A Bench

She offered a view:

of a lake, of a sun

centerfold

framed by a tree and foliage,

green with life.

At the forefront, a bench,

which she described

as just a bench.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to save the day,

the moment that got away.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to greet the day

that in each of us awaits.

As if to bless those less blessed,

she offered a frame, a flair, a tree

sunshine, 

dispersing rays of light over me. 

"Just a bench," she said

by the lake with fishes inside

beautiful as a girl carrying a life.

A bench, a beat, another day

in the city of jazz,

or anywhere else you might be at,

a bench is never just a bench,

a bench is a memory of those who sat:

to unseize the day, to contemplate,

to pray, to give thanks, to rest

to hold hands; to mourn the ones who passed.

|  in the memory of Renee |

                                                    

Fading

 

     Something about a cover of a book: torn, faded, beaten by time; a fate we share.

Before we open, before we witness the lives inside, we know these people have suffered the same condition as us: life, living. A stick floating on a river, determined to make it to its destiny; determined to set the course of its own fate; but fate is where we are, and forever changing.

     The writer inside this one had his own illusions, each movement allusions to a place he knew to be his destiny; while ignoring the houses floating along side the shore. Inside, lived stagnation, or so he thought, as he floated aimless towards a better place; taken by the current. Somewhere. The faith and the unfaithful, bearing witness.

     These are the sort of books we take down from the shelves, and skip through it, reading passages here and there. Because we are busy too, determined we are to reach a destination of our own making, our own Shangri-la. 

     To craft a life, worth of being admired by the mundane persons living inside the modest houses along the shore.

     These are the sort of books the people on the shore take down from the shelves, and sit on a rocking chair, a blank for comfort and warmth; besides them, coffee, and Maria cookies on a plate. 

Content, for the time being, to be where they are.

                                          

Life Lessons From 100-Year-Olds

The Flower Shop

Logline: A shy girl must find the courage to save the world.

FADE IN:


INT. FLOWER SHOP - MORNING

The flower shop is closed. A kitten strolls around the place. She jumps from the counter and lands on a Japanese cherry blossom flower. A painting. On the ground.

She tip-toes over it gently and walks into a gigantic braken. The kitty prepares to fight. She hits it with her paws. She hits it again. She throws herself on the ground. She is on her back now fighting the gigantic fern. She grabs a tight hold of a leaf. It gives away.

The kitten spruces up. She arches her back slowly, eyes fixed on her prey. Watching. The leaf on the ground appears to stare back at her. The kitten pounces on the leaf. It doesn't move. She looks at it. She tries moving the painting. She startles and looks up. Her eyes widen. She looks towards the front door.

The sun floods the small flower shop. White flowers, daisies, and an arrangement of bluebells. Majestic colors. A hibiscus appears to take the entire ray of morning sunshine in, and shines a beautiful bright yellow.

The kitten named BELLA, watches flower after flower being revealed. She turns her attention to the wave of light traveling fast through the brown Mexican tiles. As the rays of sunshine approach her paws, she steps back. And back. And back. The wave of light gently stops. Bella stops too. She stares at the shadow that has settled by her paws. She looks around. She meows!

2            EXT. THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS - MORNING

              A beautiful set of Colorado Columbines grows aside a trail. Mist and dew roll off of
             them to the ground.

                                                 NARRATOR (V.O.) 

                             Billions and billions of flowers, adorn valleys, mountains,
                             prairies and human gardens throughout the world.

 3           EXT. A JAPANESE GARDEN - MORNING

             Japanese irises of all different colors streaming alongside a lake.

                                                  NARRATOR (V.O.)

                              Of all the life forms humans interact  with on this planet,
                             flowers are the most intriguing to us.

 4           EXT. SOMEWHERE IN CENTRAL AMERICA - MORNING

              A single rare orchid from the Rhyncholaelia Digbyana family sways in a light breeze
              in the early morning of another day.

                                                  NARRATOR (V.O.)

                             It is said, that each flower emanates its own single 
                             source of energy and that it walks among us, humans, 
                             capable of understanding and harnessing that energy.

5            EXT. SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH AMERICA - MORNING

              A light rain falls over a dense vegetation in Amazon forest of Brazil.

                                                  NARRATOR (V.O.) 

                              For the rest of us, we tend to manufacture a pragmatic
                             relationship with these little creatures.

 6           EXT. A PRAIRIE SOMEWHERE - MORNING 

              Black Eyed Susans fill the screen.

                                                 NARRATOR (V.O.)

                              We plant them. Gather them. Place them in vases 
                             and other arrangements, and pass them along to 
                             each other....

7            INT. FUNERAL HOME - DAY

             A group of people stand around a coffin. The room is filled with fresh cut flowers.

                                                  NARRATOR (V.O.)

                              ...to mark special moments in our lives...

8          EXT. A SMALL HILL - MORNING

            Beautiful lilies spread throughout as far as the eye can see.

                                                  NARRATOR (V.O.)

                              ... most other times, they are just there, witnessing our
                             descent into a place further and further from ourselves.
                             They silently bear witness to humanity walking away from
                             all that make us spiritual beings...

 9           INT. LAURA'S BEDROOM - MORNING

              A 9-year-old girl named LAURA GARCIA is sitting in the background typing on a
             computer. SONIA GARCIA, HER MOTHER, EARLY 40'S walks in.

                                                  NARRATOR (V.O.)

                             ... they have been content to observe us quietly for
                             hundreds of thousands of years...

               Sonia places a vase with flowers next to her daughter.

                                                   NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT'D) 
                             ... until now.

                                                   LAURA                                
                                              (sneezing)         
                             Atchoo!!!

                                                  SONIA 
                             Are you getting sick?

                                                  LAURA 
                             I don't think so.

               Sonia grabs some clothes from the floor and heads towards the door.

                                                 SONIA
                            Please be ready and on time today.

                                                 LAURA
                            Mom, I don't have school today.  It's Saturday.

                                                 SONIA
                            I know silly, but your father is picking you up. It's his day
                           to spend with you. He will be here early. 

               Laura makes a face but Sonia is already out the door.

10          INT. FLOWER SHOP - MORNING

FIRST 10 PAGES...

Sunset Strip Animal

     When I met him, he was furious; not at me, he hadn't noticed my presence yet, busy he was, head down, clothes in need of washing, furiously trying to get food off an empty can of something. He ran his finger inside the can and took it to his mouth and repeated this action, each time getting angrier and angrier with the futility of it. There was nothing inside the can; no nutrients that would sustain a man his size.

     I can't never tell someone's age, nor can I recognize faces, which made it so easy to forget undeserving people. In appreciation for, what they perceived to be an act of forgiveness, they would always try their hardest to knock me off my white horse. I would venture a guess that this creature in front of me was in his mid-thirties; I can't be sure. A homeless man is an animal like the ones you see at a forest with scarce food supply: extremely unpredictable, angry, and unlike other animals in nature, aware of his condition: that being how irrelevant his existence is to the rest of us. This one sits at a bus stop on the famous Sunset Boulevard, near The Comedy Store; how funny is that? 

     If you were to sit across the street from this particular animal and watch, you would think he was waiting for Godot, while improvising a funny sketch to kill time. But I. I was two feet away from him now, curious to find out what possibly could he have done to end up alone, a few days shy of Christmas,  in what was once known as the city of angels. But there are no angels here any longer, you learn that quickly just by losing count of the many opulent law offices spreading along the boulevard; lawyers inside so well fed that one has to ask what is the herd up to.

     I watch, waiting for a propitious time to address him. I come to the conclusion that I needed to wait until he accepted that there was no nutrients of any kind to be had from his can. Long ago, I stood between a friend I loved and his bottle; I still bear the psychological scars of that misguided decision.  Love* is, and don't let the romantics convince you otherwise, either a trolley rusting inside a museum, or an out of control wagon filled with homosexuals, gaining speed downhill, in any hill in San Francisco. 

     All of these thoughts run through my head while I watch him feed. Twice now I saw the cars line up behind each other at the red light and drive away. Countless time I asked what have I done to be so alone? Near here, at the same boulevard, lives the Blessed Sacrament Catholic church where the family business of the priests in charge, brothers Mark and Arthur Falvey, was molesting children: five young girls  and five young boys. For symmetry, I suppose. Both men of God were forgiven, reformed, as the catholic church bought back their soul with a sixteen million dollars check. Both siblings died there, at the blessed church, sheltered and well fed.

     I once encountered a family of mountain lions while hiking at an early morning in the Santa Monica beautiful mountains. I was distracted by my own demons when they walked out of the bushes and crossed the path in front of me. A cold feeling ran through my veins, the same I feel now when I realize that this animal in front of me is giving me his full attention. How long has it been? I wonder. Was it enough for him to fully assess me? The only thing one has when encountering a dangerous animal is the brief, ephemeral instant when it is not clear how dangerous you are to him.

     He stares at me now. Compounding the situation is a not so funny inner voice I possess that suggests to me: " See? You should have immediately yelled stardenburdenhardenburt." which made me laugh inappropriately. Curiously, this softened his gaze, as if he had perceived this to mean that I  was comfortable being there, twin souls we were. Having no other option but to stay with the ruse I asked: " what the hell are you eating there, my man?" He smiled at that, looked back at his empty can and stood up, revealing to me his height, which I can't precisely specify with a number, but knew to be far above my 5'11, 145 pounds frame.

     I watched him toss his can in the garbage nearby and move back to his seat with an elegant cat like demeanor. He had the same level of comfort one has when one, having witnessed or suffered violence and ugliness at an early age, becomes immune to fear, and at the same time prudent, aware of the scope of damage a human animal is capable of.

" Trying to survive." he answered my question from long ago. 

"Great" I thought. You and I have something in common after all,  as I stood before him listening to his life story.

* the little kitten on the photo is my cat Shades who passed away in 2019. I loved her. She hated my guts over a misunderstanding in regards to a flying sandal; she scratched me any chance she got and never once took any responsibility for breaking my favorite one of a kind kerosene writer's lamp, which she moved across the table until it splashed on the floor. She too was hungry.

                                          

RED LIGHT of the dead.

 I sat next to them on a red light; busy with their phones, all of them; frantically trying to send out their smoke signals, to whomever. I watched them, one by one, trying to determine what we had in common, and it came to me: a moment. We will never meet again and the very next moment we’ll share will be when we die. Yet, with so much on the line, none of them showed any interest in each other, their world safely downsized to their small devices.

We don’t share death anyway; we don’t face it, we don’t accept it; these are linguistic psychological tools the living use to soothe themselves. Ironic, since death will be the most soothing state our bodies will ever be in. Death will take us all and one hundred years from now, on the corner of LaBrea and whatever that other street is, new people will be there waiting for a green light, typing away on their phones.

It occurred to me that technology might be advanced enough that they won’t need to type at all; perhaps they will all have a chip on their heads which will allow them to communicate to whoever, at will. 

On the few minutes that it will take for that light to turn green what will remain the same is our aptitude to create ingenious ways to allow us to do the same things over and over again until the end.

🚘🏍🛴🚲✈️⛵️

3 feet away from legal

Downtown L.A. at night

Los Angeles, 07.04. 2021 

Day 4

     I'm sitting at a café thinking how my night is gonna go; feeling guilty. Homeless people are not relaxing somewhere, making plans, before they start their night, they are out there with a sense of urgency I have not seen anywhere else. I wonder if ever crosses their minds that after being homeless for awhile, getting a job, paying bills, working late and dealing with deadlines would be like being on vacation.

     I have to think like them since I am sleeping on the street tonight, doing exactly what they do for the next five days; following their footsteps. Trying to answer the question of where they all go after the security officers, paid by the opulent buildings in the area, supported by the LAPD get them to move on. Where do they go? Where do I go? How to make sure I don't take the wrong bus and end up in a dangerous area at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning. The subway goes off circulation at midnight, so wherever you end up, you are stuck there until they go back online at 4:30 in the morning.

     Tonight I'll take the 460 bus to Disneyland; it is a four hours roundtrip and the homeless use it because it allows them a place to sleep safely for a longer period of time. Catching the bus at the wrong time means ending up at Disneyland with no way to come back. Alone. I'm pretty sure Mickey will be asleep. In the middle of the night, as my grandmother would say: " nothing good ever happens after midnight." I grew up in the theater so 11 pm is when I am applying make up and clicking my heels three times. Nevertheless, getting to Mickey's house to find him sleeping is a bit screwy. 

     I make it to the bus and they are there, about 12 of them. I'm fully vaccinated now but being inside a bus that is packed with people is fortunately a choice that I can make; and I make the choice of not doing it; instead I follow the other group that hop trains all night. Most of the homeless that surf the buses and trains are men; I have not seen any homeless female roaming the streets at night so I guess and hope they have made to shelter which is the next place I will go to after these five days.

     I am flooded with the memories of my children; beautiful memories: running, walking to the Santa Monica beach, watching them playing at the sandy playground and laughing while making castles. My son always in t-shirt complaining of being too hot while I'm wearing layer upon layer of long sleeves and wind breakers. Santa Monica is about 10 degrees cooler than downtown L.A. and I look at these men hiding behind smalls walls to avoid the cold air that comes from the ocean and feel sorrow for their routine.

    The ghost of my children plague me now and I realize that that time in my life is gone and it will never come back, maybe I get to experience that again with grandchildren. For now, the memories cut me like the cold air, as I see them everywhere; and a profound feeling of sadness wells me up in tears, as if the very purpose of my existence has vanished. They are now entering the college years in one of the most disturbing periods of our human history, so I am sure that they are having thoughts of their own about things passed and gone.

     I need to focus. I need to walk to the train. As I walk I notice a commotion ahead of me, an older black man is talking loudly, surrounded by security guards and he is trying to kick them and saying things that I am too far to understand. 

     I quickly grab my camera and stand across the street taking pictures; it is too dark here so I walk closer and approach the security guards, whom by now stand in the corner a few feet away from the man; who has now gone back inside his make shift tent and is trying to sleep. Young people on the other side of the road are laughing and carrying a conversation on their way to a club, on their way to a good time. I approach the security officers to ask a few questions. 

     Before getting to them I decide to approach the homeless man  first and see if he is willing to talk to me; " How you doing there, my man? My name is Marco. Like Marco Polo. What's your name?" As he talks back to me I hear that none of what he is saying is directed at me or anyone in particular, he is addressing his own demons and it is no wonder he is angry with the the security personnel; when you have to appease demons in your head sleeping becomes essential. 

     

     They go back to their argument but it becomes obvious that seeing me taking pictures had an affect in how they proceed, for now, they had made a call to the LAPD. While we wait, I am careful to stay out of their way, but I quickly realized that their job is done and there is nothing else to do than wait for the calvary. Even though we are just standing there I ask them if I can talk to them; situations like these are never over and can become dangerous in a blink of an eye.

     I tried again talking to the man lying on the street but he is not home; I engage the security officers and one of them introduces himself as the supervisor and a full minute into our conversation I come to the conclusion he is not home either. Everything I ask is repeated back to me and he claims not to understand me, which is fine, I have an accent so I always take people at their word when they say that; I begin to enunciate every syllable but another minute goes by to see that my accent is not the issue, he doesn't like the questions.

"Isn't that a sidewalk? Why can't he stay there?" "Excuse-me, " he says. And pretend again not to understand me. I pretend he is not a certifiable jerk and ask another question. " If you get him to move on where will he go?" " That is none of my concern." he says.

Good it appears my english has improved. " What's his name? " I ask. That question he understood clearly because his expression spoke to me before he had to mutter the words; "well, I don't know that. My job is to make sure he is not sleeping on private property." "It would probably make your job a bit easier if you took the time to ask his name; it is everyone favorite sound." His clueless look told me that he needed more. " Human beings like the sound of their own name." I say,  but he had lost interest in talking to me and told me so.

    I ask him if he minds, being the supervisor and all, if I talked to the man again. " it is a free country." he said and I laugh but say nothing. What I think is " How free is it when you can't  even sleep on the sidewalk?" I tried to talk to the homeless man and get his name but he was busy talking to someone in his head; I noticed the LAPD approaching and prepared my camera to take a few pictures. What the homeless man did next reminded me of the boy who had the common sense to toss his filthy blanket outside. The police officer was polite, respectful, but firm: " Sir, you cannot sleep there. It is private property." and proceeds to show the man where he could set up his bed. A couple of feet away from where he was. I asked myself if all the drama was worth the bother for a few feet.  Eight people altogether engaged this man, including two police officers. Stretch your leg as wide as you can if you are sitting down and you will see the distance he moved too. 

     The next thought I had was that this system was missing a third phone call. The first call will always be made by the security guards when they call each other to try to get the person to move; the second call they made after they failed to convince him to move was to the police officers. The city of Los Angeles has groups that exist with that sole purpose: to offer an option to a human being that, instead of moving a few feet and sleeping on the sidewalk, that they can be placed somewhere warm for the night. That should be the second call, and only after they go nowhere, they would engage the police. Police officers should not be engaged with that, they are trained to deal with crimes, and complex situations and moving a homeless who has his things leaning agains a building is a waste of their time. And two feet away? That is total insanity.

     I took some more pictures and watched the police car drive away; I watched one by one, as the security people drove away too and in the end it was just the two of us there. I stood watching him sleep for a bit, just as someone once did, a long time ago. 

Sleeping on private property

Waiting for the police

LAPD officers resolve the conflict

This is where he was...

...this is where he was moved.

Watching him sleep

Next morning I went to check and he was still there.