A Whooshing Sound.

 

     You look like your anger; face pressed against the windshield of your car, flying through the intersection in an utterly absurd state of motion; your body hugging the steering wheel, but it is your expression that will remain. 

     Things are not well in the city of angels, Los Angeles, California; now an overmarked third world country where the locals are rude, inexplicably arrogant and proud, strangely unaware of the poverty lining up the sidewalks. Perhaps it is the reason they demand that their movie stars show up on television perky and happy. Always.

     The postcard for the anger is you, and I ask myself if I would have felt different if you were a good looking girl but the memory of the speed in which you passed by me brings me back to the reality of you condition: you are as ugly inside as outside, lacking any empathy to your fellow bystanders as you hurled your 3 tons object a foot away from each and everyone of them. 

     Your face registers with me as the second ugliest face I've seen in my lifetime; the first being of a mother sadistically mocking her own daughter. Faces one can't forget but ought to try; so I search my memory bank for the face of my mother and find nothing but one scene that never fades: 

I'm sitting on a bench. You are tying my shoes. I, too young to understand the importance of that moment, didn't memorized your face; instead I look down at my shoes.

     One bunny ear. Two bunny ears. Cheeky to cheeky now. Embrace. Zig and zag. Pull it apart until I feel the pressure on my little feet and hear the sound of the leather coming together. A whooshing sound. 

A sound film editors know so well: : "Gimme a whooshing sound." ask producers worldwide. I know why. I know the feeling they are after. 

In each encounter with the sad, the angry, and the ugly, I crave it more and more.

The boy and the barista

from the series LA NIGHTS | tab above |

     

Los Angeles, 07.01.2021                                                         

Day 1

     Inside a landmark café in the city of Los Angeles enters a boy; the word boy brings back many feelings when spoken out loud. Boy. You can go back to the first days of school and remember writing the three letters that encompasses an entire life: brothers, sisters, mother, father, grandparents, friends, neighbors. An entire community surrounds this being.

     At his early stage of life, hopefully, one is busy with being a kid: playing, attending elementary school, falling in love for the very first time. Boy and Girl, the very reason we exist lies in the romantic notion of these two nouns.

     This particular boy is nameless; one of thousands that wander the city, while, the city in question, Los Angeles, now asks what to do with them all. This particular boy is tall, has curly hair, a goatee and is as handsome as the young stars Hollywood sell to us as the new face to watch. He carries a blanket; filthy. He takes three steps into the store and looks around; turns on his heel, opens the door and tosses the blanket outside, before walking to a barista and ordering: " Two glasses of water, please. No ice."

     The young girl does not flinch, which makes me think that this has happen before and she is used to it. She treats him as well as any of her other customers, probably feeling a sense of accomplishment, because this might be the only humane interaction he will have all day. This café has a reputation for training their employees extremely well and if dealing with homeless was part of her training program she has not forgotten the lesson. 

     He does not engage with her in any way; doesn't look at her in the eyes, doesn't talk to her at all. His eyes are distant somewhere. I've seen this gaze before since starting this assignment. Some of the homeless I encountered have mastered it. Models have the same gaze; I will venture a guess that, for the very same reason.

     I have an untouched cappuccino in my hand; I ask if he would feel offended If I gave it to him. He does not look at me. He does not answer me. He does not acknowledge my question in any way. I am not such a hopeless romantic that I don't understand where I am; the very next thing I do has to be the right thing not to offend this kid in any way. I look down, avoiding looking at him and turn away. The barista is looking straight at me and tells me softly that, " he just wants his water." confirming with the pronoun "his" that she has served him before. He has a friend in the city, at this café. I make a mental note of this and understand that at some point I ought to sit down and investigate what does that mean: this relationship.

     She is casual about the whole thing; pleasant and yet I do not see any indication that she is following any protocol of engagement. She deals with it as if this is the most natural thing in the world; a young good looking boy, homeless, who has enough awareness to toss his filthy blanket outside the store before ordering a couple of glasses of water. His demeanor is the same as the girl by the bridge. You don't care for me, so I don't care for you. I deny you and your attention regardless of your intention.

     The interaction had me thinking about the properness of offering him anything, after all, I have never approached anyone in the store and offered to pay for their coffee. My action reminded me of Madonna and the late, unbelievably misguided, Michael Jackson, who visited the country I was born, Brasil, and asked to tour the favelas. As if poor people were an attraction they schedule during their visit, after they had become bored with their other activities.  

     I wonder if this boy cared enough to give me a second thought. I wonder if I ruined his perfect day. A beautiful barista who treats him as a human being and a clueless writer who treats him as a homeless. The road to hell is paved by good intentions. I wonder if my motive, my reason, my failed attempt at humanity registered with him at all. My guess and hope is that it doesn't. We gave up on him. He gave up on us. Just another day in downtown L.A.

     When you visit downtown L.A. try asking for direction to a passerby,  your fellow human being, Nine out of ten times they will ignore you completely as if you don't exist. Yesterday, I saw someone in front of a couple asking for directions and they went around that person in a synchronized movement, as if they had agreed that  'we will venture outside our pristine, meticulously manicured expensive building, in the middle of this mess, but we will remain inside our little bubble."

     Today, a tall gentleman gave me directions, so I engaged him: " why your fellow Angelinos don't like giving directions?"  He smiled. " They get bombarded daily with beggars so they got used to doing this." So I put it into context: " Even for people that are obviously not homeless?" " It is easier to just avoid everyone." he said.

     I had to smile at that; my mask prevented him from seeing it. I thought with meus botões, "this must be a new clause added to our social contract."

     I am not signing it!

Missing Freddy tonight...

 

| Love of My Life  |

A Brick...

Alone,

you get to decide

where a brick goes:

you can put it here

you can put it there.

In your hands,

a brick is free

to be anything or nothing.

A poet,

from the baltic sea,

found grandiose desires

in each brick he saw,

and when he parted this life,

he had not a brick to show;

yet his structures

will outlast us all.

If you have

all that you soul desires

you can place a brick

behind your doors,

to prevent someone

from taking your possessions.

I wish

that bricks were free

to be anything it desires,

God,

made it eternal,                                                                                                       

and cursed man with free will 

and infinite crossroads

with no undergrowth

only plenitude.

With so many roads ahead,

man despairs,

and in doubt,

grabs a brick

and set his roots 

here, there,

anywhere:

creates a village, meets a girl

makes other man

to sacrifice for.

Nothing makes a man prouder

than sacrificing for a new generation:

among all the species,

man is the only one

that can exude heroism

while in full retreat.

The bible

talks about man

but it says nothing about bricks:

man was created

at God’s own image;

but man perishes

in a well of uncertainty,

bricks are everywhere:

solid, determined, eternal.

At the end of his life  

every man should have nothing but a brick

to leave behind,

somewhere,

for a child to find.

The Anatomy of a Kiss

                                             ‘Beatrice’, by Marie Spartali Stillman

On the face of a girl, any girl, there is a protruding bone medical books erroneously named the zygomatic bone; a revision to this lack of romanticism is needed. 

The kissing bone is where an astute boy places his thumb to kiss a girl, his other four fingers should touch the back of her neck gently, and as he leans in for a kiss, presses a bit harder.

His fingers on the back of her neck exert just enough pressure that she feels all fingers against her skin throughout the kiss. When the kissing is over, the girl, if the boy has done exactly what was described above, will move her head back to look at his face, and as she does, his fingers on the back of her neck should feel like a light gentle breeze, breaking on the skin like waves.

Of course, there is the consideration of proper hygiene, and by that I mean, clean hands. If a girl is about to kiss a boy and he realizes his hands are unclean, a different protocol takes place . 

The boy must then place his hands firmly on her shoulders, that, however, is an extremely delicate place since the shoulders are so close to her breasts.

A boy with dirty hands then needs to squeeze her shoulders hard enough so that she feels all his fingers on her shoulders throughout the kiss, because you see, a kiss has nothing to do with lips touching lips; but where a hand is placed.

The first milliseconds of a kiss is when the girl determines whether or not she will enjoy kissing you. Kiss her in that manner and she will feel safe and lean into your kiss; allow your hands to be free and she will spend the entire kiss wondering where your hands will land.

A boy who thinks a girl wants to be touched in as many body parts as possible during a kiss is a fool. 

A girl who wants to be touched in as many body parts as possible during a kiss has already been kissed enough; you will waste a good kiss on the wrong girl.

Everything that matters in this world takes time and requires skill.

A kiss is an antidote to a hurried life. In a kiss you can bend and shape time, slow it down, disconnect from the physical world, and fly for a bit. Your hands, will determine how high you fly or if you take off at all.

Every girl in the world has a kissing bone and the memory of a kiss, a light gentle breeze she craves in her fingertips. 

If you've ever seen a girl lost in thought, running her fingers on the back of her neck; she's remembering a kiss.

"Move Along"

from the series LA NIGHTS | tab above |

  Los Angeles, 07.03.2021 

Day 3

ONE HUNDRED AND ONE steps, is the count for this beautiful stairway in front of the central library in downtown Los Angeles. I lived a block away with my kids, and we woke up everyday at 5am and ran up these stairs three times, unto Hope Street and downhill to Hill Street where our building stood: a beautiful earthquake refitted 1920's subway station. A block to the right of the building was the Geffen Theater and the Disney Music Hall; two perfect examples of the opulence in this area.

On our run around the wide block we came down a hill, beneath a bridge; today overtaken with tents which is the residence of many. The contrast is staggering. Looking down from Hope street we can see the Central Library...

... and a small change in our perspective... 

...and you can see the front door...... 

...and a gentleman trying to catch some sleep.

... before the city employees and security approach him to gently ask him to "move along" which it appears it is the city of Los Angeles new modus operandi to deal with the homeless. But move along where? There are not enough beds to the thousands of people who live in the streets in this area, which is in full display by the tents; improvised homes, in one of the most expensive commercial real estate per square foot in Los Angeles.

     A block from our home, there was a park; nothing special: a water fountain, dog park, playground for children, and on Wednesday, a farmer's market filled the space with fresh fruit and vegetables and artisans selling their creations. It is one of the most beautiful images I have of my ex-wife, an amazing chef, as she took her time prodding and choosing, her face beaming with fulfillment. 

     Ironically, the people who could use some fulfillment, the homeless, who hang out on that park daily, were never there for the market. I never understood where they went. When the day was over, I sometimes saw them roaming around the nearly empty tables getting the spoils from the well to do people who lived in the buildings nearby.

     Also not there were the teenagers I met while living here: gay teenagers who were forced out of their home by their parents when they decided to come out of the closet. Their Christian parents, not approving their "choice" followed the principles mandated by the bible and the Roman Catholic Church and tossed them out. Apparently, God does not approve of homosexualism and they wander the city of angels finding warmth, understanding in each other's arms. In a time of their lives where they should be planning their college route, as Anna did, they spent their days leaning on each other trying to understand how their lives ended up this way. My relationship with any God ends when he begins telling us to hate and despise each other. 

     But it is 10 years later and the teenagers are no longer there, in fact, neither are the homeless; a few security guards hired by the buildings are making sure to move them along. Where is not of anyone's concern; as long as it is not here. 

     So, at night, they ride the subways until the very last train and after that, they hop onto the buses all night to sleep. An existence that I am observing to be inhumane, as well as a very hard way of living. 

But it appears, it is okay to the rest of us, as long as the streets are clean and we don't get to see them.

"Volver a los Diecisiete" written by Violeta Parra | 1962 |

 

| sang by Milton Nascimento e Mercedes Sosa | | 1976 |