MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula
(Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels by the River of Porciuncula)

The great expanse and glittering hills
the low valleys, and concrete jungles - no,
it was never meant to be called "The
City of Angels" - indeed this place was named after
the Virgin Mary herself.
The irony is inescapable in this hedonistic
paradise; are there any virgins left?

To this day, having lived 39 years,
2 months and 28 days in this geography
I have yet to see a river; the Los Angeles River,
or any other. I imagine it's on a backlot somewhere.
Maybe over at Warner Brothers or Paramount
and I've taken the wrong tour.

Suburbia is sound asleep; all good
citizens tucked away in warmly lit
tin box heavens. Zoe and Fletcher have
turned in for the night; their excitement
at seeing mommy come home early
faded and they are curled up like
little cotton balls, dreaming of
only things cats can dream of.


I left the glaring neon lights of the city behind;
my foray into temporary insanity always
leaves me weary, stunned, sad, and
full of strange regrets.
Last night, Hollywood, or Hollywoodland
as it was first christened. We ate at a fanastic
Gothic-looking restaurant called Citizen Smith.
Comfort food and spectacularly expensive martinis;
there's a two hour limit at the tables - it's definitely one
of the current hot spots. Gorgeous inside, candles
adorning the dark walls, lush curtains, the familiar
glow of lives long lived and past.
We walked to the theatre (walking in the city? what a concept!)
and of course, there is no adjective great enough
to describe the decadent, gorgeous Pantages Theatre.
Thank God for gilded, carved wood work; the musical
was such a hideous nightmare, my friend and I couldn't stop
laughing. We paid a fool's fortune for good seats but during
intermission actually moved to the back of the theatre so
we wouldn't disturb the obviously mentally insane people
who were actually enjoying the freak-like circus on stage.
I have not laughed so hard, in so long. It was immature
laughter; forbidden laughter - the best kind. The kind
of laughter where stifling it feels like you're going to burst,
your stomach hurts and you can't breathe
and that alone was worth the fool's gold.

After our 'escape' we went next door to a
restaurant called Hollywood and Vine, located strangely
enough, on Hollywood and Vine. Lovely, dark,
elegant and beautiful. Was this what Hollywood
was like in the Golden Era? I walked up
Hollywood Boulevard, announcing the name
on every star on the sidewalk like some
crazy tourist. I squealed "Elizabeth Taylor!"
as if I'd just discovered the raven-haired beauty
myself.

Anyway, back at Hollywood and Vine,
which is famous for its banana cream pie...
We were forced to sit at a table in the back of the bar
as we weren't ordering alcohol. We ordered tea
and it came it tiny silk bags. Silk! The flavours
were terribly exotic; mint verbena, pink grapefruit
citrus magic something or other. I sat there wondering
how much it cost to use silk to wrap loose tea as
the denizens of the night glided past us outside.
The most gorgeous women - thin and beautiful
and bodies to die for - I laughed and thought how I
wasn't even looking at the men - I said, "My God,
the beautiful people really do live here."

Apparently there was a club next door;
I'm sure I exceeded the weight limit by a few pounds
or 20 or 30 or 150.
Behind us, on velvet couches, the most obnoxious, loud,
crass French customers sat, doing their best imitation
of Eurotrash. The woman wore a long-sleeved top,
her midriff showing, and cut-off jeans shorts so short
I felt like my own grandmother in my disapproval.
She also had these long black platform boots on. The
working girls down the street were wearing more.
Oh they say "How rude and obnoxious Americans are!"
whenever we go to Europe. Well, I've got news. The French
can be just as bad. For some reason, they were speaking in English
and with filthy mouths they loudly yammered away.
I admit though, the way they say 'fucking' sounds so much
more romantic. Ha. Finally they left and we left and followed
the city's morose, lonely, lost, sad, souls back to our car.
A homeless man lay curled in the fetal position on the sidewalk,
a black plastic bag over his head. My friend and I almost stopped,
and yet I didn't know what to think or do. We walked on, past
huge, swarming crowds of people just beginning their evening, as I
used to, a good 20 years ago, milling about outside various clubs.
Clubs whose names I did not recognize for this is not my city
anymore, these are not my peers, these are not my streets.
I was afraid. Another homeless man slammed a pay phone down,
looking for change. We wound our way in and out of bare bodies
and doors opened briefly as we passed, the pounding of various
songs blaring into the street, the smell of smoke so pungent and
the shadows so familiar I almost called out to myself. One door
opened, and the interior glowed red, a crimson memory, a place
I'd never been to, and yet had been to a thousand times. Music
I did not know, and music I'd heard my whole life. The mix of
liquor and perfumes and smoke and nostalgia and memory and
that scent - oh God - what is it - that one specific odour all clubs
seem to posess - oh, it took me back so fast, I almost collided
with my sweet young self. I stopped dead on the sidewalk, my friend
looking at me strangely - I said, "this is it, oh god, can you smell it?"
This is my past, it's still hidden here, it's still alive, it has a different
name, it's a different look, a different game, and it went on without
me, all the same. I don't smoke, I don't even like cigarette
smoke, I didn't even think smoking was allowed inside any
building in Los Angeles, but god it was a sweet reprieve,
a little kiss from my distant past, a whisper in
my ear, "My dear it wasn't meant to last."

I've walked the streets of New York city, a place
of which I am not a native, and felt less fear.
There are ghosts and beggars, fools and frauds,
cops and robbers and dirty dogs, lovers and drunks
and kids with more than time to kill in these streets,
hidden in those Hollywood hills.

Tonight, a belated birthday dinner at Encounter,
the space-age George Jetson restaurant at LAX.
More martinis and feeling slightly off-balance even
before the Ketel One, the iconic building built long ago
and yet the kitsch, the catch, the future, space-like decor
was so yesterday, and so tomorrow. The observation deck was
closed; it's been closed since 9/11. A memorial to 9/11
is on the ground floor between the spidery legs of the
building. My friend, ironically, was at LAX the morning
of 9/11 and in my horror I remember her telling me
they were evacuating LAX and she had to walk on foot
down Century Boulevard forever.

So we sat and ate and looked at the runway and
talked about how wonderful it would be to just
walk up to a ticket counter and buy a ticket to some
far-off distant, exotic place...to just up and leave
everything behind...at least for a little while.
Planes took off and landed and seemed to hang
in midair, circling, waiting for clearance to land.
Driving home, I've never seen so many planes
seemingly hovering in the night sky; even the
runways have traffic in L.A.

The Encounter lights glowed blue and purple
and red and green and space-age music played
along with traveler's dreams.
I asked the valet if the building had always served
as a restaurant; he told me it was initially built to be
an air traffic control tower but was too low - it's a stunning
piece of late mid-century architecture...the ground floor
still original, that early 1960's flooring with silver stars.
I've always loved the mid-century modern look; so futuristic
and streamlined. I gazed at the floor and remembered when;
but I knew in my heart this place I'd never been.

I don't really believe in reincarnation or past lives -
but why then do I miss so many things I've never done,
so many places I've never lived, so many people I've never met?
No, I was never a queen in Egypt (only on SK's blog), or even
a cat goddess...or a peasant on a lord's manor land...I don't know where
this longing comes from for distant worlds...how can I miss what
I've never known? How can I pass buildings and think, oh I'd love
to go back, when I've never been?
How can I remember the scent of jasmine in a desert dusk?
I have not lived these lives, but god I miss them so much.

All the faces and lives I've passed, all the looks unmet and
unknown, all the hands unheld, and words unsaid,
I wonder, I wonder, where will this energy that is me
go next?

For my birthday my friend gave me a gorgeous book
called "Hemingway's Cats" - a book I very much wanted
but probably wouldn't have bought myself. It's an illustrated
history of Papa Hemingway, and his great loves, his cats.
(Okay there are few women and dogs in there too.)
To see pictures of this 'macho' writer letting a cat drink
out of a crystal goblet on the table, or this big, burly older
man, gently holding a cat who'd suffered a heart attack,
gives you a whole new perspective not simply on Hemingway,
but on the magical, mystical love man and animals share.
According to the book, by 1945 Papa had 23 cats and 5 dogs.
He was a crazy cat man! He and his love Mary called the cats
"purr factories" and "love sponges" - the cats were treated as
royalty (as I'm sure they'd trained Ernest to this task well).
They slept in the guest bedroom and later lived in a room
built by Hemingway especially for his pets. Hemingway believed
cats had souls and that he would see his beloved 'love sponges'
in Heaven.

I hope and pray he was right.
Today would have been my dad's 64th birthday, my own papa,
who also loved cats. I really do hope there is a Heaven, with two big, burly
men, surrounded by meowing cats, and more love than we on
earth, could ever, ever imagine.

Photo: The "Theme Building" at LAX, built in 1961. Architect: Eero Saarinen. (It currently houses Encounter Restaurant. )