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Snow stopped falling and the sun came out once again, melting icicles.
I walked around in the morning again with my camera. I thought long and hard about what I was to take back from this trip. There were no special moments and certainly no new revelations. I still was as I came.
Back in LAX, I called up my sister to pick me up instead of taking the limo back to OC with the rest of the group. I told my sister I could not stand another minute as a member of a group. She said I have a personality defect. I shrugged and replied, "whatever."
Day 4, 8:38 AM MST
The night was sleepless. My emotions went on a turbulent ride, sometimes despondent, sometimes resentful, sometimes enraged, my poor little heart still hurting through it all.
With the sound of morning alarm I headed out the door with my Nikon. Snow shower was just starting. Last time I saw snow falling, I was in Tehachapi with an old friend. An Alaskan Malamute named Char came to greet us. My friend taught me proper Buddhist way to bow. I took many pictures with my 35mm, eventually titling one "Snow Flower." Shortly after this trip, my friend of eighteen years and I parted ways. Three years and some months have past since.
Snow fell heavier and heavier as day grew old.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, I lied to my mother. She called and, detecting grogginess in my voice, she asked if I was still sleeping. I said I was just taking a nap.
I took a leisurely walk to Main Street and found a little coffee shop. With a cup of Americano and a brownie I found an outdoor seating in the sun. I took out Raymond Carver's book from my camera bag and started reading. I sat there and read three of his stories. I folded corner of a page of a story titled "Careful", where it read,
At first, he couldn't remember anything noteworthy. Then he remembered eating those doughnuts and drinking champagne. Time was when he would have considered this a mildly crazy thing to do, something to tell friends about. Then, the more he thought about it, the more he could see it didn't matter much one way or the other. He'd had doughnuts and champagne for breakfast. So what?
In Park City I learn there is little difference between alcoholism and depression.
On this day, I am that man of oil and tempera trapped in Munch's painting, letting out haunting eternal scream in silence.
I'm tired. Each breath feels like a chore.
The Scream, Edvard Munch, 1893
I'm looking outside the window.
Gusty winds of late winter storm cleared the smog away and all the city lights are flickering gloriously, ever reminiscent of Peter Alexander paintings. I would love to go for a drive along La Cienega towards Inglewood, down Imperial Highway, then along Vista del Mar, my favorite driving course. It is a perfect night for it. But alas, I can only look out the window like a puppy on a rainy day for I must stay and nurse my incessant cough.
Last time I was in this house, I thought it would be for the last time. I remember that last day I was here, a phone call I made that morning sitting as I do now in the same spot, looking out the window. Nothing had happened then. Or perhaps things had begun to happen and I could sense the inevitable end. In any case, I stood by the pool moments before leaving looking around, then looking up at the perfect blue sky I thought to myself--I may never be back.
But merely five months later, I am here again. The question of whether or not I am the person I was then--I will leave unaddressed for now. The dogs are sound asleep next to me. I see the familiar lights of downtown not too far beyond. This is as close to home as I am able to feel. And that's all I can think about right now.
It didn't hit me until I sat down on my seat and looked out the window of the plane that I was in LAX. Just beyond the boundary of the airport was a white building with a big sign on top that said "Otis." Oh my god, I'm in L.A., I thought. I looked around. This half of the plane was packed with people I had made acquaintance with in Orange County. It didn't feel right. This new life of mine that I took on with reluctance was too close to a place I still considered home. I felt lost.
Then the plane took off. A few thousand feet up in the air, I looked out the window again. Below was the blue waters of the Pacific. Far away inland was Century City. I thought about all things between those high rise buildings and this plane. Staring back at the city that fast miniaturized from my view, I feared I may never come back. The plane kept ascending while my heart went sinking.
That night in Park City, I began a sleep that would last fourteen hours.
Snow was everywhere. And more of it came piling on top. It kept coming through the day and into the night. It froze everything it touched, except for one thing I wished to freeze and leave buried behind.
Day 3, 3:08 PM MST
A thousand ways to die, a thousand ways to kill, the mind, the soul, that is mine.
On the edge of sidewalk curb she stands and waits. But wait for what? For the cars to stop so she can cross...or for a speeding car with absent-minded driver, distracted perhaps by a cell phone? Staring into oncoming cars, mounting thoughts tangling onto each other, her dress flowing with the wind of passing cars, she is Anna Karenina in her final moments.
Two thousand pound metal comes to a screeching halt...
What would the impact feel like? What sound would it make? How many million thoughts would go through the mind? At what precise moment would it shut down? And the mangling of the body...to what extent?
Hush now, close eyes and sleep, for another thousand deaths wait for me tomorrow.
It was just as I had seen in my vision, the first of three that I have had. There at the vestibule I stood, looking inside the chapel where afternoon sun filtering in through the stained glass windows cast warm soft lights on the altar. The church was only half full with guests who all stood and looked my way. Far away stood a man waiting for me. To my right stood his father, not mine, about to escort me down the aisle adorned with white organza. In white dress with small pearl trims, white satin opera gloves, white cathedral length veil draping over my bare shoulders and holding a bouquet of white tulips wrapped in white silk, I stepped out onto the white satin lined aisle, convincing myself all the while that the second vision I had just the day before--of impending divorce--was only an imagination.
That was five years ago today. Five years. It now feels no more than a remnant of memory from a life previous to this.
