Saturday was the perfect day. It was the kind that brings tears to your eyes and a hint of a smile and makes you realize what is important. It started off as a stumble- late to work, a traffic jam, fresh out of cigarettes and me cursing in silent frustration at marathon runners and getting lost and lost and lost. And lost.
Due to circumstance I tried unsuccessfully for about half an hour to just get my car across Camp Bowie Blvd. I don't mind waiting as long as I have a cigarette. Which I did not. It was all so terribly metaphorical and I was late for pancakes with Ollie, who was waiting at Ol' South about five minutes away. I probably could have walked there faster.
A brief conversation transpired discussing myspace drama over black coffee and donated cigarette before I realized suddenly that I was supposed to be at a wedding in two hours. We rushed (reluctantly) to the mall because it was clear I could not attend wearing my torn green curduroys and brown old-man sweater.
I walked into a shop that smelled like a familiar, comforting incense and asked the Indian man at the counter if he sold it. He was so happy that I shared his appreciation. "I'm so sick of all the people that walk in complaining that my incense is too smoky- and I think to myself, I would rather smell my incense than your stinky breaths!"
He did not sell incense, he just had a ritual of burning it in front of a shrine to his mother hidden behind the counter. "I always have an extra box," he told me, "and I want you to take it. Come back any time and I will give you another!"
It was the nicest thing that has ever happened to me in a mall.
Time elapsed and I buckled under the pressure to hurry (I am a bad hurry-er). I could feel cortisol levels rising and obscenities spitting out of my mouth at an unbelievable rate and so I decided- for the best interest of the planet earth- to forego the wedding, ditch the mall and focus on 'chilling the fuck out, you crazy bitch'.
Drank a Gatorade. Ingested some St. John's Wort. Thinking that I either smoke too much pot, or not enough.
I was glad I'd brought Eileen. The guitar's name is Eileen now. I don't know. It came to me.
Everything settled into a beautiful dusty pattern as we ran out of the pouring rain and into Ollie's dad's painting studio for a little bit of meditative activity.
The building is weathered and worn, like the old barrio mercado on the corner of 23rd street and Portland in Los Angeles, where I used to live. The paint on the walls is like an archeological mystery, peeling off to reveal the many lives it's had before this moment. The ground makes you think once it had blood on it, and tears and sweat- all of it culminating into one 'dirty concrete floor'.
An overwhelming holy presence always accompanies buildings that are this old and full of passion. It was once a church. You can tell by the virgin mary painted, fading on the outer wall with a myriad of tired cherubs peeling in genuflection. It was once a seamstress's workshop- I was told she was murdered there years ago with a pair of shears.
There was a coldness about it, like the coldness of being lost in the woods. It would seem like a place where no person would want to be, but it felt like the only place to be right then, lost in the woods, rain pouring down, white sky piercing through cracked windows and tattooing a pastel portrait of broken perfection on my retinas.
An old, iron woodburning stove near the center of the studio was the only potential source of warmth. Water was leaking from the ceiling into damp, dark puddles from the heavy rains. We set a fire blazing in the stove and warmed ourselves... I took little Eileen out to strum a few chords and she sounded big against those old walls. Big and rich with the energy and rhythm of all the hearts that have beaten there.
Ollie began to paint and I found an old piece of scrap wood and began to follow suit. We painted all afternoon, feasting on day-old pizza and chocolate-covered cherries. I painted one thing, and then covered it in thin white paint and painted another thing.
I wanted it to have layers like the building. I wanted it to have layers like me and my moods. My laptop was rattling out a random assortment of music on shuffle, and my painting style changed with every genre.
An old monk (Savath and Savalas... Langas Gypsies of Rajasthan) emerged out of one layer. He developed the tribal look of a man who has seen it all (Aesop Rock.. Tom Waits)... all of it dotted with logarithmic patterns and wild, radiant veinous fractals (Venetian Snares.. Aphex Twin)
We painted for five hours and the fire burned, keeping us half-warm. Chain-smoking and bowl-smoking, taking guitar breaks and not speaking a word- really, just co-existing in this creative silence that I crave and miss most in my life. The sky faded from white to black as I finished my painting and it was time for both of us to leave. It was pure, tranquil perfection in every sense of the word.
Later that evening I attended a lecture with Jasmine by Maya Angelou, who is one of my dearest heroes. I can't really put into words what effect this had on me. She was absolutely striking. Dynamic. So full of love and hope for her fellow human being. I wrote one thing she said on the back of my ticket stub. I don't know why, it seems like such a simple thing to state:
"Please know, that each one of you has the power to change somebody's life for the better."
I guess it just seemed like something I should make a point to remember.
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