dimples all the time in Burbank.
I listen to Art Laboe on Hot 92.3.
Who hasn't enjoyed a Dairy Queen at least once in their life?
Amidst the neon are also some nice backlit plastic signs...
...and a Schlitz stained glass...
...and other rescued Americana artifacts, from foodstuffs...
...to music...
...to icons of our childhood...
...TV and film...
...and car culture.
And, of course, the collection wouldn't be complete...
...without Big Boy himself.
What a great collection, nicely displayed and not just for those on the other side of the hill.
Related Posts:
The Neon of LA, and Its One Darkened Dragon
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard at Night
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard, Vegas
Photo Essay: Valley Relics Version 2.0, Van Nuys Edition
Photo Essay: Angel City Brewery & The Legacy of Bridge-Building [Updated for 2026]
[Last updated 2/4/26 8:11 PM PT—Angel City Brewery announced today that its final day of service will be April 30, 2026. The local beer-making operation was purchased by Boston Beer Company (creator of Samuel Adams beer) in 2012, which helped its brewery headquarters become quite the destination for drinkers and event-goers. I myself went on dates, attended an avocado festival, and even had one of my photos included in a gallery show there in 2015. No word as to who or what will move into the building after Angel City vacates the premises.]
This weekend I took Michelle, who was in town for a brief visit, to Angel City Brewery. As I sipped my White Nite and she her Eureka Wit, I said, "It feels like New York, doesn't it?"
circa 2021
circa 2021 "Yeah, I couldn't put my finger on it," she said, "but yeah."
circa 2021One reason might be the building itself.
October 11, 2013
The Sounds of Silence
I'm three years sober from having a TV (never having had one in my LA apartment), and I listen to far less music at home than I used to (reserving my radio playing and singing along for car rides), so I've gotten used to a quiet apartment. When I'm home (which is more this week, now that I'm trying to save money and lose weight), I appreciate the absence of noise.
But big city silence is never really silent, is it?
I hear strange noises in the wall, which the New Yorker in me fears is mice, but my rational self thinks is just my neighbor doing weird shit in their closet.
A cat mews.
A shower runs. Someone's always taking a shower. Sometimes, on weekend mornings and early afternoons, someone vomits while the shower runs. I wonder if they're in the shower, throwing up, or just running the shower to mask the sound. I can still hear it. I can hear both.
They must've had a big night.
I don't have big nights anymore.
Squirrels scuttle through the trees. A gardener runs a hose, trims bushes and mows lawns. Birds chirp, but only in the latest hours of the evening, or the earliest signs of day. Not during the sun-blaring daylight. Not when night falls.
A cat mews again.
My stomach growls.
My phone buzzes.
The keyboard clicks.
A new Facebook notification arrives.
I sigh.
The kitchen faucet is dripping again, and now the bowl beneath it overflows.
I can't get away from the sound of running water.
Despite too few electrical outlets, leaky faucets, a lodged kitchen window, no heating or cooling, and the spooks that wake me up at night, I love my apartment. I love being here. It's so comfortable, it's hard for me to leave it. But once I do, it's hard for me to come back home. I like to fade into oblivion, where it's so loud, I can't hear my own voice, so I don't bother talking. Where no one can hear my flush, or hear me shower, or hear me cry.
When I get used to the sounds on the outside - the overhead music and the clinking of glasses and the chatter and the horns and sirens of the street, the revving engines and the exhausting busses and the passing motorcycles and the sportscars peeling out - I don't want to go home, where it's oh so quiet. Where I can hear every little thing, to such great detail that it drives me to distraction.
But when I stay at home for a little while, with the Diet Pepsi de-fizzing and the refrigerator running, once I start listening, it's hard for me to stop.
But big city silence is never really silent, is it?
I hear strange noises in the wall, which the New Yorker in me fears is mice, but my rational self thinks is just my neighbor doing weird shit in their closet.
A cat mews.
A shower runs. Someone's always taking a shower. Sometimes, on weekend mornings and early afternoons, someone vomits while the shower runs. I wonder if they're in the shower, throwing up, or just running the shower to mask the sound. I can still hear it. I can hear both.
They must've had a big night.
I don't have big nights anymore.
Squirrels scuttle through the trees. A gardener runs a hose, trims bushes and mows lawns. Birds chirp, but only in the latest hours of the evening, or the earliest signs of day. Not during the sun-blaring daylight. Not when night falls.
A cat mews again.
My stomach growls.
My phone buzzes.
The keyboard clicks.
A new Facebook notification arrives.
I sigh.
The kitchen faucet is dripping again, and now the bowl beneath it overflows.
I can't get away from the sound of running water.
Despite too few electrical outlets, leaky faucets, a lodged kitchen window, no heating or cooling, and the spooks that wake me up at night, I love my apartment. I love being here. It's so comfortable, it's hard for me to leave it. But once I do, it's hard for me to come back home. I like to fade into oblivion, where it's so loud, I can't hear my own voice, so I don't bother talking. Where no one can hear my flush, or hear me shower, or hear me cry.
When I get used to the sounds on the outside - the overhead music and the clinking of glasses and the chatter and the horns and sirens of the street, the revving engines and the exhausting busses and the passing motorcycles and the sportscars peeling out - I don't want to go home, where it's oh so quiet. Where I can hear every little thing, to such great detail that it drives me to distraction.
But when I stay at home for a little while, with the Diet Pepsi de-fizzing and the refrigerator running, once I start listening, it's hard for me to stop.
October 09, 2013
Another Excuse, A Week Too Late
I've spent over a week wondering how I could've been stood up - again - for my birthday.
Granted, the dinner was scheduled the night before my birthday, but it was very much planned as a birthday celebration. Instead of being picked up at 7:30 by my front hedges, I was standing out on the sidewalk alone in my party dress, looking down each end of my street to spot anyone approaching.
No one appeared.
I'd come outside a bit late, having spent a little extra time getting ready, dressing a little fancier than I would for a night out on the town on my own, so when I came outside to be greeted by no one, I knew I was being stood up. It's happened enough in the past, though this was the first since I'd moved to LA. (Plenty of other Angelenos had merely flaked on me, forgotten me, never called me back, never made a plan, or bailed on me at the last minute, but never did they just not show up.)
I immediately called my dinner date, leaving a message that half-heartedly laughed, "I hope you didn't forget about me...", and reminded him of my address and the color of my building and trim.
I then called Michelle back in New York, who's gotten too many calls like this from me in the past.
"How long am I supposed to wait?" I asked, as I reentered my building and went back upstairs to my apartment, pacing the floor and occasionally checking the front window to see if anyone had arrived.
After a half hour, I decided to release Michelle from our call and try to come up with a Plan B for the evening. I felt foolish not already setting a Plan B, especially since I'm usually triple-booked for any given evening, having an exit strategy and plenty of alternative amusements in case my main plan fell through. But I'd had no plan at all for my birthday until receiving this invitation, so I'd arranged no back-up.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
Fighting back the tears, I kept my party dress on and walked through the neighborhood, making a knee-jerk decision to stop into a local restaurant that has a cheap prix fixe dinner on Sunday nights, with cheap bottles of wine. When I ordered one of each, all to myself, and a nearby bar patron commented on how I'd taken advantage of "all the deals," I quipped, "That's what happens when you're a lady and you've got to take yourself out to dinner."
Fortunately, the night wasn't a total bust. I had a good meal. I had a good time, chatting with my fellow diners and a cute bartender from New Jersey. I didn't tell anyone why I was there alone. I drank the entire bottle of wine myself, despite having offered sips and tastes, which were politely declined.
I tried to extend my solo celebration until midnight, when it was officially my birthday, but the embarrassment of being the last customer standing as they flipped the stools and wiped down the bar was enough to make me leave prematurely. In truth, I was relieved to not have to hold everything in anymore. I released the sadness, letting it flow down my face and sprinkle onto my dress and jacket, feeling an occasional drop on my sandaled foot as I walked home, shamed, crushed, with nothing to go home to, and nothing more to look forward to. This was going to be my birthday celebration. If this had failed me so miserably, what could possibly be the point of even waking up on my birthday?
As I walked home the familiar path, I glanced over to the side street where my missing date lives, looking for some sign of disturbance or tragedy or foul play, but the night was empty and quiet, a placid, black sea, rippling only as I trudged through, the ripples disappearing as quickly and as gently as they were created.
I couldn't help asking why, as I sobbed in the mirror while trying to brush my teeth before bed, and as I woke up crying. I agonized over it for days, wondering if he'd gotten hit by a car, fallen off the wagon, or, I don't know, died? But the curiosity and the desire to dwell on it faded after a week. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I didn't wake up crying.
And then he called and left a message.
The content of the message itself is as befuddling as being stood up for my birthday dinner, perhaps because of his low tone, or slightly garbled quality. Here's what I think it said:
And, in the absence of all that, in the case that his hands were burned off or his apartment burned down or he lost the ability to speak, amnesiac, insomniac, abducted by aliens, he could've waited less than a week to explain himself. And he could've actually explained himself properly.
At this point, hearing his message feels like picking at the scab on my heart. I want him to leave me alone. I want to either heal, or break altogether.
I want to be put out of my misery, not to be reminded of it.
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My First Birthday Alone in LA
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Excuses, Excuses Part 2
Granted, the dinner was scheduled the night before my birthday, but it was very much planned as a birthday celebration. Instead of being picked up at 7:30 by my front hedges, I was standing out on the sidewalk alone in my party dress, looking down each end of my street to spot anyone approaching.
No one appeared.
I'd come outside a bit late, having spent a little extra time getting ready, dressing a little fancier than I would for a night out on the town on my own, so when I came outside to be greeted by no one, I knew I was being stood up. It's happened enough in the past, though this was the first since I'd moved to LA. (Plenty of other Angelenos had merely flaked on me, forgotten me, never called me back, never made a plan, or bailed on me at the last minute, but never did they just not show up.)
I immediately called my dinner date, leaving a message that half-heartedly laughed, "I hope you didn't forget about me...", and reminded him of my address and the color of my building and trim.
I then called Michelle back in New York, who's gotten too many calls like this from me in the past.
"How long am I supposed to wait?" I asked, as I reentered my building and went back upstairs to my apartment, pacing the floor and occasionally checking the front window to see if anyone had arrived.
After a half hour, I decided to release Michelle from our call and try to come up with a Plan B for the evening. I felt foolish not already setting a Plan B, especially since I'm usually triple-booked for any given evening, having an exit strategy and plenty of alternative amusements in case my main plan fell through. But I'd had no plan at all for my birthday until receiving this invitation, so I'd arranged no back-up.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
Fighting back the tears, I kept my party dress on and walked through the neighborhood, making a knee-jerk decision to stop into a local restaurant that has a cheap prix fixe dinner on Sunday nights, with cheap bottles of wine. When I ordered one of each, all to myself, and a nearby bar patron commented on how I'd taken advantage of "all the deals," I quipped, "That's what happens when you're a lady and you've got to take yourself out to dinner."
Fortunately, the night wasn't a total bust. I had a good meal. I had a good time, chatting with my fellow diners and a cute bartender from New Jersey. I didn't tell anyone why I was there alone. I drank the entire bottle of wine myself, despite having offered sips and tastes, which were politely declined.
I tried to extend my solo celebration until midnight, when it was officially my birthday, but the embarrassment of being the last customer standing as they flipped the stools and wiped down the bar was enough to make me leave prematurely. In truth, I was relieved to not have to hold everything in anymore. I released the sadness, letting it flow down my face and sprinkle onto my dress and jacket, feeling an occasional drop on my sandaled foot as I walked home, shamed, crushed, with nothing to go home to, and nothing more to look forward to. This was going to be my birthday celebration. If this had failed me so miserably, what could possibly be the point of even waking up on my birthday?
As I walked home the familiar path, I glanced over to the side street where my missing date lives, looking for some sign of disturbance or tragedy or foul play, but the night was empty and quiet, a placid, black sea, rippling only as I trudged through, the ripples disappearing as quickly and as gently as they were created.
I couldn't help asking why, as I sobbed in the mirror while trying to brush my teeth before bed, and as I woke up crying. I agonized over it for days, wondering if he'd gotten hit by a car, fallen off the wagon, or, I don't know, died? But the curiosity and the desire to dwell on it faded after a week. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I didn't wake up crying.
And then he called and left a message.
The content of the message itself is as befuddling as being stood up for my birthday dinner, perhaps because of his low tone, or slightly garbled quality. Here's what I think it said:
"That was very efficient. I'm sorry I wasn't as efficient, but it was very serious. So, if I have to apologize, I'll apologize. I hope I bump into you again. No malice.......All love."I'm sure he was responding to the very business-like outgoing message on my voicemail, a necessity as a freelancer, but what a flippant way to start an apology message. Does he have to apologize? Yes. Even though we don't know each other well and haven't spent very much time together, and even if his standing me up wasn't a malicious attempt at destroying my birthday, he did a very bad thing by luring me into a date that never happened, leaving me stranded, pretending to come to my rescue and instead making the whole damn thing ever so much worse. He should've just left me alone. He should've let me decline his invitation altogether.
And, in the absence of all that, in the case that his hands were burned off or his apartment burned down or he lost the ability to speak, amnesiac, insomniac, abducted by aliens, he could've waited less than a week to explain himself. And he could've actually explained himself properly.
At this point, hearing his message feels like picking at the scab on my heart. I want him to leave me alone. I want to either heal, or break altogether.
I want to be put out of my misery, not to be reminded of it.
Related Posts:
My First Birthday Alone in LA
Excuses, Excuses
Excuses, Excuses Part 2
October 07, 2013
Time to Kill
All my life, I've felt like I've been killing time, waiting for something to happen.
Waiting to be older.
Waiting for class to end.
Waiting for my grounding to end. I was always grounded.
Waiting for my father to come home.
Waiting to leave home.
Waiting to be loved.
Waiting to work.
Waiting for happy hour to start. Waiting for the sun to go down. Waiting for bedtime. Waiting for my nails to grow back after tearing them apart. Waiting for the phone to ring.
Waiting for the show to start.
Waiting for the red light to change. Waiting for the bus. Or a train, plane, or any ride to take me someplace else.
Waiting to be older.
Waiting for class to end.
Waiting for my grounding to end. I was always grounded.
Waiting for my father to come home.
Waiting to leave home.
Waiting to be loved.
Waiting to work.
Waiting for happy hour to start. Waiting for the sun to go down. Waiting for bedtime. Waiting for my nails to grow back after tearing them apart. Waiting for the phone to ring.
Waiting for the show to start.
Waiting for the red light to change. Waiting for the bus. Or a train, plane, or any ride to take me someplace else.
All these things I do, I'm just killing time until I've got something actually important to do.
Either that, or in the absence of meaning, I'm just killing time before I die.
Aren't we all?
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October 06, 2013
The Reading of the Palm
Last night's "party"
I drove all the way down to Orange County last night for a zombie party for which I was literally the first to arrive, and I think the only paying attendee (everybody else seemed like they worked for or were friends with the organizers), and so with no one to talk to, I decided to chat up the palm reader.
She had some tarot cards splayed out before her, but she wasn't reading them for free.
She did, however, permit me to ask her any three questions I wanted. She sat waiting patiently while I considered.
"OK, this might be vague, but here's my first question: Am I were I'm supposed to be?" I asked.
"Financially?"
I leaned in. "Geographically."
She then looked down at my right palm, pointing to something that indicated a professional change - perhaps some relocation - in the next two and a half years. I found it curious, since I've now been in LA for two and a half years, after relocating from New York, an arduous process I can't quite imagine doing again.
I thought again about my second question. "OK, this one is kind of personal," I said, my eyes welling up as I felt the emptiness of the large room behind me. She nodded, encouragingly.
"Why am I still alone?"
She was emphatic in her answer. "Your soulmate has not come into your life yet."
I laughed. "Oh, so you mean it's not one of these guys I went to school with who keep messaging me online?" As she shook her head, I said, "Thank God."
"No, you haven't met him yet," she assured me, anticipating that I would meet him - whose name starts with a "D," whatever that means - within six months.
We shall see.
"I see someone else in your past who hasn't gone away," she said. "But I don't like him for you."
Uh huh.
"And he's not going to give you what you need. He's not what you're looking for."
Uh huh.
She then just looked at me, blinking.
"Oh, I get another question," I said, startled. And then I thought for an awkwardly long time. I thought perhaps I should ask a question about someone else in my life, instead of dwelling on the hackneyed, self-obsessed topics of love and money.
"WHAT IS GOING ON WITH MY SISTER?" I asked, provoked by the notification that she'd started following me on Facebook after unfriending me a year ago.
In the surest proof I needed that my palm reader was a hack, she didn't know what I meant. She didn't know anything about my sister. She prodded me to explain, which I tried to do vaguely so as not to give too much away, and in a moment reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz's Professor Marvel, she advised me that my sister is not well, and would need my help.
Uh huh.
But that I should stay away from her right now.
Uh huh.
I suppose I don't really need my fortune told. I always like to be surprised. I'm in it for the ride. But I do like an occasional assurance that I'm on the right track, that I'm not lost and shouldn't turn back. Most of my life questions are more about why than what or whether. It either will or it won't. But why didn't this person love me? Why am I still so lost? Why is it so hard to find work? Why am I the only person at this party? Why did I bother to come at all, dressed elaborately in costume?
Why do I keep trying?
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