misswhistle: Cali joy

"You've been to The Source," said Cecilia, who is veh veh Insightful. 'Tis true. California is the place for good. It's as if you are dropped down, very carefully, by a giant benevolent hand, into a magical place where everything is set up to work in your favor. And you can take one, two, three dance steps with pointed toes to meet the pavement where it meets you. (Quite a few of) The people you love are there. The friends are there. Even people you haven't seen for years are there, and you bump into them frequently during the day, as a reminder that you're on the right track. The food is delicious. The trees are blooming. You discover the Eastern Redbud tree, filled with its tiny fuchsia colored orchid-like flowers. There is an Orange-Crowned Warbler outside your window at five ayem, singing its heart out. A small child called Otto, who thinks you're really, really funny, even when nobody else does, likes to sit next to you. He also stares at you intently, observing everything, waiting for the next sign to laugh. You see a sliver of eclipsed moon on your first evening, and a mist that could have been from Avalon, floating over Wilshire Boulevard the following morning. There are long forgotten loquats, that plum yellow fruit, in almost every garden, bougainvillea falling over every wall, palest blue skies, new restaurant build outs on Larchmont, along with overpriced (but delicious) match and cardamom pastries from Sweden, and yes, your sister-in-law, by chance, wearing vintage earrings, hugging you unexpectedly. Also lunch with girlfriends you haven't chatted with in years. Walks with your son in the rain. Biscuits with cheese and chives in Griffith Park. Italian take-out with friends who've tucked you in a white blanket by the fire because you have jetlag and are complaining, like a baby, of exhaustion. There is green rice and black beans and seared fish and massaged kale salad, and churros, hot from the pan, served with either warm caramel or warm chocolate sauce. There is the old friend who has the new Great Dane puppy, already a hundred pounds, and spotted like your second Dalmatian who she loved so much. But BIGGER, Monica! Much bigger than a Dalmatian. Similarly adored. And your dress shop friend, the chicest person you know, with her new chin length haircut with the faintest sign of a flip, who makes cardigans and neck scarves look fresh and clever. Your journalist friend eating breakfast in the farmer's market with the same group every morning for thirty years. The booths that carry sound waves like speakers at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where no-one plays polo. The tv writer who trained as a quantum physicist. (Everyone carries something. We all carry something. We all do our best. I must remember this.) But yes, this is the source of optimism and hope and joy. This is the place where people root for you to win, not fail. It's where you belong, where you put in your years, where you found a home in that weird bit of manicured and watered desert, where you fell in and out of love, where your children put down their roots too, deep down where it's no longer dry. It doesn't matter what people say about California and how the dream has failed, or that the homelessness is out of control. All these things can be true. (There is a particularly moving opinion piece in the NY Times about the unhoused problem here.) It's still there, the source, the very true and brave and real and heady idea that you can do whatever you want to do, follow your dream, and you can succeed at it. That there is something you can plug into that will pull the best out of you and manifest it (ugh I am so not a fan of that word, but what is a better word?) It's filled with people with big dreams and big ideas and big emotions and the desire to talk about it all. You can almost see the ideas floating just a few feet above the people as they walk down the street, forming as they walk. They are out there, with light shone on them, sunlight...not held inside and twisted and shamed and tamped down, but lifted up for the world to see. Curiosity did not in fact kill the cat. It launched a million dreams.

Incidentally The Source was a very groovy Vegan restaurant on Sunset Strip when I first came to LA. Perfect, right?