Sunset on american desolation

The Strange New Direction

I've been feeling the pull recently to actually do something that I've often threatened to do. I wanted to write a novel that used the summer after my senior year in Hich School as it's foundation. At the time I had just read "The Rum Diary" by Hunter S. Thompson. I don't think anyone ever accused that of being a great book, except me perhaps, and I was so enamored with Hunter Thompson at the time that my judgement is way cloudy. All I know is that I've read it over and over, I love that book. I loved it from first read, which happened to occur during that summer of my life. I would later in life when I was feeling somewhat down fill a bath tub with water, a bucket full of ice and beer and sit in the tub and read "The Rum Diary". Part of my attraction to it has been that in form it reminds me of two other favorite books, "The Great Gatsby" and "The Sun Also Rises". There is something about describing a new setting and then taking a journey in each of them that shows up as a commonality. Perhaps what struck me always about "The Rum Diary", and this is more than likely completely incorrect and really very arrogant, but I always thought that after reading it that I could do this. I could write a book like this. This was my motivation. It is no coincidence that the title I chose for this book has another liquor in the title.

I've now began writing in earnest. I am 6 chapters deep. I am suffering a total lack of confidence that what I've written is worth writing or reading, but I keep writing. I want so bad to actually finish this, because I want to write another one after it. This one is juvenile and dark and really rather disturbing, but so is mis-spent youth.

I have really wanted to not tell anyone that I'm working on it. I started the first chapter back in November of 2008, but I only got about 13 paraghraphs in. This past week, having finally felt it was time I've really gotten down to business.

I am hoping to hold out and finish it and edit it once myself before sharing. I have deicided I have to talk about the fact that I'm doing it as I do it, so I keep going. So help me here and there. Make sure I keep writing. I'll keep updating, for the eternal external record. :)

Letting Go the Leash

Last night as work ran down I excused myself into the rest room to change into a pair of shorts, light t-shirt and my running shorts. I filled a water bottle full and said my goodbyes.
I navigated my hand me down Saturn through the oddly meeting streets of north Hollywood and Burbank, eventually snaking a route to forest lawn drive. From there I entered Griffith park, the car coming to a rest in the Mineral Wells picnic area. I hoped out of the car, tied my key to my shoe and stretched a bit. I had one last guzzle of water, locked the bottle in the car, knowing how good it would taste upon my return and started slowly off.
The first 200 ft or so was all that space and my perverse need to push myself would allow for a warm up. I found myself quickly at the bottom of a set of stairs, which I think of as "amir's stairs" named after the garden which they lead to. The stairs here are nothing more than boards dug into the hill supported by steel poles. Each stair can vary from 4 inches to nearly 12. The entire lenght of this portion of the run is right around a quarter mile with a few rest points and flat spots along the way. I can only make it about 1/4 of the way up this section before my quads are on fire and I have to give my lungs a little breather.
During the climb I remember promising myself that I would be taking it easy today, since I had done this same section yesterday and my legs had not yet had the chance to heal. I was sure I would be nicer to myself once I had finished the stairs and popped out of the tree cover into the garden.
The temperature was hot and dry, but not really unbearable.
Amir's garden is a beautiful place. It represents the work of one determined man who chose to make multiple trips up a steep hill carrying plants and sometimes young trees. Amir is long gone but his legacy now towers some 50 feet in certain trees he hauled up as saplings. It's now maintained and watered by park staff and volunteers. Somedays if I'm lucky when I get to the top of the stairs I will be welcomed by the sprinklers on full blast, which shoot off the top of the hill and fall all down the slope, for a good thirty yards it's as if it is raining. When the sun is beating down and your mouth is dry there is no more welcome rain.
Leaving the garden there is a fire road to follow. There is no sun cover here, it's just me and the mountain and the sun. Being so high up one is at least treated to a nice breeze, which only becomes annoying when you have to run against it, at which point the breeze seems to become a wind.
This point in the run is all steady climb. I'm still not in top shape so the lungs burn here and keeping up the momentum is all a challenge of the mind. It's harder yet to press on, since I know that there is much more climb to go and that it will get steeper before it levels off.
If you will note the elevation graph at the top of this blog, the section I'm beginning now is that dark purple section of something near 12% grade that comes after a half mile of steep climb already. This section is gods punishment for all that I have left undone. I promise myself always when I'm staring up this climb that I will walk when I pass the telephone pole here. There is not much thinking while running here. There is only pain and a need for breath.
The walk after this incline is nice. I allow myself around a hundred feet, and once I catch my breath it's onward and upward. The climb is steep in places here, but not as bad as before. Soon I find myself on a stretch of actual pavement, which I slowly climb, realizing that I'm no longer on the path which I told myself I would take today. Somewhere on my climb to this point I have decided I will not be taking it easy today.
My body was headed where I was going before my mind realized it. I wanted to get above and behind the Hollywood sign. I've wanted to do that since I've lived here, and I suppose even before.
Again I reached the top of an incline, this time with a nice view of the Hollywood side of Los Angeles. At this point I'm pretty beat, having climbed for over a mile this is the first minor decent. I stride out and let the hill do the work and I keep reminding myself that every bit I go down on this side of the hill, is more that I have to climb in order to get back to my car. I have a serious discussion with myself about how badly I want to get behind the sign, and how hard I want to work to get home. The arguement is hopeless, I'm too far gone.
I feel like I keep curling around bends expecting to see the sign at any turn yet it never happens. Soon I see a more exciting looking trail, which I assume manages to meet the road that which leads to the top of the mountain. Upon this trail I actually pass another hiker. He says nothing but kindly steps to the side and allows me to pass.
I eventually reach the end of the small trail and join the road. As I do I am met by a couple walking slowly up the road.
"How far are the letters?" the man asks me.
"Further than I had planned on going."
"Fair enough."

The rest of the the ascent is on paved mount lee road, now long closed to regular cars. I'm sure were it open the top of the mountain would rapidly fill with cars every day of the year, and more than a handful of fat tourists would roll snow ball style down the hill taking out trees, homes and wildlife on the way down. Some places shouldn't have roads to them. You should never be able to drive to an absolute end, and for some reason the Hollywood sign is such a place, an end. It's where dreams stop and reality sinks in. Just ask Peg Entwistle.

The letters are not so impressive from behind. Corrugated steel concreted to a mountain top. To one side is Hollywood, to the other Forrest lawn cemetery. The Cemetery looks other worldly from that high up, the creepiest part being the chapel. Surrounded by so much manacured green it looks like something out of a model train set.

As I took in whatever parts would easily come in I was joined by a mountain biker named Steffan. He could tell it was my first time, he had been there many times before. Said it was a favorite spot. On my way down when he came flying past on two wheel in a hell descent I think I understood why, it sure looked like fun.

I lingered with Steffan for a while, did one more look around and then shook his hand and started back towards the car. I followed mount lee drive back to where I first joined it from the other trail. Along the way I passed the couple I had met earlier, this time I told them they only had quarter of a mile to go. They seemed grateful for the good news.

The trail I chose to meander home followed the ridge line and was beautiful. To see the San Fernando valley to one side and Hollywood and downtown LA to the other make for an excited mind. I picked up my pace here, running full bore and enjoying the thrill of it all. I let out a "Whoope". I felt elated and accomplished,like a runner and explorer.

The Bounces

So the spring is in my step a bit today. I've been doing excellent at reinvigorating my physical regime, which has a positive effect on my life all around. I feel much more focused. Though my productivity has yet to return to pre-spring levels. I'm not fretting though, productivity is one of those concepts that doesn't really seem to have tangible significance.

Today the dandy warhol's initial mix of the album that was eventually released as "welcome to the monkey house" came out as "the dandy warhols are sound". This represents the bands version of the album, as they wanted it to be. I'm blown away. I love "monkey house" but "are sound" is really the dandys at their best.

Thinking about getting back to some of the fiction writing that I've bveen threatening a few people with. My neighbor Lionel has inspired me to again attampt to pick up the pen, only in a virtual manner. Still intending to continue work on the novella "Tequila Summer".

I've been enjoying living near the LA River. At first glance it's a rather ugly concrete drainage ditch. However nature and a slightly enlightened man both seem to be slowly reverting it back to it's original state. I've been trying to do one run along the river per week. Last night I actually saw a family swimming in it. I would have never thought I'd see that. I suppose swimming maybe is a bit far reaching. They were sitting in it, and rolling about. I'm not sure I'd try it, but more power to them.

I'm looking forward to Maui with the family over Christmas.

I saw bruno last night. Very funny. Not quite on the level of Borat, but still hilarious. It shines a light, however filtered on something very ugly that lives in our world, especially here in the states. We've come a long way baby, but we got a long way to go.

Griffith Park has been seeing more hours of my time. I discovered a really grueling stretch of stairs that run perhaps a quater mile up from mineral wells to amir's garden. Holy shit do they kill. Halfway up I thought I might very much die from the lungs out.

Backyard dreams and the modern divide

I'm in San Diego celebrating the 4th of July, a holiday which seems to mean less with each passing year, after all how independent are we as a country anymore?
I'm having a wonderful moment though, visiting with Angela's family and enjoying wonderful food and a few beers. There are plenty of guitars here, which belong to her uncle Earl. I have been invited and encouraged to play them and I have.
I've claimed a spot on a chair in the shade of the backyard for my own. It is here where I have passed time plucking and strumming or reading or listening to the conversational murmur from inside.
For reading I have with me "Literary LA", written by my neighbor Lionel Rolfe. I'm half way through and enjoying it very much. Its had me thinking more about writing, perhaps this is why I've decided to mark the moment with a photo and a blog on my blackberry.
It also inspired me further consideration of the accomplishments and legacy of those who lived before me. Such a rich history of thinkers, writers and livers who occupied the very same geographic area which I now occupy. I am thinking of a concept, what this afternoon in my own mind I decided to for now call "the modern divide". There seems to be a point or perhaps a couple of generations which have divided themselves from the past. Where any curiosity about history has been severed. Where the lives they lead and they way they choose to leave them are a grand chasm apart from those who came before them, in many ways not at all relating to their distant relatives. Has it always been so?
These are half brewed thoughts on this fourth of July, I shall come to no conclusions anytime soon. Let's discuss.