In hot pursuit of a place called home.

The feeling of "home" is an interesting emotion, one which seems to fade in your 20's... especially, if you're like me and move from city to city. I remember when I lived in Arkansas, the company I was interning for actually did field research on this idea of home; in many instances, people didn't describe a physical place, but instead, a feeling of being near family, or otherwise emotional connections they had with the people, the culture, etc. For me, a self-admitted literalist, it's perhaps always been more about a physical place (and sometimes certain foods, like loaded baked potatoes). But as I've moved far away from my home town - the past few times on my own - one of the first things I find myself relentlessly seeking, is that irreplaceable comfort and sense of place.

This past week, as I've continued to yet another city - one which I cursed, badmouthed and looked down on for a good portion of my adult life - I found myself starting to open up to the possibility that Los Angeles could someday get there. 

The operative word being, possibility. LA definitely has a long way to go. A resident for all of 9 days, it's been entertaining and intimidating getting acquainted with my new digs. Things feel alien from any place I've ever resided, comical in myriad ways, and mostly, like a permanent vacation. Some of my initial observations might take some settling-in to, in good ways, and some less-so. 

Like being fully clothed in my beach neighborhood - very uncouth. Talking on the phone while driving - not allowed! Or the reality that everything actually is overly picturesque and beautiful -- and we're talking everything... hedge-lined grocery cart holder lanes, ornate bus stops the size of my bedroom, you name it.

Or dumpster diving - a completely acceptable full-time gig (although it shouldn't be hard to get these heathens on my side, given my glass consumption track record). Surf boards decorate most cars. Streets are silly names, like Sepulveda and Rosecrans. Parking and traffic - of utmost importance and integral in every conversation I'd had so far. 

And there are also the things I can get used to, of course... like super, super friendly neighbors, and lobster abundance [so long as you avoid the innards]... 

...Mountainside and beachside jogging paths...

...And patio-time on steroids (epic location for crosswording).

So far from where I sit, it feels a lot more like a quaint beach town than that of the bustling metropolis of Los Angeles. If I can keep it that way... we might have some real promise for a beautiful friendship. 

A lesson I've learned already - things aren't always only what they seem. And it doesn't hurt to eat a baked potato, too. Just in case.

The Underworld: A Ballad for the Oriental Iguana

There are actually no words.

My bulletproof week. Well, theoretically.

It’s been a while since I’ve set aside the time to write. I don’t plan to bore you with the justifications. But leave it to the universe to pull me out of my voiceless comfort zone, and to throw me a few bones this week.

And with bones comes a great story.

I’m lucky to be alive. No seriously. I seem to have mastered the artistry of cheating death. I’m not kidding. Not once. But twice. IN ONE WEEK people.

[Insert dreamy harp sound effect.]

There I was on a Sunday morning, an innocent trail runner and a pathetic-looking one at that. Not unlike writing, it’d been a while, so I found myself clumsy on the loose gravel, each stride coming down harder than the one before. It was Mother’s Day, and I was determined to do a number of things in honor of Suzie Bell, my fabulous mother. The first on the agenda, naturally, was running.

Groggy from the morning, I was tuned into my favorite NPR podcast, Radiolab, and thoroughly tuned out of my surroundings. It wasn’t until I’d made it half way that I noticed the flit of black specs darting in and out of my line of vision – one, then two, then three, four… A flash realization jolted my mush brain awake, and a montage of news stories citing killer bee attacks in Arizona began to play.

What do I know, what do I know, what do I know? Bees… They will sting you and send signals to the other bees and kill you... 40 stings kill a man… or is it 50? You can out run them… can’t you?  RUNNING. You can outrun them. They’re not distance bees. Something about ¼ of a mile… No time… I think one just stung my elbow…

I was like a flash of lightening released into the Arizona wilderness,  with fear in my heart and a dangerous level of hope that I could beat the bees. At one point I remember rotating my head backwards to see if I’d gained distance from the hive, and I could see their dotted outlines still close on my tail. That was the moment I pulled out my headphones, got serious and ran full speed ahead. It was one of those surreal moments that I recall (a) being one of my easiest runs of all times, likely a personal record for pacing and (b) a moment in which pride and grace was thrown to the wayside. I didn’t stop running until a few miles later, and I’m pretty sure I shouted warnings like “killer bees!!” and “run a quarter of a mile!!” to unsuspecting passerbys.

But by the time I reached my car, I was alive. And my getaway dive into the driver’s seat was nothing short of the caliber you’d see in a James Bond movie.

Fast forward from Sunday to Wednesday morning.  A mere three days later. I approached my vehicle, again in the early seven o’clock hours. Only to find I’d been the survivor of a drive by shooting. And Sam (the car, for those who somehow don’t know! )… Sam was the victim of this battle.

Yes, those are bullets. Also a victim, the nearby Palm Tree... 

But after a little CPR...

... We were back in business. 

Turns out, the entire street got shot up -- old cars, new cars, black cars, white ones, green ones. It felt reminiscent of a war zone as I gazed down the palm-lined street in the aftermath; each victim had its wounds exposed, their once intact shells glistening beneath them in remains of broken glass and rubble.

It brings the question of chance, and random occurances to front. Why was I, the innocent hiker, chosen by this swarm of bees? Why was my car selected as one of the few to shoot in the street? Why was the street itself selected? Why this night, when half the days of the month I'm not even home?

I just might have gotten my curiosity back. 

The LADY IN RED. My muse. Or my siren.

In my overly rational (well, mostly) life, I don't often chalk up occurrences to fate, or tell myself "it was supposed to happen." No, a lot of time there's a very good reason for the way things happen in our lives. We make decisions and choices, and sometimes a coincidence occurs. But this one... this one is different.

EXT. PHOENIX STREET - SUNRISE.

I'm driving to work, not unlike most mornings, with NPR occupying my audio capacity, and my mind holding hopeful focus on all the things I hope to accomplish in the day. My commute is short, ridiculously short, really. Depending on the single traffic light, it could take anywhere from three to five minutes. I find myself cruising through the green traffic light, celebrating the victory of catching it, and seeing a red figure ahead. Not wearing my glasses, it was a distant red blur until I came nearer. Enter LADY IN RED. (This made me pull in a picture of the Lady Chablis, but of course this isn't her.)

She possessed a powerful stopping power... and a vibrancy separate from the standard transient crowd in downtown Phoenix. It should be noted that this is coming from a girl not wearing her correctional eye gear and prior to having her coffee. Cherry red high-top sneakers. Faded red denim jeans. A red knit blouse. A mahogany cane with an exaggerated arc for her grip. And a glimmering tiara, to glamorize the look. She had posture that reminded you of some sort of royalty, and at the exact same time, she had a toughness that screamed mobster.

On this first encounter, I simply paused. No work. No NPR. Just genuine curiosity about this very unique character that for whatever reason, encapsulated me for that moment. On the walk from my car into the office, I wondered where she'd been, and where she was going.


EXT. PHOENIX STREET - SUNSET.

I found myself in the car again, the day's activities mostly commanding my mental state, squinting towards the distant sunset to determine whether I might squeeze in a run before the darkness falls. It's a personal rule of mine that if I go running in downtown alone, it can't be at night.

This time I did catch the light. Red hues shone from the setting sun, from the stoplight's reflection on the hood of my car, and again, there was something more in the distance. Stepping onto the curb with the same confidence as before, LADY IN RED made an appearance. Although this was a day later, she boasted the same red getup, complete with the shiny tiara. Same air of a rough past. Rousing in me the same level of wonder. I actually shouted in my car "There she is AGAIN!!!" but managing to stay in my lane, and arriving home that evening to recount the sighting to my boyfriend.

He challenged me, "Write about her. Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn't."

EXT. TARGET - DAY.

I was late. Nearing running from one meeting in downtown to the Target on the north side of town. This little supermarket optical center was the only place I could get a same-day appointment for contact lenses, and I was catching a flight the next day to snow ski, an activity I knew I couldn't just "wing" without eyesight. Feeling lucky to have found a parking spot near the front entrance, I bounded out from the car toward a clearer future.

Meeting my exact path of entrance at that exact moment was the LADY IN RED. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared, my jaw dropping to the pavement. This was days later, and well across town. Thinking back, I don't know if I actually said 'wow!' aloud. It was one of those moments I felt paralyzed.

My odd behavior didn't phase her, and she continued on her path towards the garbage can. Up close, I now noticed a red leather purse, and dangling in between her dark fingers was the shiny tiara. She approached the garbage, taking her wooden cane and slamming it against the side, as if she was shaking up anything that might be inside. It made a loud cracking noise. This act gave her great delight, and laughing to herself, which then escalated into a cackle coughing fit, she continued on her way, leaving me standing stupefied. I squinted to see which direction she would choose once inside. The automatic doors closed behind her. And the red figure turned into a blur. And then finally, it disappeared.

CUT TO BLACK.

the 6-word challenge

I have to admit, an NPR story this week has left me pretty inspired. It came as a surprise, as I found myself listening to my usual news chatter and slowly easing my way into the day with a cup of hazelnut coffee, and gliding from room to room in my green moisturizing socks. Morning Edition reported on a story about something called The Race Card Project, in which folks can submit their thoughts on culture and race in the form of six words. It apparently came from an old legend from Hemingway, in which he claimed that any writer worth their salt can tell an interesting story in six words. Hemingway's example was a powerful one - "Baby shoes for sale; never worn."

So I thought I'd take the challenge myself, and apply it to my life right now, today -- as I know it. 

Looking the part, behind senseless curtains.

Call it a work in progress, Hemingway.