Slightly Dirty Sweaters
February 3, 2017
I was watching an old woman knitting on the subway today, when suddenly she dropped her yarn. It rolled a good five feet, unravelling on the dirty floor of the train; everyone's eyes were drawn to the bright red ball.
Someone nearby handed the yarn back to her. She nodded a thank you, and brushed it off before taking back up her knitting needles.
She couldn't possibly have gotten all the filth of the subway car off of it. The dust and debris will be woven into whatever sweater or scarf she was making. Something no less sweet for the accident suffered during its creation.
It is impossible to always give love that is pure and untainted with mistakes or misapplied intention. Slightly dirty sweaters still keep us warm, though.
Long Beach
May 5, 2017
Our first Saturday together in seven months, the rain gets the better of us.
We drive to the forest, listening to music that satisfies both our tastes. Paul Kalkbrenner, CRO, Ben Howard. We joke nervously about all the defeated looking, soaked-to-the-bone hikers we see on the way up the mountain. Buy a day pass for the park. Layer on hoodies and jackets, gamely set out on the trail. But it's too wet and too cold, and the loop we have in mind is three hours long. We'd be asking for colds. We'd be stupid. So we pivot. Decide to hit one of the beach cities neither of us have ever really explored.
We stop back at my place first, to change into dry clothes. In a stroke of good luck, we snag a parking spot in front of my building. I slip my debit card into the meter, which automatically cues up two hours' worth of time. Timo punches the timer down to 45 minutes, then 30, and I laugh. "How quick are you going to be?" I tease. It's been a few days. Changing into dry clothes is only the cover story.
His dimple comes out at this--the one that deepens when he's trying to suppress a smile. The one that owns me, completely. "That's up to you," he shoots back, looking me square in the eye. He dials the meter back up to an hour, puts his hand on the back of my neck, and walks me this way inside to my apartment.
On the way to the coast, he calls home. An official, meet-the-parents Skype had been tentatively planned anyway, and doing it now there's less pressure. Two birds, or something. I listen to the conversation through the car's speakers, deducing enough from the occasional bit of English what they're talking about. There's a lot of laughter. Timo and his mother both laugh easily, and often. I can hear them in one another, even when I don't understand a word. She is energetic, full of plans and ideas and questions. His dad is quieter, chiming in when he wants something clarified. Something tells me he's the one I'll seek out someday, during some future visit, when the foreign, mirthful house full of siblings and cousins and babies overwhelms me.
Timo stops to explain or translate now and again, so I don't feel totally excluded. I catch some German words related to work that are identical to their English counterparts, and when I look at him pointedly he says, "Yeah that's right, I'm talking about you."
His mother asks whether we'll be coming to Germany soon, to celebrate some of the good news Timo has just shared, and I jump in. "We talked about maybe coming later this summer...?" I direct my words to them, but I'm looking at their son. He says in German then translates, smiling at me: "It's in the plan but not on the calendar."
And then we're in Long Beach.
Neither of us is crazy about the admission prices of the aquarium (which I've been to before) or the Queen Mary (which we've both been to), so we opt for aimless wandering. It's cool and windy, and downtown is more or less deserted. The streets are wide and empty, the fresh air and ample space invigorating. We walk and talk and look, admiring some of the older architecture and flat out hating on some of the new.
Massive cranes towering up from the loading docks remind Timo of the Port of Hamburg, and the nostalgia in his voice makes me jealous. Little gets closer to someone's heart than the landmarks of childhood. When we stroll past the hands-on tide pool outside the aquarium, I'm tempted to spring for the $30 ticket; I've always loved these sorts of mini aquatic petting zoos. Plunging my arms into the icy water. Carefully prying starfish from rocks. Pressing my flattened palms against the needle tips of sea urchins.
The grassy area surrounding the lighthouse is closed off for a wedding; bridesmaids in navy blue chiffon form ranks around a bride in white satin. A photographer stations the party in front of gently bobbing boats, and it's picturesque enough, but in that casual, sunny way of California harbors. East coast harbors just feel more authentically naval to me. Saltier. Tougher.
I'm thinking about my dad today, finding excuses to bring him up. He was a sailor, having joined the Navy at sixteen. Somewhere I've got a handful of black and white snapshots of him in his crisp whites, some local doll on his arm. Cocky and grinning despite his age. April 30th marked five years ago that he died. I celebrated, in a gesture that only those who really know me would understand, by going to a Deadmau5 show. Getting high while listening to live music, and the feelings of love and gratitude that doing so always leads me to.
We sit and gaze across the water at the Queen Mary: massive, immobile, timeless. Timo reads aloud from the ship's Wikipedia page—our own DIY historical tour. We take a pic that I'll later delete, because it is awful. I do this guiltily, because more frequent documentation of our time together is a mission we have vowed to undertake. It's something I have to admit I miss about my last relationship, as annoying as it occasionally was.
Hungry, we Yelp, choosing a seafood restaurant nearby. Picking a new place for date nights, or on day trips, or even while traveling always stresses me out. It feels like such a gamble, and such a shame when it's not good. But the place we find is perfect for our mood and our appetites. On barstools at a table facing the street, we share clam chowder, ceviche, grilled yellowtail. I get buzzed and chatty on pineapple cider, flirting with my boyfriend of ten months.
Serious-faced little dogs trot past the window, leading their humans, and I laugh. "Is there any kind of dog you don't like?" Timo asks, amused, I guess, at the ease by which I am delighted.
"Sure. I can't stand Chow Chows and Shar Peis. And Cocker Spaniels. And Dalmations." This last surprises him.
"They're mean," I explain. "Inbred and blind, mostly, so they're very aggressive." Timo nods, and I go on, watching his face. "And though I really like their faces and coloring and personalities, I don't love how German Shepherds look." Surprise again. "The hunched-over legs," I say. "That skulking way they walk. And did you know that their actual name is 'German Shepherd Dog'? So dumb. Like 'PIN number.'"
"That's because in German, their name means 'the shepherd's dog'". My jaw drops, genuinely gobsmacked. I'd never realized. I make a gesture that mimes my head exploding.
Tipsy, I announce that were I to live in another century, I'd be a shepherdess. "What a gig. Just take the sheep out, chill all day reading under a tree, take them back home." Knowing pointless thought exercises like this aren't his thing, I ask anyway: "What would you want to be, if you were born in another century?"
"A rockstar in the sixties." I object, having of course meant pre-1900, but he just laughs. "That was another century."
I'm curious though. It's about the last answer I'd expect of him, and I ask: "Would you really want to be a rockstar?" I've dated a few wanna-be rockstars in my day. Timo is nothing like a wanna-be rockstar.
"No. Not really at all, actually." And I believe him.
"I read a quote from Alain de Botton the other day. 'Proof of good parenting is that your child doesn't want to be famous.'"
"What, because they'll have gotten enough attention growing up?"
"Exactly." Without saying it explicitly, I know we both agree with the theory, and that feels important for some reason.
The whole evening still open to us, we decide to catch a movie. Guardians of the Galaxy 2 (we both loved the first). On the walk over to the theatre, on the pedestrian overpass bridging an outdoor mall, Timo playfully races a toddler pushing his little sister's stroller. When the boy suddenly leaves off and stumbles in another direction, Timo sets off immediately after him, until the kid's dad calls him back. It takes me a second to understand: the little boy was headed towards some stairs. I stare hard at my boyfriend's profile as we continue on, but he just keeps his eyes straight ahead, refusing to take in my wordless praise.
On the front steps of the Performing Arts Center, we come across a man walking his Golden Retriever puppy. I gasp; the dog is utterly gorgeous. The man sees my face and before I can even get out the words May I pet your... he's whirled himself and the pup around so I can kneel down and say hello. The puppy gives me a quick kiss on the face, then seats himself calmly without even having to be asked. I stroke his neck and back, stunned nearly speechless by his sweet brown eyes.
"How old?" My heart is pounding.
"Ten months." I nod, then shake my head. "He's amazing." It's all I can say. Even Timo is impressed, chiming in, "Beautiful."
Then they're gone. Ten seconds' worth of interaction at most, but I'm destroyed. Timo sees me turn away, tears forming, and pulls me into a hug. "That was stupid," I say to his chest. "I don't know why I do that to myself."
"Why wouldn't you?" he says sharply. "The dog was beautiful." I know the impatience in his voice, and what it means. It means, No, Ellie, you're not giving up on anything you love in this world, just because it sometimes hurts. It's a sentiment I've needed to hear before. It's one he's willing to offer up again and again, until I get it.
Before the movie we get ice cream. Cold Stone Creamery. He's never been. I excitedly point out the frozen slab of marble, explain the process. "You can get as many different things as you want. They'll smash it all up and mix it in." Our eyes are already bigger than our stomachs, but the portions are enormous regardless. We sit and scoop our indulgence on a bench outside the creamery, the setting sun streaking the plaza in ribbons of cold white light.
"This is obscene," he criticizes happily. "In Germany this would be a third as big."
"That's so there's room to put the sauerkraut on top." I am leveled by my own joke, and howl with laughter.
"Think you're clever much, do you?" The dimple reappears.
On the way home, I lean across the console, turning my face into his arm. He's wearing one of my favorite sweaters. Lightweight, loose knit, wheat-colored. I breathe in the smell of him and sigh. When I pull away so he can more easily change lanes, he objects. "No no, come back." Lays his arm over my shoulders. Strokes my elbow softly. It's gotten late and we're both tired, but the drive home goes quickly.
It's just Long Beach. Just a walk around the waterfront, some lunch, a movie, and ice cream. But it’s more than enough for me.
Nigel
March 13, 2018
The landlord I have right now is my favorite landlord I have ever had. He is also far and away the worst landlord I have ever had.
He's inept in the extreme. Toothless in a residential conflict (of which there have been many). Useless in a maintenance crisis (of which there have been many). Almost always unavailable. But I can't help it. I love him.
His name is Nigel, and I refuse to change that to protect him, because he is the Nigelest Nigel you could ever know. He's British. Yes that's right: my landlord is a Brit named Nigel. I bet I could stop right there, because I bet you already love him, too.
Nigel is short, sixty-ish, slightly pot-bellied, with reddish hair and ruddy skin. He wears glasses and is partial to navy and grey track suits, though I can't imagine Nigel runs much track.
It was Nigel who clinched the deal, when I was considering moving to this building.
I'd gone through a third party rental service, one run via a very cute website I'd stumbled across. The service hosts a limited, carefully curated selection of stylish but affordable spaces across LA's various neighborhoods. But the girl who handled my listing was supercilious, impatient, and moody -- awful. From day one I wanted to tell her to take a flying leap -- but I wanted the apartment, bad.
When I finally came to view the unit, she turned the pressure up, big time. There were other interested parties, I had to move fast, etc etc. She stood there in the doorway, portfolio in hand, all but tapping her toe at me. I had half a mind to bolt when Nigel came tapping at the door.
"Oh, hello," he popped his head in. "I'm Nigel, the building manager." He stuck out his hand and smiled his funny, shy little smile. I'd come to know it over the next year as the same one that appears whenever he cracks a joke (of which there have been many). Nigel stood quietly nearby as my would-be leasing agent reiterated the building's amenities (of which there are few).
I ignored her and turned to Nigel. "Do you live in the building?"
"Yes, I'm on the third floor. Anything you need at all, I'll give you my number, just text anytime."
Live-in building managers are a good sign in my book. I felt myself deciding. The lure of having this sitcom character as my landlord was too great.
Then he piped up again: "Do you know, if you take this unit, you'll get free internet?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Yeah, it's the only one, and only because you're right above the laundry room modem. I've tried it myself. I don't know how strong the signal is, but I suppose if you're close enough to the door..."
And the rest is history.
Well, no. The rest is shit story, because almost immediately after I moved in, disaster struck. Check that: disasters.
There was the time my bathroom roof caved in due to a plumbing issue in the apartment above. And if you're thinking Oh no, I hope it wasn't... it was. It was that, exactly. Nigel's response? A lot of hand-wringing, exclaiming Oh dear, and an infuriating refusal to commit (without his boss's approval) to the expense of a 24-hour emergency plumber. Repair that took days longer than it should have.
There was the time water started pouring from my kitchen ceiling...through a light fixture. Nigel's response? Disbelief that another plumbing issue would strike again, and so soon, and only my apartment. Assurances that no electrical fires were possible. Repair that took days longer than it should have.
There was the time Timo -- having accidentally taken my key and returned to hide it outside my window while I was at work, hid it a little too well -- and Nigel had to be summoned to produce a spare. His response? He'd not properly labeled his copy of my key, and wasn't sure which of several dozen it was. Famished and exhausted from work, I sank to the floor in the drafty hallway outside my door, fantasizing about my fridge and my bed. My bumbling, embarrassed landlord tried key after key after key, chatting me up amiably the whole while, as if we were having a cozy afternoon tea instead of fighting with a deadbolt at 11pm on a Sunday. He felt worse about how cold and tired and hungry I was than anything else, and eventually insisted I wait in the model unit across from my own while he called a locksmith. Nigel came in to find me curled up tightly on the tiny love seat, clutching the (inflatable) bed's flimsy coverlet, the world's most miserable lockout. He offered to order me a pizza.
When The Great First Floor Feud of 2017 broke out (long story short: I had an unbelievably inconsiderate, chain-smoking, music-blaring, offkey-singing asshole of a neighbor), Nigel did not have my back.
When multiple residents decided it was cool to use the patch of stones underneath my window as their dog's personal WC, Nigel did not have my back.
When one of my asshole neighbor's friends stole my doormat and it was caught on camera, Nigel did not have my back.
And yet.
There was how he was with Chaucer, and how Chaucer was with him. And if I've said it once I've said it a hundred times - the way to my heart is through my dog's heart. Always will be. Also: regularly hearing my doggo's very English name pronounced with a very English accent? Priceless.
There is his unfailing self-deprecation. There is his pure, unselfconscious and utterly organic British humor, which will catch me off guard in the most welcome moments, such as when I'm feeling a bit low. There is the fact that he's the only person in this building who routinely receives packages from Barnes and Noble. There is the fact that he managed to secure a lease renewal for me at a zero dollar increase. That's zero, nil, nothing, nada.
And there is the fact that every so often he'll stop on the stairs outside my door, hang out for a moment while I'm coming or going, and randomly open up about his personal life. About his friends in the valley, who are lovely, but who have rather annoying children, to be honest. About the family he's going home to see, but could probably just as well do without, thanks very much. About whatever.
When Nigel gets Nigelly, you can easily see what's underneath. A very sweet, very funny, possibly lonely but overall well-adjusted fellow living abroad who's ok with being the odd one in.
And I'm glad he's in where he is, in America, Los Angeles, Koreatown, 90020.
City Cinema
April 9, 2018
A man and a woman are sitting in a car outside the grocery store, parked within the pool of the store's fluorescent light. Their eyes are closed; her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. They could be at a drive-in movie, or taking in the view on Mulholland—oblivious to anyone or anything else. I only see them for a split second as I'm walking by, and their expressions don't betray whether they are in the throes of bliss or the depths of consolation. Whatever it is, they look for all the world to belong together, and to feel safe in that belonging.
From the side entrance of a restaurant, a man emerges, carefully navigating his road bike through the doorway. Over his shoulder I catch a glimpse of the kitchen: just-scrubbed pots, stacked sacks of rice, the mess of day's cooking slowly being cleared away. He lights a cigarette as the restaurant's manager steps outside, carrying a chair. Standing on the chair, the manager reaches up to click off a neon OPEN sign. One click makes the sign pulse. A second click sends ribbons of blue and red racing round the letters. A third click and the sign goes dark. The two men exchange the briefest of words and nods. Then one goes in and one goes on, and I am driven further into never ending cinema of the city.
Kaleidoscope
August 31, 2018
My skin is sparkling, I have just realized. Tiny flecks of coruscating color: pinks and silvers, blue-whites and white-blues. I'm laying on my back, holding my right arm skyward, looking down (up) the length of my bare wrist. High above me are the treetops of the small olive grove where Timo has helped me set up camp on a twin-sized mattress we carried out from the house. The sheet on the mattress is a repeating vine-and-leaf pattern, the greens and golds of which perfectly match the greens and golds of the olive grove. Just a coincidence. Just a delightful coincidence.
I let my eye move slowly along the path of my skin, drinking in the supernatural flashes of color. This is the acid taking hold, I know. In my mind, I will it forward. I open myself up to it and dare it to do its worst. Right now, during the preamble, I'm unafraid, hungry for the unimaginable joys it holds. Slowly, slowly, I absorb the realization, as my body absorbs the chemical. And as reach my palm, I let my fingers uncurl towards the sunny canopy above. And oh my god, here it is. My fingers stretch out and reveal themselves to be thirty feet long, capable of touching the tips of the trees.
Laughter and wonder.
My boyfriend’s face appears over me. He's come down from the porch (where he's set up his own camp) to check on me. His features are slightly distorted, but it's nothing frightening. I've only taken one hit this time, about a third of my usual dose. This is just a gentle ride through the stratosphere. I doubt I'll get much further up than the outer edges of the cosmos. I certainly won't be diving into any psychological black holes today, that I can already tell, from how mellow the onset is. No rocket ride up. Just a smooth, slow, stardust-strewn launch.
"I'm fine," I assure him with a smile. "I'm great."
I stay in this space for what seems like hours, but will later prove to be only about half of one. At my request, he brings me things. I want colorful things. I want something pink. He brings me a toothbrush holder and a lipgloss. But both are manmade, and therefore ugly. "Take them away," I beg. He tries again but there are no pink flowers in the yard or the driveway of the house we've rented for the weekend. Instead he offers me a selection of small leaves, twigs, buds, and other bits of the landscape, chosen for brightness of color, or intricacy of shape. My favorite is a finger-sized bottlebrush-looking sprig, with tiny milky blue facets at the ends. The texture and color blow my mind, and I twirl it with fascination. Really, I don't need much more than this beauty.
For once, I am lucid enough to be able to self-assess, objectively. I'm definitely tripping, but I'm in control of my facilities. I can steer this thing, a little bit. On a visit to the bathroom (always slightly challenging on acid), I become suddenly aware of the music we've been playing, across two speakers (one at Timo's camp, one at mine). It's ODESZA. It's perfect. So perfect in fact, that I need it closer to me, louder. I pick up one of the speakers and hold it against my ear on my way into the house. When I have to set it down to actually pee, I realize this will never do. I can't be that far away from it, ever again. Back outside, I hand the speaker to my boyfriend.
"Put this in my head," I say, because it's the best way to explain what I need. Pretty high himself, he blinks.
"Put me in this song," I clarify. And my boyfriend, acid trip babysitter extraordinaire, understands. He plugs headphones into his phone for me and I happily traipse back to my camp, eager to see how this new dimension of stimulation will unfold.
Well.
There is a reason I take LSD once or twice year. There is a reason I feel I actually *need* to, because it constitutes a sort of psychological reset. Put simply: I need to visit the wonderland. I need to remember that the world can be this beautiful. Months and months of getting saturated by all that is ugly in life. The sickening realities of politics and economics. The physical death of the earth. LSD pulls back a curtain and reveals another place, full of hope and wonder and possibility and heartbreaking beauty. It makes me believe that it's all worth it, that at the end of the day the universe holds purpose and meaning.
I lay and listen to the same song, over and over and over. "Late Night." I gaze up at olive branches and know peace. Laughter bubbles out of me. It's the color. I can't believe I ever thought there were just a few colors here, or that the landscape was drab. The geometry of the ground is captivating. Dropped olives the color of blackberries, fallen leaves like little gold coins. And above, shafts of yellow sunlight weave through blue sky. I'm gripped by how gorgeous it is, and float away on thoughts of love. I'm clear-headed enough to text several of my friends. (The colors on my phone are heaven itself.) To Mason I say
I'm tripping on acid right now and here is what it is
I cannot go much further in life without knowing I've done everything in my power to persuade you
It is so beautiful
You need to know
Everyone needs to know but especially you
I'm crying. My boyfriends’ face appears again. I try to explain. "It's so beautiful. And it's right here. I wish everyone could know. It's right here." He smiles and brushes his hand against my cheek and then lets me be alone in my reverie. He knows this is the breaking-through - the reset that I was looking for.
Loving, laughing messages come back from the friends I've texted, and they feel like stars falling on me. Sparks of light and love. The tears in my eyes only make everything more beautiful, splintering the scene a hundred-fold. A word comes to me: a kaleidoscope.
Minor Miracle
June 24, 2019
And then one day, you'll come home to a short, scribbled note. Just six words, plus your name, plus his. And this note will be confirmation that everything you felt all weekend, during the marathon three nights you spent with him, wasn't just in your head. And it'll stop you dead where you stand, next to the lamp where you read it with a smile. Because you know all too well that time has a way of taking things eventually, every last thing you love, because that's just how it seems to go.
But in this moment, time can't do anything. Time can't reach you at all. In this moment, all that exists is the undeniable reality that someone is in love with you. And that's a choice he's making, despite all the reasons he could choose not to. There are a hundred things about you that make you - that make any of us - an imperfect choice. But he doesn't care about those things. Instead he's focused why he should, why he can, and why he wants to. That's a minor miracle. It's a triumph. It's the "I told you so" of all your friends who reminded you that awesome, amazing things you cannot predict are always just around the corner. It's beauty itself.
Which is why you don't move from where you stand frozen next to the lamp. You just let time stop all around you and meditate on the fact that in this instant, on this day, in this year of your one precious life, you are fucking loved.