Comfortably Numb

It was hand-delivered to the penthouse residencia de señoritas (ladies’ residence) on Avda. Generalísimo (now renamed Paseo de la Castellana) where I was living in Spain. A beautiful envelope with a wax seal and a “Personal: a ser abierto únicamente por el destinatario” label on it. In it, a ticket to London and along with it a handwritten note that invited me to a Pink Floyd concert there. More on that as you read on.

Today, as I watched the documentary Whatever Happened to Pink Floyd? memories that were long forgotten floated back in. Definitely not love at first “hear”, my appreciation came in stages. I didn’t like them at all at first. I didn’t do drugs and saw their music as one that could only be enjoyed while partaking them. But their sound wafted through my roommates’ radios, and at first I learned to tolerate it, then their music infiltrated my mind. I even bought their LP (record/vinyl for those too young to know what that is).

The note in the envelope received was unsigned but I knew who it was from. I went downstairs to the phone next to the kitchen where I dialed the number from a card that had been given to me saying that I should call if I ever needed anything.

Ultimately, Pink Floyd music, became the soundtrack of a memorable part of my life. Though I learned to love their music I knew little or nothing about the integrants of the band or of the band’s history. Which reminds me of a documentary The Pink Floyd Story: Which One is Pink? A documentary I enjoyed even more than the one mentioned above and gives more of a history of the band.

The conversation was short. I didn’t want to express how upset I was at the arrogance of believing I would accept the invitation. I was young but not naive enough to not know (or be suspicious enough) that this came with a ball of strings attached which I was not willing to unravel. So I thanked him and said I was, unfortunately, unavailable.

As I write, it comes up that Pink Floyd is having a fundraiser: COVID-19 Solidarity Response Fund for WHO by releasing Pink Floyd – PULSE (Restored & Re-Edited 90 Minute Version) on YouTube. At publishing time it looks like they’ve raised over 2 million dollars of the 7 million they are aiming for. There are 68 days remaining to donate if you are inclined. I’m assuming it’s legit though I am not sure of much these days.

Many more gifts came to my residence after the first. All were returned. But the one that I always had a tinge of regret for was the Pink Floyd one. Would have been grand and I would be able to say, “I saw them live!” It would have been quite a memory.

For those who may have wondered about the title of this post “Comfortably Numb,” it comes from a song they released as a single (“Hello, is there anybody in there…”). Here it is:

The “Crown’s” Little Talked About Impact

The day the World Health Organization declared the Corona Virus outbreak a pandemic, I was headed to a friend’s house to do a transcription. Social distancing was already in place there when I arrived. I disinfected everything I touched before and after which is something not that unusual in me. I am not a germaphobe but I have always tended to overly clean myself and my environment. I wasn’t quite grasping that this was only the beginning of a surreal world situation. The next days Los Angeles proved that it does rain in “sunny California”. Perfect to frame what we would all start living soon.

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I grew up in a world that consisted of hugs given the Latin way —close, body to body. It was how my mother comforted me as a child and, as a teenager, how I awkwardly expressed that I liked you. As an adult, it was not given as a precursor to anything (as in foreplay) but as an everything all in itself. I grew up in countries where men kiss men on the cheek in greeting without their sexuality being questioned.

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A few days ago I read that scientists have said that we may have to live with social distancing for quite a while. Six-degrees of separation (which actually linked us) has turned into a physical 6-feet separation. So this virus may not only effectively turn lethal to those in the high risk section but to life as we -or I- knew it. In the midst of official social distancing and a self-imposed distancing from mostly everything, I am longing for a touch more than ever. Though I know that I will learn to live without, it saddens me more than words can express.

When I hear about the deaths this virus has caused I think of the sorrow of the loved ones left behind. But I also think of those that in times like this tend to be even more forgotten than they usually are: those suffering from depression and/or anxiety disorders -a not-so-exclusive-club which I have been a member of, off and on, all my life.

There are many reasons why people tend to shy away. An actor recently said that no one wants to deal with you in your darkness. Even less so in this “be positive” world which doesn’t give room for you to express your thoughts or fears and discards them -and the one that shares them- seeing them as negativity. Now, when we are all dealing with so much, including getting to know ourselves, we gravitate to a mental distancing of anything not considered essential. And those alone feel so even more. 

I am a nurturer by nature so taking care of a kitten recovering from being neutered early last week helps me with feeling needed and not inconsequential, even when I am getting no sleep thanks to his nightly desire to get out of my bedroom (by rasping his cone against the door). My roommate’s (who hasn’t been here since then) other cats await in the rest of the house for some love, food, and water… in reverse order. So all in all I find a sense of purpose in my isolation.

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I have shutdown my intuitive side which leads me to thoughts and images I cannot handle right now. I have also steered clear of Facebook and Instagram. My anxiety level is high enough as is.

I have texted, so as not to be obtrusive, with friends checking on how they are doing. I have called and left a message when it goes unanswered. Sometimes, that is all the other side needs. Though it is easy to ask someone to reach out should they need you, it is when they probably will feel less inclined to.

Fear, anxiety, and loneliness are paralyzing. Consider mentally going through your contact list and call or text that person you have not contacted in a while, or a friend or someone that you may suspect may need you. Not in a mass text or Facebook or Instagram post but as a personal message making someone on the other side feel special. I am not suggesting by any means that people may be on the brink of a metaphorical precipice, just that the message of “you are not alone” is a powerful one, one that we underestimate while convincing ourselves of our fortitude or when basking in the proximity of ones we love. And yes, a disclaimer is coming: I am not a doctor or pretend to be one so take this all with a grain of salt. As to taking care of yourself, see what the CDC (Center of Disease Control) says about dealing with it here.

We may already know the value of family and friends but this is a reminder that those with a strong support group should be thankful for its blessing while not forgetting those without.

So let’s maintain physical separation for now and pay more attention to our mental connection. That text or call may mean more to someone than you may imagine.

And as a parting note, corona (aside from being a brand of a beer) means “crown” in Spanish. What on earth are we being crowned as (or with) now?

I have promised to end my blogs with songs so here goes these: Michael Bublé – Help Me Make It Through The Night (feat. Loren Allred) where he explains the reasons why he recorded it as a duet (I think it was written by Kris Kristofferson in the 70s); OK, performed by Mabel which has the sub-title of “Anxiety Anthem”; and Beth Hart – Mama This One’s For You because well… I wish I had her now.

Friendly Friday – Simple Joys

So I never hitchhike on another blogger’s blog but this was too tempting. The Sandy Chronicles https://thesandychronicles.blog/2020/02/07/friendly-friday-simple-joys/ puts out a challenge on Fridays to post photos depicting a weekly theme. I realized that my last posts were kind of on the too nostalgic/sad vein so I am counteracting them with this one of Simple Joys!

When I questioned this nun in Myanmar if she missed her family in her village she responded, “I am joyful here. I do not miss.” Her smile and earnestness gave me joy.

Same joy that I felt seeing this little girl’s smile in Laos. The one on the left wasn’t so sure about me…

Photography gives me joy. Though losing my external drive with most of mine made me pretty sad.

Eating gives me much joy as well. Oysters being one of my top favorites. These at a fish market in Sydney.

Sunsets give me joy because without them there are no sunrises. This one is in Long Beach, CA, U.S.A.

Traveling (while not so much a simple joy) makes me incredibly joyful. This is Paris.

And the ocean… ah, the ocean gives me so much joy. Photo credit of my friend and photographer extraordinaire, Johanna Siegmann

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Baan Boo Loo with the best breakfasts in Chiang Mai, Thailand is my oasis where I am most joyful and have made lifelong friends.

A graffiti in Buenos Aires that says: “Where I am Always Happy”

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There is so much more that gives me joy… loyal friends, love, walking, painting, music, writing and I am sure I am missing a ton of other things. Thank you to The Sandy Chronicles, for this blog has given me much happiness while assessing how very blessed I actually am.

Anniversary Blahs

In November 2009, as I stood sobbing (not a pretty sight) outside my mother’s hospital room, a nurse ran towards me asking me if her patient was alright. I mustered a nod while more water than I ever thought was possible to pour out of my eyes, did. “She’s out of danger so why are you crying?” she asked. “Because I’ll never see her again.” I sensed it. I knew it. The next morning I was to head back to California where I lived and would leave her behind in the city where I was born, Asunción. My mother had Parkinson’s for probably 15 or 16 years. A month before, when I had arrived, she had gone into ICU due to complications of it. A disease that slowly, torturously shuts down your body but leaves you with a mind that knows what is happening, with no possibility to convey to others how you feel, not by voice, not by any movements, not even facial expressions. So very cruel.

Turned out they were prophetic words. My mother left me January 5 of 2010. Nothing would hurt as much as her passing. I doubt anything ever will.

My mother’s Death Certificate where they noted her passing as Jan. 6 so that they could keep the casket open until my arrival. (A long story.)

My father, a week later went into ICU and died a month and a day after her.

10 years. A long time. I can almost hear some of what I have heard before expressed in a kind way when she died, but at the time just made me want to scream. She will always be with you. Yes, but how I long even now to hear her voice or even her breathing when later, with the progression of her disease, she lost the ability to talk. I knew that she suffered no more and I was grateful for that but, selfishly, how much I wanted her alive nonetheless. When I was severely depressed I was told to “snap out of it.” As impossible as that task felt, to be at peace with her parting seemed even more daunting.

Another consolation phrase which I related to but reacted strongly to when she died was “you now have a star above lighting any darkness you will encounter”. That turned out to be so. Every Dec. 24 I search for “our” star and just talk to her. And in death she has been with me as in life, subtly guiding me in some way or other. I was late to recognize her warnings. On quite a few Jan. 5ths I would get into an argument with someone, letting me know I should not give them my loyalty. I should have terminated those friendships but I’m a slow learner and only realized recently that it was her telling me to stay away. I did not always understand the messages but I knew she was there. A particular song playing in the most unexpected place and time. A unique bird-like sound I hear that connects both her and my dad to me in a special way.

A few years into her death I found myself still grieving. I called a dear friend, a grief counselor, to ask him if this was normal. He responded that there is no “normal” way to grieve and that there’s no deadline to get over someone’s death. We all deal with it in our own very personal way and in our own time. He wasn’t going to urge me to stop grieving. He wanted me to go through the process at my own pace. As long as we can function in daily life we shouldn’t beat ourselves up.

My mother’s favorite rose color. The most striking examples show up when I need her most.

So I concentrated then and now, on being thankful that her suffering had ended, that I was loved in a way that no one will ever love me again. I inherited none of her best traits: her patience, which to this day is like no other I’ve encountered, her innate ability to serve as a mediator without either party realizing they were “mediated” (she was more diplomatic than my father, a career diplomat, ever was), her ability to -without effort- make everyone feel at home. She was soft and sweet in demeanor and in voice. She had fabulous cooking and baking skills (she made jams and jellies that were coveted by all) and so much more. She was the kindest person I have known. No one ever has said anything bad about her. She also had traits that I could have done without learning but managed to assimilate. She never spoke up for herself and that hurt her immensely later in life. Though I grew up being very much a rebel, assertiveness isn’t a trait I truly have, it requires a lot of effort from me. She was amazing in so many ways, yet she didn’t have much self-esteem. I come off very self-assured most of the time but my mom, doubting herself constantly, lives in me.

Anniversaries have always been celebratory for me. But in the past years there have been too many that meant departures of some kind, of endings. There have been beginnings for there can’t be them without endings, but the scale dips by the weight of the ones I should not remember. So this is the last year I commemorate the anniversary of my mother’s death or, in fact my dad’s. I will not start next year by remembering that she left me some years back on Jan. 5th and my dad on Feb. 6th. Instead I will live being thankful every day that she -and he- gave me life.

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And even with the above resolution I have no doubt I will miss her forever.

And keeping my promise of ending my blogs with a song, here is not one or two but three! First an Oscar nominated song I’m Standing With You from “Breakthrough” sung by Chrissy Metz, then one from Katie Melua about a mother I Will Be There and finally a short one that has nothing to do with family ties but does about heartbreak, from Rhys, Maybe I Will Learn.

Holiday Blues

I feel blue. In this time of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s I feel an oppressing pressure to be joyful. Solitude -which I treasure- turning into loneliness at warp speed and in slow motion at the same time. I do envy those who truly like being alone. And regret not being one of them. I am grateful for so much and so many but today I just feel blue. Winter creeping on me both physically and metaphorically.

A snowy cold day on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Remember the movie Inside Out? On Halloween the year the movie was out (2015), I dressed up as one of the characters: Sadness. So this is an accurate portrayal of my state of mind now.

In the past my solution to my “blueness” was to travel. But I can’t anymore, so when I’m low I reminisce and travel again in my mind. For some reason Vietnam came to it. Which is odd, for of all the countries that I visited in Southeast Asia, it was the one I connected to the least. Yet, it was there that I was introduced to Caodaism. According to caodai.org: “The noble effort of CaoDai is to unite all of humanity through a common vision of the Supreme Being, whatever our minor differences, in order to promote peace and understanding throughout the world. CaoDai does not seek to create a gray world, where all religions are exactly the same, only to create a more tolerant world, where all can see each other as sisters and brothers from a common divine source reaching out to a common divine destiny realizing peace within and without.”

A dirt path strewn with litter that leads to…

A beautiful, well-kept building…

Which is absolutely breathtaking inside.

I realize I am in Rossmoor and that in Garden Grove, only 17 minutes away, is a Cao Dai Temple resembling the one just outside Long Xuyen, Vietnam that introduced me to this religion. Did someone say I could not travel? Off I go in a virtual journey no more.

So the path to the temple in Vietnam is dirt and rubble. Here it is busy streets that lead me to a residential area in Garden Grove, CA. I see the colors and it’s as if they are mermaids singing to me. I must go to it. Hopefully this visit has a better outcome than when the mermaids lure sailors in.

They have a parking lot and as I park I hear the sounds of a language I have not learned and probably never will.

The entrance is a mini-me of the temple I so admired and moved me in Vietnam.

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However the main pole in front of the temple does not have the reversed swastikas which happen to have a Buddhist influence and is sacred to many Vietnamese. The swastika (a Sanskrit word) is also a tantric symbol to evoke ‘shakti’ or the sacred symbol of auspiciousness. I don’t doubt that its absence is due to trying to avoid controversy.

The one in Vietnam.

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The temple in California.

I take a few photos. Take off my shoes (as ordered) and enter another world.

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All-Seeing Eye

The place is smaller than than its parent in Vietnam but is just as colorful. The quiet I expected is not quite there for the side doors are open and in comes loud voices in Vietnamese from the courtyard. There’s a gathering of followers who are sprucing up the church. One side door is being primed and the other has already been painted yellow. It is noticeable that the congregation takes pride in their home. I kneel and find my inner quiet.

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As I look through one of the windows and hear the background chatter, I am almost transported to Long Xuyen.

It is in the little touches of daily life and some writings that I linger.

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Before leaving I explore the back of the temple. I pass about 15 people sitting around a table chatting and as they turn their head to see me, I join my hands in prayer mode and bow slightly, saying nothing. They go back to socializing; I go back to the car knowing that I will visit again.

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And keeping my promise that I would end each blog with a song or two. Here are two. I did not see the movie that “I’m Standing With You” comes from (I think it’s about a mother and child) but I feel we all want that someone that stands with us through whatever we go through. I’ve been lucky to have those people beside me.

And then, one of Peter Bradley Adams, a singer that brings me happy memories. “For You” How can you not love a song that says: “If your wandering ever leads you, To a place where you don’t know which road to choose, Leave your worries behind, Take the road that leads to mine, And I’ll be waiting there for you”

There’s Not Much Hope in Hope

I have immersed myself in my friends’ lives (both past and present) for the span of a week. I am so very honored that they have entrusted me to help edit a book retelling their lives. Lives that have not only survived unimaginable events that could have destroyed (both literally and figuratively) most of us, but lives that have thrived in so many ways and went on to benefit others. I get teary-eyed when I think about it. One is a lawyer, the other is a doctor, both are activists. I am in awe of and love these two very much. Soon you will be able to read about it. “Beauty and Beyond” will be coming online and to a bookstore near you.

It’s Carlsbad where I have arrived after my 27 hours of car, train, and waiting time in between. Since I have a limited time here, I want to take advantage of the time with them as much as I can, so we have been immersed in the writing. It’s also been so very hot outside that it is not the place to be. Carlsbad is home to the Carlsbad Caverns which are beautiful and certainly worth a visit but I’ve been there before so not a good enough excuse to play hooky. But since even God rested on the 7th day, on the 8th day they take me to the mountains where they have a few acres. I am going to be a tourist with local guides!

Frank has left the night before and will be meeting us in Mayhill. So it’s a girl’s road trip for Marta and me. We don’t pack because this is going to be a day trip. From Carlsbad, NM to Mayhill, NM is about two hours. But first how can we not stop in a town named Hope? When Marta mentions it she has a twinkle in her eye. I need not wonder why for we arrive in Hope soon enough. It t is soon apparent that this town should change its name. An old building which housed Alice’s Treasure at some point is the first to great us. It initially makes me yearn for my little antique/collectible stall I had in a mall in Orange, CA but this store ended up like mine, shut down and lonely. The Hope Store also is closed. All that is left are the signs. In the “garden” a tractor that is very much like the ones I saw in my birth country of Paraguay. This one has no more life in it.

And then there’s the washing machine which brings me memories of my grandma. I can almost see her squeezing the clothes through the rollers to then hang them in the sun on the clothesline to dry. She was a strong woman. One that took control of the household and smoked cigars she rolled herself.

Surprisingly, this town has a USPS a post office that is large and new-looking. Even though, across the street is the only Fire Department that itself has burned down. I can’t think of no other with that fate. (I would later find out that the Fire Department in Carlsbad had a hotel construction next to it which burned down even with its firehouse next door.) It may be a New Mexico thing. Before we reach Mayhill, Marta wants us to stop at Tom and Pam Runyan Ranches. She wants the owner to meet me. Unfortunately he was undergoing some medical procedure and I didn’t get to chat with him. There’s a petting zoo here. One where a camel and an Asian water buffalo co-exist and, dare I say, have formed a friendship.

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Can’t find the picture of the Runyan, the camel.

In the pen you will also find pigs and goats and a few other species.

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It’s a rescue farm and they re-home as many animals as they can. I have a little kitten who hitched a ride in the engine of the car (TWO rides of 20 minutes each!) that I would love to find a home for. But they don’t take domestic pets. Anyone? I will deliver! Here is a picture taken by master Pet with Human photographer Johanna Siegmann.

Bootsie has the “Stop maaa, it’s my spotlight.” look.

This metal overgrown rooster has yet to find a home as well. A few signs catch my attention.

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And we arrive at their town. It’s only a few blocks long.

Then off to their property to drop off a few things.

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We arrive only a few minutes later and pick Frank up to go to Cloudcroft which is 9,000 feet up and a ski haven, therefore a more touristy town.

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Our main focus is to buy an incredible piece of pie and a really, really good burrito (not eaten in that order but listed in order of importance).

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That walnut caramel pie was divine!

With our bellies nice and full and our sweet tooth more than satisfied we are ready to move on.

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And on we go to Shady Pines. The house of a local woman that holds wonderful classical concerts in the summer.

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The place is pretty magical. She is super creative and the garden is chockfull of wonderful plants (she gives me a chocolate mint one, whose aroma later permeates the car and makes me hungry once again), of little quaint areas to rest in, and paths where you can channel your Zen.

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The first photo is of echinacea (which I had never seen before).

Everywhere you look there is something to smile about.

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And we head back with a pit stop to take a photo of flowers and bees.

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The day after comes my own trip back to Los Angeles.

And I wish not to forget that I would close my blogs with a song. Any song that resonates with me or that catches my attention. So here goes… because this is how I may be feeling.

Choo, Choo, Here Go I.

I am trying hard to fight the romanticism of what I am about to embark on. I’m going on a train ride. A very long one. 16 hours (and 10 minutes). On Amtrak, which isn’t the Orient Express or anything close to it. Before that I have to take a commuter train (Metrolink),  for an hour and a half. And before that a 45-minute car ride to Riverside, CA train station. In between, a 5 1/2 layover in Los Angeles. Oh, and then a 3-hour car drive from El Paso, TX Depot Station to Carlsbad, New Mexico, my final destination. All in all, about 27 hours of travel. Is it crazy that my enthusiasm and gushiness have not subsided?

After the 45 minute car drive I arrive at the Riverside Amtrak Station. I buy my ticket at the machine on the platform since on the Metrolink commuter train you can only purchase it on the day of.

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As I approach Los Angeles the old bridge studded with graffiti seems to ask if I really want to leave. The answer is a rotund yes. I’m due for a road trip even if it is on a train!

At one of my very favorite old train stations, Union Station, I take a seat in their waiting lounge where a friend I haven’t seen in a while agreed to meet with me to make the wait before my next train shorter. It’s 5:00 pm and the rush hour commute is full on as well as a sea of blue that arrives to go to a Dodgers game.

A while back I toured a space in Union Station that housed the Harvey House which closed in the late 60’s. It was a stop to men returning home from war and those going off. It was also famous for its “Harvey Girls” which were the subject of a 1946 Judy Garland film of the same name. I often wondered why such a magnificent space hadn’t been used. Well, about a year ago the Imperial Brewing Company went in and it is there where my friend Jon and I head to. There truly isn’t anything better than a friend to the rescue, good conversation, oysters and beer.

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My friend leaves and left alone I walk through “my” station. Union Station is the largest railroad passenger terminal in the Western United States and is widely regarded as “the last of the great train stations.” Inaugurated in 1939 I consider it a Grand Dame and give it the respect that entails. I love everything about it, including the characters in it. This group was singing loudly as they traversed it.

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An Amtrak employee befriends me and chats with me until my time to board. Such a nice man, the kind that saves Amtrak from any criticism. He has been with the company for over 20 years. I think his name was Cyro or something like it. Thank you sir. And before I know it the time comes. I’m boarding!

I’m really glad that I checked my baggage because not having had to lug anything through the 5 1/2 hour layover was such a relief. And the storage on the train is minimal. Besides, the stairs going to the second floor on the train are so narrow people with any luggage or disability were having a rough time. I started helping people going up. As a result I was on a first-name basis with a lot of them in my wagon. I became fast friends with a retired gentleman going to Louisiana that was seated in front of me and another young man who had never been on a train, also going to Louisiana (I think they both had about a 2 day ride). The older one takes this trip 3 times a year and knows the train very well. He takes us on a tour. We settled in the observation car and chatted non-stop for hours. I now know what a lot of expressions in Louisiana mean and how to make gumbo from scratch. They were both great cooks.

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We stop in Palm Springs and, with the lights, the landscape is eerie.

It’s around 2 am and we all head back to sleep a bit. I sleep soundly and quite comfortably. At 6:30 am Steve is up and looking my way. Want to go to breakfast? I say yes and off we go. He with a steady step, I bumping into the sides of the aisles. My equilibrium has never been good. At breakfast I forget my Keto diet and eat pancakes with syrup. The seating is cafeteria style and I smile inwardly when I think there’s a sense of intimacy to breakfast which I am now sharing with strangers. Train rides have a tendency to make total strangers into friends that tell you their life story.

Then to the observation car again where we claim the same seats we had last night.

As we cross Arizona we can observe the Cochise Head in the Chiricahua Mountains. If you look closely you’ll see his head, nose and chin. He’s face up.

Then we cross New Mexico (where I will backtrack to, once I “land” in Texas).

Train tracks all the way. The landscape is arid but I am most enjoying it.

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I can’t believe almost 16 hours have passed since I boarded this train… 27 hours since I left home, but it must be because the conductor announces that our next stop is El Paso. I’m excited to see my friends at the station but I also am sad leaving the train. I kind of want this trip to continue on. Maybe forever. My friend tells me that I should buy burritos from this lady on the platform. They are tasty, really big, he says, and cheap at $2 each. But my friends will be picking me up and I’m sure we will eat on the way, which turns out so. We stop at a local mom and pop restaurant with fantastic service and that has their last name. I have a menudo. No. I am not keeping to a Keto lifestyle.

We have 3 hours to get to Carlsbad and as we drive we pass a checkpoint that brings back memories of 9 years ago when doing a cross country from Los Angeles to Orlando I was stopped and was questioned about my nationality and status. But that’s a long story that will be told another time.

We pass Diablo Rock where it is said that people have died on its trail from heat exhaustion. It does look quite imposing.

The sun sets, my eyes can barely stay open. Guess it was a long trip after all.

I have said that I would end my blogs with a song. One that reminded me of something or one that touches my heart in some way. I haven’t done so but I do want to, so this one ends with a video of a forever friend that just happened to have written a “little” song that Pat Benatar made famous and that forms part of many lives: We Belong. This song is one of my favorites of his, Arrows, of maybe a relationship lost but friendship gained. Dan Navarro is truly a folk legend.

Saudade Starts My Monday Morn

The prevalent feeling is one of saudade (a word in Portuguese I am most fond of). It is practically an untranslatable word, full of contradictory emotions, but “longing” is mentioned in many definitions. It is unestablished of what exactly I am longing of. It’s early enough that the sun has yet to pierce the clouds and shine through. Maybe today, it won’t even attempt to.

I make my coffee, an essential part of any morning of mine, and after medicating and feeding the fur babies

 

I head to the back patio with a yet undefined purpose -despite the book in my hand-. It’s a bit chilly and my robe accompanies me and acts as a blanket.Inane thoughts come up before I even open my book with the determination of finishing it: My legs are still tanned from my jaunt to Miami. I love to hear the chirping of the birds in the silence of the morning. Darn it, the garbage pick up truck is piercing that silence (I get up and bring the can in.)  The basil plant still has many leaves -even after such a big batch of pesto I made.- I toy with the idea of lighting the fire pit for some warmth. Discard it because half the fun is seeing the flames which I won’t really see now. Need to stop the cascade of unmatched and unnecessary thoughts (lots of “un” words in this post).

The thoughts stop; I read my book. About 10 pages in I get up, warm my coffee and remain inside since it is a bit too nippy for me outside. I hear the kitties little bells on their collar as they go in and out and it gives me as much comfort as my presence probably gives them.

 

A grumbling in my stomach indicates that maybe breakfast is in order. So I pick up a Le Creuset pan that reminds me of a wedding gift of a whole set of pans that I received long ago, despite them not being on my registry. I weighed 95 pounds at the time and these pans are super heavy. It was my lifting weights exercise routine!  Maybe it was a regift since I got a set of 8. They stick (though now they are making them with Teflon coating too).

I heat a turkey picadillo I made yesterday and fry an egg. I’m on the Keto diet  (lifestyle doesn’t apply since I do get off it at times) so bread is out of the question. I’m not one for breakfasts unless with someone, so this is unusual for me but the front patio of my friends’ house, which I am pet and housesitting for, makes it an inviting proposition.

 

I read a little, eat, and enjoy the pops of colors from the plants.

 

I glance at my cell and it’s 8:00 am and about time to start my day. Enough of lounging around. I enter my day relaxed and ready to take it on.

No! Not the Last, Please!

I write to remember. I remember because I write and revisit memories with my writing. Words and images. In uniting they offer me moments and emotions that would have sadly perished from my mind. So the name of one of my favorite bookstores in Los Angeles brings me a nostalgic feeling: The Last Bookstore. Joy that there is one and sadness that bookstores are probably on the endangered list.

After a quick snap of my shutter, I skip up to the second floor (I am childishly giddy right now). Each step proposing more sections to explore.

I get a grand view of the cavernous, old space, filled with books which I have just combed through.

How exciting… I am entering a labyrinth! Here I will find Science, Fiction & Fantasy. Then Mystery, Thrillers, Tru Crime, and Horror.

I have recently formed part of the jury at a film festival: the Festival Montevideo Fantástico, so Horror is a genre I am partial to.

Many of the genres in the back room are also of my liking: History, Cultural Studies, New Age, Religion, Foreign Language, Business, Travel, and Sports.

You know the Travel section is the one I spent considerable time in.

I love how the books are so artfully displayed, becoming more sculptural than reading material.

I’m not really wondering how they made this tunnel of books but which one I can pluck out without making it all come crumbling down.

Is the spotlight on me right now?

I have no idea of what these are but they seem at home in the horror section.

Art merges with the printed word here. It holds an art collective as well. Am on my way to it now.

As in The Broad, you may not touch the art.

Though you can sit on it.

Photography is an art and I’m happy to see the cameras themselves become one.

Music is an art as well and here, sculpture and music unite.

Art is often political.

Art makes a statement. It was January when I visited but this Christmas tree made out of prescription bottles was not brought down yet. I don’t think this was due to sentimentality; it had a message to relay.

Art makes me contemplative. I’m not into cuss words being used but it seems to be the go-to thing now, to provoke an emotion.

As is the use of animals to elicit emotions.

As I leave the focus goes back to words. The editor in me can’t help but question the “Nuestra Señora la Reina de la Librería Última de Los Angeles” translation from English to Spanish, under this sculpture on the wall.

I say goodbye to this bookstore. I thank it for entertaining me and I’m off to my next adventure.

• 

• 

Down the stairs that run alongside the Angels Flight railway (the shortest railway in the world). Technically it’s a funicular.

And into The Grand Central Market to fill my belly up with German currywurst at Berlin Currywurst remembering having had some in a lounge chair from a vendor on the side of a park in Berlin that had the area covered in sand resembling a beach. Happy memory. It tasted the same!

What next? Follow me!

The “Broad” is not a Female

Definition by online Your Dictionary (yes, there is such a thing): slang, a woman: sometimes considered offensive. So this Broad is not female and it is The Broad: a contemporary art museum in Los Angles, California.

I confess: though I thoroughly enjoy contemporary art, I am not quite well-versed in it. This homage to it comes to us free of charge (all you have to do is get a ticket online –gratis) thanks to Mr. and Mrs. philanthropists and collectors, the Broads, – pronounced in a completely different way than the female kind. I did not take pictures of the Broad’s exterior (criticized and exalted – striking nonetheless) so I take some of the entrance and windows from the inside. The windows in the building designed to let light in, yet not damage the art.

Visiting the most famous works first.  You certainly can’t avoid Jeff Koons’ -the world’s most expensive living artist- Tulips. I believe this is the same one I once saw in Steve Wynn’s Bellagio in Vegas, who bought the sculpture in 2013 for a cool $33.7 million.

I photograph away as usual but this time I bring you me doing so, acquiescing to requests from readers that I include myself in photos.

Just as impressive as his Tulips is his Balloon Dog.  Koons is a master craftsman for sure.  An orange balloon dog sold for a record $58.4 Million in 2013. It was the first of a litter of five. I wonder how much this blue puppy fetched.

  In case you are thinking that he only has dogs in his menagerie, he also has bunnies.

Another of Koons’ favorite, most well-known works (part of his Banality series) is his life-sized Michael Jackson and Bubbles sculpture.

Before we leave Jeff (we’re on a first-name basis) I bring you Koons’ Jim Beam, J.B. Turner train (part of his Luxury and Degradation series) which has a super interesting story (it’s a decanter, so it involves liquor) of how it came to be. Click here. Worth the watch. It reminds me of a friend that not only loves trains but makes miniature ones. His, however, I am sure don’t cost near the $33.8 this one sold for in 2014.

Oh no! Honey, did I shrink the tourists? What I like about contemporary art is the humor classical art lacks. The way it makes us look at common things in a new way. Robert Therrien presents us with everyday objects offering a different perspective.

To prove that there is humor (even though I’m sure there is other intent in the work) here is something from a conceptual, performance, German artist. (His is the name on the plaque.)

The above is probably the only lifting that I don’t need! I sometimes feel like this monumental painting by English painter Jenny Saville, Strategy.

I am in downtown Los Angeles but whenever you mention my city Hollywood is the first thing that comes to people’s mind. Did you know that Hollywood is a verb? The artist Ruscha says so.

A bit narcissistically, I like what I can connect with in some way.  A few months ago, I came back from five months in Spain, a country that I hold a passport to, so this collage from the above-mentioned artist, had my eye.

Though I don’t quite understand what one has to do with the other, I like that this one (same artist) includes a flashback to my childhood with Cracker Jack.

To continue let me get rid of the paparazzi…

So kind of Barbara Kruger to tell me I’m a very special person (photographic silkscreen on vinyl). She’s an American artist that works with pictures, which automatically makes me like her.

The next piece seems just right for this town.  From the Broad’s website: Untitled (If you’re so successful, why do you feel like a fake?), 1987, is a direct interrogation of the motivations of contemporary society—career building, money, and the appearance of success and good living. Kruger’s assertive display demands an answer from viewers. Unlike in advertising, which may ask a question to compel a purchase, Kruger’s work uses the same techniques to compel ethical change and reflection.  Getting to understand this type of art better thanks to it. Will not delve why I like the”Hug Me” piece further than that that hugging is one of my favorite things. 🙂

I’m a Taurus so I connected with this collage Beef Ribs Longhorn by Jean-Michel Basquiat.

Before I even read the caption, this mixed media collage reminded me of Manhattan, a city I called home for over 11 years. Good work by Mark Bradford. Per the sign on its side: “Across 110th Street gets its title from the eponymous 1072 Blaxploitation film as well as from the social and physical dividing line between Harlem and the rest of Manhattan.”

America (the U.S.A. in this case) is represented in a grand way.  Firstly by Jasper John, known for this oversized, gigantic flag.

And in duplicate by Glenn Ligon.

Also represented, curiously, with a tribute by Jeff Koons to actor/film director Buster Keaton.

A good segue to an Andy Warhol silkscreen  (this a self-portrait) and of his Two Marilyn Monroes that impressed me, even more, when I read that this one was number #27 in the silkscreening process. “The silkscreened image deteriorates with each printing, acting as a physical metaphor for the waning of fame and the fading of memory. Warhol’s diptych of Monroe is of an icon losing her essence, becoming distorted by time and saturated retelling.” Per the Broad as well: “Marilyn Monroe died in the early hours of August 5, 1962. A few weeks later, Andy Warhol began silkscreening Monroe’s face onto canvases. Using a portrait of the celebrated star taken from a publicity still, Warhol cropped tight around the edges of Monroe’s face and hair with a grease pencil. Warhol had only learned how to silkscreen a few months earlier, but already he was able to achieve his desired effect with the medium.”

I reached a painting so big, in five panels, that I could not photograph it complete so I do it in pieces. Initially, I thought that it was by a female painter for some reason; the painter, Lari Pittman, has said he is gay and a feminist so I guess I wasn’t too far off.

I have a wish, a  (Desire, painting by Edward Ruscha), that I have not bored you. That you have learned something and that you will want to return to the museum by my hand or without me.

If you have not enjoyed visiting with me,   (I’m Sorry by Roy Lichtenstein).

We are going to get literary on our next trip.