I have been waking up lately in a cloud of the most subdued, passive anger. Actually, it's a peaceful, friendly, loving anger that feels ominously like the opposite of a hug. It comes with an ounce of vindication - I'm not crazy for feeling the way I do - and pounds of awareness and knowledge. Still, I control my reactions, stand back patiently, and make many small disconnected efforts to understand. This has been the persistent soundtrack since I've returned from the jungles of Mexico. Los Angeles has proven to be the unsolvable puzzle, where everyone is mostly preoccupied with themselves and words are used to negotiate rather than communicate. It might be like this in other cities, but this is where I live, where I was born and grew up. The truth seems to be that most people are completely blind to the ripple effect, and people grow so restless in this dense city that many feel they have to get out or go insane. I've seen it time and time again; I even funded one friend's escape to Chicago...or Boston...no, I think it was Kansas City. Honestly, I can't remember which. They all got out of the maze, gained perspective, and found a spot to look back and reconnect on some level. The obvious direction for this train of thought is to say that they quit, made some kind of mistake, maybe showed weakness at a deep level in their conscience. That would be inaccurate, and besides, I can't make that judgement. All of our lives unfold in unique ways that play out our fears and strengths in a neverending series of tests that either repeat themselves or increase in difficulty. We all have the one thing in common with L.A., though: We see the maze, the puzzle, the huge contradicting mosh pit, and we have all said at one point or another, "Get me the hell out of here!"I know a lot of selfish people here. I blame them sometimes for the absence of home, the lack of support or unconditional love. These people use me as a resource, they remind me how lucky I am to be in their orbit, and all too often they say the right things but don't believe them, or so their actions would lead me to believe. They make promises that are open to the back door of lame excuses, and often observe and suggest that I should be more understanding, easier to appease, perhaps a little less analytical of behaviour that would otherwise hold them accountable for their flakiness. Denial is a hot commodity, a fashionable choice that keeps the sport of evasion and opportunism alive. It is all about feeling good and making things easier to digest, and never, ever having to take responsibility for anything. That is why I am not leaving Los Angeles, dirty and mindless as it is. I'm not going to let my birthplace kick my ass. I will not allow the place that broke my heart and offered me equal portions of failure and success - absolute blue furry bliss versus sharp serrated moments of blood red desperation - take me apart and send me packing to a place I have no relationship with. I know that if I leave, most of my problems will travel with me at this point, and the pieces to my puzzle would be left behind lingering in the smog and freeway traffic. I own this. This is the riddle of my life. I don't want to ever look back and say "What was that all about?" and be too far to put things together. I will occasionally step outside and get a view of it all before diving back in, but I'm going to stick it out and tame this cloud of indifference.
My family has always put together difficult jigsaw puzzles every year during the holidays. We've done the double-sided, the story-telling mystery ones, the 3-D puzzles. We have never left a single one unfinished. I may, in this case, abandon pieces that don't belong, but believe me, I'm not walking away from this one just because I'm angry.
This one belongs to me.
Far removed from the usual writing spots, I'm writing this in the Shakespeare Library, deep within the cruise ship Inspiration, currently moving across a quiet and dark Gulf of Mexico returning to Tampa from Cozumel, Mexico. For the past few days, my sister and I have not endured any obligations, schedules, or expectations. We've eaten when we wanted to, did what we wanted to, and brought not a single breath of work or anxiety with us. The only traffic we've encountered was at the jacuzzi next to the salt water pool at the back of the ship.
Ironically, the symbolism of the whole trip fell right in line with familiarity for me; On the way to and from Mexico, I've seen beautiful sunsets (which incidentally, look much better reflected on water than they do framed by rush hour traffic in my dirty rear view mirror) and the almost impossibly beautiful moon, which embraced the water and ranged in color from orange as it rose in the sky to stark white. My temporary home, as I mentioned before, is called the Inspiration, and all of the decorations have had something to do with the arts. In Mexico, I've seen a culture obsessed with the sun and have done my share of worshipping during the whole trip. I've wandered through Mayan ruins dedicated to the goddess of the island where specialities are fertility (love) and prosperity (money). I even made an offering, a coin in a small pile of others despite the fact that "In God We Trust" is written on them.
In all of these locales, though, I moved in the stillness of the world around me. I was in the ocean, the jungle, the stars above in a dense, black sky. I was at the center of my universe, and I wondered which symbol captured me the best: Am I the sun, opening my effect and my attention to the whole world around me, or am I the moon, perpetually hiding in all the ways I've written before, always keeping a dark side reserved? Well, it wasn't a very difficult question. Nani said it once: I am the sun. Try as I can, I give off light and heat, I illuminate and clarify, and until the end of time, I chase the moon, always finding her in a sky that doesn't suit her.
And so I return to the race. I will immediately lose that sensation of moving without effort, the vision of waves moving silently past. I'll immediately lose myself, sitting once again in a huge box of lights and meeting rooms, a ship that goes nowhere with a captain who travels alone and incites competition and a fight for survival among his peers. With the theater a bit off in the distance, how will I recognize myself? How will I find the center of my universe?
I will look for old friends. The sun will look down for the son, painting the sky and reaching out to encourage and comfort. The moon will always give me a place of surrender, peeking out from behind buildings and through the lingering smog, reminding me of the ocean without a visible horizon, that despite all of the obstacles, she and I are continuing our dance.
I'm going to give this place another try, and then I'll look for change. When I rediscover and reaffirm who I am, the things and people who define me as I'm not lose a little color and gravity. In only a few more hours (we disembark tomorrow morning), I'll insert myself back in a little changed. The old world will need some adjusting.
