Travel Day, minus one... And counting.
John and I are slated to fly out of Newark Airport tomorrow morning, on our way to Los Angeles for his mom's memorial service on Saturday afternoon. John also has choir rehearsal this evening, and won't get home until about 11 pm -- the cab taking us to the airport will arrive at 5:30 am. I feel sorry for him already. (By the way, for those of you planning on robbing the house while we're gone, just a note: we've had to leave both of the gorillas out of their crates, but since they and the pit bulls have been generally getting along so well, we thought it best. Also, the ultra-poisonous black mamba snakes seem to be attracted to the areas around the doors and windows, so you may want to be extra careful. Most people don't even notice them, until those leather-piercing fangs are already in pretty deep. Deadly suckers, but so cute)
As for myself, I'm already angry, because I will once again have to face what I consider to be the world's largest scam -- the Transit Security Authority. And, to complicate matters just a tad, I am currently inhabited by a pacemaker, and I firmly refuse to walk through those X-ray gadgets, that I'm sure are as safe as the waters lapping at the shores of Fukushima Bay, over in Japan. And, because of this right to refuse, I'm required to undergo a 'hand pat-down' -- which in fact doesn't bother me, because I think it makes the TSA 'hand-patter-downer' look more ridiculous than me -- but the last two times I've flown, there's been a significant delay because there's no one on duty to take care of this contingency. Which contingency, one would think, wouldn't be so much of a surprise.
Maybe I'll take my Xanax when I get out of the cab, instead of while I'm sitting in the plane, waiting for the pilot to begin taxiing into take-off position.
I'm also wondering what we're going to do, while we're out in Los Angeles. I won't be working on my tan, that's for sure -- I think they're having unusually raining and cool weather. In all probability, I'll go over to John's mom's mobile home, and mournfully commune with the dead plants that haven't been watered, probably, in months. The Arabian lilac will be a particularly painful loss -- it was doing so well, and looked so pretty. Plus I think it was the only one in the neighborhood. I'd thought of putting in a bunch of bedding roses on this trip, because Ruth liked them so much, and because it would keep me outside, but it's pointless to make the investment, and do the work, if they're just going to die.
Maybe we can go over to the Norton Simon Museum -- we've been there a number of times, because there's a Rembrandt self-portrait that I find particularly moving, and the last time we were there, it was out for cleaning. It's roughly from the middle of his career, and shows him at some distance from the picture plain, turning toward the viewer while standing at a table (I think). What never fails to capture me is the transmutation of paint -- that salve-like admixture of ground chemicals and oils -- into such an utterly convincing simulacrum of radiantly healthy human flesh. His skill at taking such a small space -- barely bigger than the end of my thumb -- and building a convincing evocation of a living face, is simply breath-taking. I just know he's looking at me, and more important, that he knows I'm looking at him. There's just a hint of purple on his lips, as though he's taken a sip or two from a glass of red wine. The expression on his face is one of such poignancy -- a look I would expect to see if one dearly, dearly beloved were standing, pressed against the railing, at the very back of a retreating barge, and that barge was sweeping out into the dark water of the harbor, to part us from each other, irrevocably, forever. I have wept, standing there, looking at that painting.
As for their snack bar, however, not so much.
What I'm really kind of obsessed with now is my upcoming, as in early February, audition for -- brace yourselves -- 'The Full Monty'! Yes, that 'Full Monty'. Only produced live, by a local theater company, on what I imagine is a stage only slightly larger than my dining room table. Which means that, if I should be cast, and make it all the way through the run of the production, I'll probably rub elbows with someone who's seen the show, while we're both in the produce aisle at the supermarket, mulling over the asparagus... And what does one say? But I've told myself that it seems to be imperative that I find the most effective way possible of totally humiliating myself -- and standing naked onstage, while the most crucial light cue in the show is thirty seconds too, late seems about ideal, from that perspective.
I also have to sing a ballad and an up-beat number, and I'm having real trouble with the latter selection. I don't know the Broadway musical repertoire very well; all the things I am familiar with seem dated; the purely rock songs I know from the radio turn out to be melodically and lyrically boring or insipid, or both. I'm thinking what I should do is to ask John to help me do an up-beat version of the Lord's Prayer, or something. This issue will surely keep me awake at night, for the foreseeable future.
Well, isn't that strange? Here I sit, with really nothing to say. I did agree to be part of an outdoor sculpture installation, beginning sometime in May, at the Dog Run on the South Mountain Reserve, up the hill from downtown South Orange. At first, I was unenthused about the idea of making an outdoor piece, because it would mean (a) making something even larger and more complex than usual, (b) transporting and installing such a monolith -- problematic, even if, as would probably be the case, it would be built in sections, and (c) storing said monstrosity, along with all the other stuff that, in all likelihood, will never again see the light of day, configured as artwork, as long as I'm alive. Seems a bit futile. But then I kind of came up with an idea for a less onerous work, which will/would involve multiples of something much more physically manageable -- five items, suspended between vertical supports (will they tip over? What if the suspended pieces get filled with water?) I suspect that the real reason I'm at all interested in this project is because it would give me a legitimate reason to use a bunch of turn buckles. I'm just crazy for turn buckles.
The tree came down yesterday. The shorn trunk is lying across the street, with other things more recognizable as trees, so the city workers will actually take it away this year. The branches are lying around the base of the hydrangeas, and around the new clump of birch trees in the front yard -- I had extra, and couldn't figure out where else to put them. The ornaments are boxed up and back in the attic. I broke a wire on one of the window candelabra. I got the vacuum cleaner to make very upsetting noises as it tried to suck up all the balsam needles. I sprayed WD-40 on the metal legs of the tree stand, to keep them from completely rusting through. Now the room is safe for the cats to sleep in again.
I wish I could think of something sparkly to talk about -- I seem dimly to remember a bunch of ideas floating through my head yesterday, while I was working (or, as was more often the case, while I was looking for the garden clippers, which have an amazing aptitude for camouflage), but like an unimportant dream, these notions have all evaporated. But I'm sure that, once I'm in the airport waiting area, I'll more than make up for any flatness in today's contribution to still more unwanted, useless verbiage. (Does cyberspace actually exist, on some physical level? Are we breathing in data, along with those bits of spider legs that are supposedly everywhere? Will we eventually fill the biosphere, and start infringing on the stratosphere and beyond? How much blogging can the universe absorb? Is this why it seems to be expanding -- to get away from us?)
Tune in tomorrow, when there will be no answers for any of the above...
© 2013 Walter Zimmerman
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