shock

This would be funny if it weren’t so freaking sad.

Screw you 2016!

In just fourteen days you’ve taken two of our best and left us with…well, Donald Trump and that creepy Burger King with the plastic hair and psychotic smile.

Earlier this week I was shocked and a little pissed at the loss of David Bowie. I walked around the entire day in a fog, almost as if I could feel the creative void he left behind. I was just getting my groove back when this morning I woke up to the news that the delicious Alan Rickman had passed.

Wait. What?
Things have gotten out of hand, this has just got to stop!

Both were sixty-nine years old, which from over here at fifty-seven seems really young and waaaaaayyyy too close. (Uh, oh, now my own mortality chip has been activated), AND they both died from cancer.

Fuck you cancer!

So now we all know what happens—we wait for the third one to go. It’s some kind of weird numerological anomaly that always proves itself to be true: celebrities die in threes.

When Raphael came home from the gym this morning he was met with my sad-sack face which stopped him in his tracks. I’m sure for a second he assumed I was upset over the fact that my ticket had not won us the  1.5 billion dollars (which I was), or simply that I’d finished my coffee—but he asked me what was wrong anyway.

“Alan Rickman died,” I sort of half sobbed.

“The guy from Harry Potter? The guy with the voice?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed with genuine shock. You see, my husband is so bad at remembering names, movies, actors, and anything pop culture that this was like a fifth grader correctly answering a $1000 Jeopardy question about life on our planet before computers. (As he explains it, he doesn’t want to waste the brain space.) Ouch. That always makes me feel like I need Will Smith to put on his sunglasses and flash that light in my face to free me up some brain bandwidth. (See what I did there?)

“Yeah, yeah, he was in Harry Potter. But oh my gawd, what about Love Actually, and Truly, Madly, Deeply* and Die Hard; oh, and we just saw him in A Little Chaos, remember?”

“Not really”.

“Ohhhhhh, I loved him…and now he’ll never know. I always wanted to meet him so I could ask him to record the outgoing message on my phone.” (Sigh) That voice…I can’t even…”, I could feel a lump growing like a goiter in my throat.

“Oh man, you’ve had a rough week. All your favorites.”
Awwwww, that was nice, some real sympathy. Then he turned on me.

“You know they always go in threes—I hope the third one isn’t Jean-Luc Picard—that would suck.”
He had a slight grin on his face as he ran out of  left the room, “Uh oh, what if he’s six-nine?” he shouted from a safe distance.

Okay, now he was just fucking with me.

I had made a dark secret of mine public knowledge a couple of years back in a speech I made at Raphael’s 60th birthday “roast”— the fact that I had a mad crush on Jean-Luc Picard and had used him as a husband template. Not so much the actor Patrick Stewart, although don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t throw him back. No, more specifically I had the hots for the French, bald, serious, thoughtful, smart, capable, man-who-could-solve-any-problem that the Universe (literally) threw at him and dare I say sexy, Captain of the Starship Enterprise—Jean-Luc Picard.
And I came damn close with Raphael. Except for the Starship, I nailed it.

“Natalie Cole!” I screamed down the hall. “She was the first. Jean-Luc is safe!—Natalie Cooooooole!”

“That was New Years Eve. Doesn’t count. It was still 2015.”

Shit, Game on.

“What about the Motorhead guy?” I was grasping at straws, my brain was scrambling, Google! Google!
Fuck that, “Siri! How old is Patrick Stewart?”

“Motorhead guy was still 2015”.
How did he know this shit? He must have been Googling as fast as his fingers could type. I could hear in his voice that he was trying not to laugh. Jerk.

“Patrick Stewart is seventy-five!” I yelled, filled with genuine relief. “Oh, thank God, he’s safe,” I muttered to myself under my breath, not realizing, because of all of the brain space filled with useless trivia, that that only meant he was six years closer to the pearly gates.

“Why are you yelling? I’m right here,” he said, standing in the doorway wearing only a smirk. (Not really, he was wearing pants, but it makes for a better story.)

All of this to say: Why are all of the great ones dying? Sixty-nine is middle-aged, people play stupid guessing games about who’s died instead of crying, it’s starting to suck being a baby-boomer, death is not the end, and considering who joined the general population this week—Heaven is going to be a blast!

Its been one-hullava week—wanna weigh in?

Carry on,
xox

*”Truly, Madly, Deeply” which came out in 1991, is one of my all-time favorite films and so I went on Amazon to order a DVD so I could watch it this weekend and cry my eyes out—and there was only ONE copy—for $200! WTF?

We are all connected.
And not just by the proximity and outreach that is available to us via our devices.

It goes way beyond that.

I believe that everything is alive and has a spirit.

There is another web active in our lives besides that World Wide one. It is a web of life, of energy that connects everything and everyone on this earth.

We are all interconnected and anything that suggests the belief that we are separate is an illusion.

Nature is the supreme example of this web of interconnection. The bees need the flowers. The flowers need the bees to bloom.

And I fucked up and cut down a tree in our front yard, apparently upsetting the delicate balance of nature throughout the world, or at least Los Angeles, California.

We are the custodians of a one hundred and fifty year old ash tree. And he is our giant, grounded guardian.

Of that I am sure.

I remember a psychic predicting that I would live in a tree house one day, (which at the time seemed absurd), but when I purchased this house a few years later my friends all remarked “I see you got a little house with your tree.”

It is massive, one of the largest trees in Studio City and we are so blessed to live under its majestic canopy, feeling its energy, enjoying its shade.

On the curb just adjacent to Ash (we’ll call him Ash) was a nondescript tree-thingy.
The arborist that came to the house ten years ago during our remodel educated us, telling us all about Ash, and when asked he informed me that the other tree wasn’t any species that he was familiar with.

“It’s just a weed that someone let grow into a tree a long time ago” he told us.

Just A Weed Tree was a lot of trouble.
His canopy was dense and…ugly, even after the annual hair cuts we gave him, not light and airy like Ash’s.
He cast too much shade for anything to flourish and the birds loved to congregate inside that dense, dark green foliage and shit all over our cars.

He had the bad attitude of an overgrown weed. He was pushy. And greedy, lifting the sidewalk, and getting into our pipes on a regular basis.

Just A Weed Tree always appeared to be crowding Ash, vying for light; and in the severe drought that we’ve found ourselves under, I feared he was chugalugging at the water table—and I knew Ash was too polite to say anything.

I LOVE trees, I do, ask anyone. I absolutely adore Ash, but I was not fond of JAWT.
He wasn’t a tree. He was a garden variety pest.

So this past Saturday our gardener cut him down. It took two guys and they were fast and thorough, even grinding the stump.

We both forgot that it was happening that day so when we got home the whole look and energy of the front yard had changed dramatically.

There was no sign that Just A Weed Tree had ever been there. But you could feel a HUGE void.
That weed had a presence.

FUCK.

We both stood at the curb, “Wow” was all we could say.

Now you could really see the front our house, there was the added sunlight in our yard that I had craved (for the plants) and with JAWT gone you could fully grasp the wonder of Ash.

“It looks like they trimmed the big tree too,” my husband remarked as I went around picking up leaves still on their branches.
It appeared as if they had been cleanly cut and they were EVERYWHERE.

Except they hadn’t been cut. They had been dropped.
I’d never seen anything like it. They covered the entire front yard, the driveway and even parts of the roof. In the fall Ash drops single, dead, brown leaves, never bright green leaves still on their small branches.
What was up?

My arms were full, carrying the leaves to piles I had made on the driveway
And it suddenly occurred to me: Ash was showing his shock and disapproval at the death of his friend Just A Weed Tree.

I walked over to him, closed my eyes and rested my hand on the rough bark of his truck—and I could feel his stress and despair.

Oh Fuck.

First of all, I had always felt Ash was a female. Wrong. He has a very pronounced masculine energy.
And he was pissed. And under extreme stress.
Apparently the high pitched whine of a chain-saw has the same visceral effect on trees as a dental drill has on humans (yeah, okay, got it) plus he had known JAWT for over sixty years, since he was just a tiny little weed that had somehow been spared. They were buddies.

I could feel his despair and it felt awful. I should have known better. Trees do have feelings and I had callously overlooked that fact.

We had basically murdered his friend right in front of him.

FUCK.

We are all interconnected, residents of this web of life and I needed Ash to know that I could feel his anguish, so I stood with both hands and my forehead on his trunk, apologizing and conveying our sincerest condolences for the loss of JAWT. I also explained the water situation and the fact that his health and stability were of the utmost importance to us. Then I played to his vanity telling him over and over how gorgeous (handsome) we think he is.
“You Mister, are the star of this neighborhood.” I think he was flattered.

Raphael watched from a distance, he could sense what was going on, and he added his sympathies from there. “I hope he’ll be okay,” he said with genuine concern, gazing at the piles of leaves.

“Now that he understands and knows how sorry we are—he’ll be fine.” I replied.

And he is. After our little talk he never dropped another leaf.

Carry on,
xox

“As day turned to night, and our collective sense of history had changed: there would now be a before 9/11 and an after 9/11.”
~ The 9/11 Museum

After forty eight hours and three thousand miles, I still can’t shake off the 9/11 Memorial Museum.

I had to hold back the ugly cry for over two hours. My lip was swollen from biting it to keep from blubbering.

It started with the fountains.
They inhabit the exact foot print of each tower, and are stirring and haunting and beautifully done. I first got choked up as I read that the names engraved in the granite around each fountain are not in the usual alphabetical order, but in groups requested by the families.

All the firefighters are listed with their station buddies, same with office co-workers.
“Put my husband’s name with all the people at Cantor Fitzgerald.” I can’t even imagine saying.

As you ride the escalator down seven stories under the World Trade Center site, it hits you – this is so much more than a museum. It is a sanctuary.

Although you’re allowed to take pictures with your phone, after I took the one above, I stopped. It felt sacrilegious. It’s not that kind of place.

There is energy locked there. 
An overwhelming amount of sadness, fear and shock.
Residual shock feels like fear on steroids. Imagine fearing for your life, yet not knowing what is happening. 
It was palpable – for both of us. Places and things absorb those heavy emotions. We pick them up. Oh goodie.

Short side story: we were riding motorcycles in Spain, in the Basque Country, on our way to Bilbao. Oh happy day, right? No so fast.
“What is this place? It feels awful here.” I was tugging at my husband’s jacket, yelling into his helmet, as we slowed down to ride through a town center.
I had been hit by a wall of sadness, a tidal wave of despair…and shock.
“I know” he said and pointed to the sign as we left town and that horrible energy behind.
GERNIKA.
I got chills. My chills got chills. 

Back to the Museum.

When we got to Foundation Hall, with the original retaining “slurry” wall and it’s cavernous appearance, we both stood there for a long time. It felt like church.

It has in its center, the “Last Column” a 36-foot high steel column covered in mementos, memorial inscriptions, and missing posters placed there by rescue workers and others at the site.

Tears ran down my face. The lump in my throat felt like a soccer ball. The ugly cry was lurking.

My mind couldn’t even begin to grasp the severity of the damage to these immense steel structures. You think you’ve seen every TV special and book, every image and report, yet, unless you are there, standing in that spot, it is incomprehensible.

There are sections of steel ten feet wide, curled up like a piece of saltwater taffy.
They have a section suspended in mid air – from the plane impact zone.

It is sobering. I stood there again – staring – lost in thought – for a long time.

Same with the last remaining “survivors staircase” used by hundreds of people who ran for their lives. You could feel their fear.

In front of a huge chunk of one of the elevator motors, a remnant bigger than a car, (it is estimated that more than two hundred people died inside elevators that day. Ugh, I could have done without knowing THAT) a Docent told a great survivor’s story and the fact that these were the first elevators in their day, that could carry you from the lobby to the 100th floor in under a minute.

Inside the Historical Exhibition (which was fascinating) you are bombarded on all sides by that day, Tuesday, September 11th; from its ordinary start, all the way through the subsequent events, in a series of timeline galleries.
This is where my bottom lip got a workout.

There’s a section where they have a series of phone messages left by a husband to his wife, telling her the other tower has been hit and “don’t worry.” In the third or forth message (I was too emotional to remember) he’s loosing his cool. You can hear the public address system and chaos in the background as he cuts it short “I gotta go.”
He didn’t make it out.

In the section of the timeline where the towers have both collapsed, you hear all the alarms, the shrill whistles, that emergency personnel wear. These alarms go off if a firefighter is motionless for over 30 seconds. It’s a sound no fireman wants to hear, and there were hundreds of them.

“Where’s the damn Kleenex” someone next to me said out loud, looking for the tissue stands they have strategically placed throughout; I handed HIM one of mine – avoiding eye contact. 

Inside this exhibit are things that will not only blow your mind, they will blow your heart – WIDE OPEN. Don’t go if you can’t stand feeling emotion, it’s unavoidable.

I gasped out loud, my hand flying up to cover my mouth a few times. People turned around, but then just gave me a knowing look. For over two hours we did that – for each other.

As the anthropologist I am at heart, I was mesmerized by the endless displays of everyday “stuff” they’ve recovered.
Wallets, dry cleaning tickets, eye glasses, flight attendant wings, stuffed toys, drivers licenses, pictures, keys, gym passes, paperwork, tons of paperwork… and shoes. So many shoes.
Shoes get to you. Someone picked out those shoes that morning, put them on and somehow, in the course of that horrible day, became separated from them.

Some looked perfect – others had a story to tell.

At around the 2 hour mark, I ran into Raphael.
We’d become separated and he’d been doing the galleries in reverse order. “I’m done, I can’t take much more” he whispered. “Then don’t go in those rooms, it’s INTENSE” I cautioned, pointing behind me.

“This whole thing’s intense.” He was walking forward, staring straight ahead, shaking his head. There in front of us was a truck that looked like Godzilla had stepped on it, fighting for his attention.

That was the thing, just when you’d swear you couldn’t take one more minute, you’d turn a corner and see something completely unbelievable.
We knew how the story ended, yet, we couldn’t tear ourselves away. Well done 9/11 Museum.

About a half hour later he texted “out in the front where it starts.” He’d had enough.

I picked up my pace, and we both took the escalator up, up, up, to the sunny surface in silence. It was three thirty in the afternoon. 

I wish I’d cried. I wish I’d let the ugly cry take hold, squishing my eyes, distorting my face, having its loud and sloppy way with me. I’d feel better by now.

Instead: Plan B
“I need a drink.” 
“Me too.”
We caught a cab, grabbed a late lunch and a bottle of wine. Then we walked the HighLine.

Saturday afternoon drunken exhaustion trumped feeling emotion, and I DON’T recommend it.

I should have cried. I know better.

Xox