Just Home…

I was house-sitting near Windward Circle last week. One night I went out to get a bite to eat. Before picking up some organic pink lentil soup and vegan coconut mousse at Seed, I took a stroll along the beach to watch the sunset then came back via the Boardwalk. There was a rock band made up of very thin and hip young men – all in very tight jeans – who were playing at the end of Westminster. They had a horn player, in particular, that caught my ear. I liked the song that was finishing. The sun was gone, only crimson dusk and baby blue left in the waning day sky. A gathered crowd was in a good mood, grateful that warm had returned to Southern California.

The singer – shirtless, standing next to a blonde guitar player – announced they were going to play one more song. An old black guy in a wheel chair and heavy green coat, sitting near me, made a sarcastic aside, “Oh now it’s the last song. The last one was supposed to be the last one…and before that, that was the last one.” He didn’t seem as if he wanted them to stop. I think he was annoyed that they were indecisive about when they were through.

Before they launched their final number, the singer – his hair cut so that it kept falling in his eyes – told us, in a European accent that might’ve been German, to look to our left, then to our right. “These are your new neighbors,” he informed us with the deep sincerity that only young boys, sure of who they have decided they are, can have. Regardless, of whether or not that friendly neighbor talk was real or just part of the show, I smiled. They were so young. Giddiness is fleeting, but sneaks up on you from time to time.

The Pink Floyd cover that came out next was barely tolerable, unfortunately, unlike the previous two songs I had heard. I lasted a few more minutes then headed back to the apartment.

The next day, I was walking dogs in Venice, near San Juan and Westminster, when a woman, with whom I was familiar from the neighborhood, called to me. She was holding two boxers by the collars. One of those boxers was red, but old with a lot of fur that had gone gray. The other, a female – was even older, white with sores on her belly.

The woman, in her 40s, had a walking cast on her left leg. She was of the Old Venice sort, a plucky, aging Granola gal kind of like me, I suppose.  ”Do you know whose dogs these are?” She explained that the boxers were out wandering.

“No, I have never seen them.”

“Can you help me? I don’t want them to end up in a pound.” They did not have tags and she wanted to put them in her car, so she could drive around the neighborhood. Though I knew old dogs like those would be put down in about five hours at a pound, I was a little nervous to assist, because the old female lab I was walking, did not always take to other dogs. But, she was fine. So, I held the grandlady boxer by the collar, while the woman put the other one in her car.

“Well,” I said, “you know they haven’t come from very far. An old gal like this can’t move that fast.”

“Oh, I know. They belong to someone close.” She took the other boxer from me, balancing herself on her good foot.

“I will look for open gates while I am walking dogs. If I see anything, I will let you know.” Pointing to the red boxer who had on a navy blue doggie jacket, “That one has a coat, so they haven’t been out very long.”

A half hour later, I hadn’t seen any houses, that looked as if they might have been security breached by a couple of curious, ancient canines. I told the woman when she stopped and asked. The dogs were still in the back of her car. She hadn’t had any luck in locating the owner either. “I’m going to take them to the vet and see if they have microchips,” was her next plan.

I found out later from a third party, who lived on that same street, that the dogs had been implanted with chips and they were returned to a grateful owner. I thought that a stranger in a walking cast had certainly gone to some trouble for a couple of really old animals that didn’t belong to her. That’s Venice. That’s any place where there is love. That’s home.

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Gone House Building…

Two days before Christmas, I took a stroll at sunset through a beautiful old cemetery, one of my favorite places. Built on the side of  hill on the very edge of Paris, Illinois, it is where I clear my head when I am home visiting. While I was walking, I came around the bend to see six white tail deer, as they were frightened by a car pulling through behind me. It is not uncommon to see deer in that graveyard this time of year. It is hunting season and they often seek sanctuary from rifle bullets and arrows where the town lays its dead to rest…

Looking through old photos while at my parents’, I remembered how we always had great Christmases, how much I missed my Grandpa Joe, how crazy and wonderful my Grandma Alice was.

During my visit, I became aware of more patterns that I had from my upbringing that were not necessarily good. My folks were a bit young and volatile when we started out. I remembered how my Grandma Toots could say any awful thing in the moment – true or not – to try and get what she wanted. Though I have never lived near her level of mean, I confronted my own cruelty with words when my anger runs too hot. I remind myself to be humble in my rage and not self-righteous, and to try to get a handle on my expectations.

When I was in my mid 20s, I had these numbers in my mind as to how old my parents would live. So, I came up with, what were astronomical figures at the time – 84 for my father and 92 for my mom. I would be in my early 60s when my father died and in my mid 70s with mother. At the time, it was so far away…

In twenty years, my father will be 84. God help me, I hope he lives at least that long, but twenty years is nothing. It will be gone in a flash. It kills me to think, even for a second, of a planet without my dad on it. But, that day will come. And as far as my mother’s death – she has been a constant source of light in my life and I couldn’t imagine I’d even want to be here without her.

Unless we are touched by it prematurely, we think for so long, that death is something that happens to other people. Or, something so far away, it might as well be forever. Some day, I will be dead. It’s not one of those things where you can beat the odds. It is inevitable. Everybody dies. If you are lucky, you live long and full.

Back in LA, I am busy – producing, maybe picking up a directing project, writing, still trying to learn the fucking guitar…finding a routine that will give me some structure and raise my productivity. And, I must get out and meet people. Been doing it. I want to do it. I am happy again. I am feeling adventurous, though a little tired from work. Also, I am coming to terms with all that I have missed due to my own bad choices.

I was out the other night, locally, and I caught some, not uncommon, Venice Beach dynamics among a crowd of older, long time residents – competition, little control and fragile self esteem stuff… I thought, you know, it is not my job to judge this. It is my job to sit here and love. Then, it is funny how your vision expands. I felt more heart and less ego. I saw myself in this woman who was much older than me:  Needing a certain kind of attention even when giving support; insecurity; wanting others to see the light inside and draw it out, instead of simply believing in it and offering…I let a lot of that go back in my mid 30s, but not in every aspect of my life…

When I used to be an actor, because of constantly auditioning, you get in a mentality of always trying to make the most of short windows of opportunity. There is a lot of work and sweat that leads to three minutes in front of some people who, by slim odds, might give you a job. Then it is over and you rarely hear a thing. And you get into this kind of  ”PICK ME” mentality, instead of driving choices for yourself. Doing theatre, it can be the same thing – short intense build up to a show that lasts two months or so. Stapled, safety pinned and glue gunned together, it only has to look good enough for stage, and if you’re lucky, manages to be entertaining.

These patterns are not how you build a life. Because of my impatience and need to prove I am smart, I have burned more than one bridge that may have led to a career opportunity. In the past several years, I find I rush things emotionally with men. I think that’s why I have had a lot of interactions with men who push things sexually – aging players or guys who need sex as some kind of validation. You get these extremes. They want to steam roll over me, so I blow them up. I have to be done with that. Too fucking old. I see now, how it’s usually not about one night or a magic moment like in the movies. It happens with work, friendship and mutual investment.

I can’t start all the way over. There’s no need really. I have picked a decent plot of land on which to build. The foundation is level and well poured. I’ve got good materials. It’s a little overwhelming at my age, but I have got to find the patience, focus and energy to construct a solid, comfortable house that will last into the long term future. Maybe it will take more time than I would like, but what I cannot afford is for my life to fall apart again, because it’s all shortcuts and slapped together.

Brick by brick as they say…I’ve got my truth. Now, I want the work.

Serving Breath

I stopped by the Talking Stick on Friday night to show my love for their Venice MoZaic series hosted by the lovely Audrey. I had a cappuccino and enjoyed one of the bands for about a half hour or so. Getting a little hungry, I decided I would head to Santino’s for a bite and check out Fabiano, one of their regular guitarists.

On my way out, I ran into a man from South America, a musician, who had been in this country for some years. He followed me to my car and asked if he could play my guitar. When he saw my standard factory Fender acoustic, he noted that he actually played Spanish Guitar, but he could still play mine. He did, beautifully, and he sang right on the street – to me and the night. I always love when Elizabeth is handled by a real musician. It makes me feel less guilty.

Then we kept talking, mostly about his personal life, which I will not get into, but to say it was heartbreaking and fascinating. In the beginning of the conversation, he revealed he was writing a book on economics. Then he went on to say that he found musicians in the United States were different than other countries in that, they were so absorbed in the music or the lifestyle of the musician, it was all there was, all they had. In other countries, he said, musicians develop their intellects and are more socially active and engaged outside of their own world.

Now, to be fair,  I do not think he meant the ENTIRETY of American musicians. He seemed as though he had been based in LA most of the time he’d lived here and, probably, specifically, Venice Beach. But from my observations of the local scene and certain aspects of the biz at large, I had to agree with him. I also thought, yeah, and they smoke too much pot and spend way too much time watching YouTube…

He went on to say that he did not know how he could continue to grow as a musician, for his composition to mature and his life to move forward, if he did not develop his intellect and spiritual life along with his musical skills. Again, I concurred. I had seen what extremely out of balance lives could do to brilliant musicians, how it negatively impacted their music and the people around them. And that goes for others, too…

I was reminded of my Chicago actor days. I fell in to being a legal secretary to support myself until the BIG DREAM came true. I got lucky and ended up with a boss who loved me and was very flexible with my actor life. I got pretty emotionally involved with the office where I worked. I also adored the partner whose office was next to my boss, and three out of four secretaries who sat next to my cubicle over the years.

Kind of a Polly Anna on crack, I was probably too involved, but I looked hard at the lives of the people around me and did my best to be, not just a good worker, but a positive influence. After all, 40 hours a week is a lot of time to simply not participate in being human. I often got angry with Chicago plays set in offices because I thought the characterizations of corporate life were incredibly thin.

Along those lines, I had a conversation with a young actor at a party once. We both revealed that office work was the primary way we ate. I mentioned that I loved the people I worked with. To which he replied, “Oh! I know what you mean.”

“What do I mean?” Since I thought it was a pretty straightforward statement, I wondered at how he had interpreted it.

“You mean you love what you observe and learn about character. You love what you can use, what you get out of those people.”

“No…Uh…I really love the people I work with.”

“Wow! You mean you actually like those people!?!”

And I thought, how can you be a good actor if you are standing back, never engaging in life, so that you are always recreating a false experience? How can you be a good actor if you are always judging the very people it is your job to portray? What kind of artist puts himself above the audience? Why do so many seem to prefer worship over love?

We like fame in this country. When I was an actor, I dreamt of fame. In that field, it was the highest level of success. Not only that, it would validate my existence, all my life choices. When I did not achieve much worldly success as an actor, my sense of self worth suffered, but it did not completely tank. Though I may have neglected certain parts of my life for my art, I never hid in it. I never ran away from my responsibilities and the messes I had made. I never saw my work as a justification to use outsiders as food or to perpetuate some narrow minded master plan against my enemies.

When I am at my happiest as a writer and performer, it is when I know that I have chosen a life of service. When I am in balance in that life, I am at peace and I always have everything I need. That’s a good life. And like any good life, it starts with love, it starts with truth. Breath first, then creation…So simple, why do we so easily forget?

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Feisty

A man called her feisty.

He said he liked feisty women.

It was a compliment, so it was ok.

 

She had stopped being offended by feisty,

And other so-called compliments like

Fiery, spunky, plucky, spirited…

That some chose to say.

 

Life is too short for excuses to hate men.

Besides, they are harder to fuck that way.

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Conversations with Indiana Musicians

When I visited the Midwest a couple of weeks ago, me and the family took a little trip within a trip. My parents live in Illinois on the Indiana border. My father rented an SUV and me, him, Mom, Brother and his Gal, and a Dog all headed to Southern Indiana. We went to a couple of beautiful state parks, including Clifty Falls; visited the Thomas Family Winery in historic Madison along the Ohio River; and, stayed at a really cool, super dog friendly hotel in Columbus.

Down in Nashville, Indiana – a quaint and groovy little tourist town – we hung out at a Microbrewery. (There was an unfortunate incident with Bubby, our Boxer, but I won’t get into that). They had live music on the patio, a singer/guitarist was featured.

“Who’s he sound like?” Dad leaned over to play his Betcha Don’t Know Game.

“Neil Young.” Of course I knew. Who the hell else sounds like Neil Young?

When the musician went on break, I chatted with the lanky, around fifty, slightly built, nerdy redneck with a buzz cut, wearing old jeans and thick glasses. “That was great! Do you play here all the time?”

“Oh yeah,” he had one of those wonderful Southern Indiana accents that non-Midwesterners would mistake for Kentucky. “I play all over. In Columbus and all the bars.”

“And you work? You like it?”

“There’s work, sure, but it’s competitive. Guys pulling crazy shit…But I don’t do it for the money or the attention…”

“You do it because you have to.” I knew exactly how to end that sentence. I’d heard this all somewhere before.

“Yeah.”

My folks were getting ready to leave, so I said a quick farewell. As the family was heading back to the car, I lingered to look at the old timey buildings. From behind me, absent-mindedly uttered, “I need to smoke a bowl.” I turned. It was my Hillbilly Neil. “Oh man, what the hell am I saying?” he touched his hand to his forehead. He was right about that. It was still Indiana.

“Oh honey. I’m from Venice Beach. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

A little bell dinged inside his head, “I grow it in mason jars and in with my potted plants.”

I smiled and considered following him. I think that is why he had uttered his intentions out loud. The happenstance tone was merely to make it seem accidental. You have to be careful with musicians. Very, very careful. They know all about striking chords.

“Gotta catch up with my Dad,” I waved and trotted to my family.

A couple days later, when we had returned from our trip within my trip, I had dinner in Terre Haute, Indiana at TGI Fridays with my childhood friend and her family. This is a very different part of Indiana. Not much tourist appeal to the stinky Wabash River, the Creosote plant and the place where they electrocuted Timothy McVeigh.

Regardless, dinner at the mall was wonderful. The company is all that counts. I had not seen my friend’s mother in twenty years. Her sister was so funny and delightful, I couldn’t get over it. I never remembered her that way, but then, I hadn’t seen her in three decades. What the hell had I known as a child?

My friend has two sons, one who is a wrestler and getting ready to enter college. I had been reading all about him on Facebook. The older one is a musician who plays nine instruments, including guitar, banjo and mandolin. I had not know this last fact, until that day.

I loved this young boy, a wonderful pale teddy bear, his shoulders thrust up to short red hair and sideburns, rolling his back into the accident baby’s “I’m sorry I’m here” posture – a held physicality I know all too well. He is married to his childhood sweetheart, the young woman he has been with since they were fourteen. He is an atheist, but not the angry kind. A gentle young man who pays close attention, he has to understand before he believes.

“So, do you play with a band?” I asked, wondering why someone like him would be in this part of the Midwest. As I had observed in Southern Indiana, around Brown County and IU, there is actually a decent music and art scene. But again, we were in Terre Haute…the “armpit of America” as Steve Martin once dubbed it.

“I had a band at school, in Florida. We recorded out in San Diego.”

“You don’t play with guys around here?”

“Well…” my new young friend lowered his eyes in genuine humility and softened his voice to match, “It’s hard to find guys around here who play at my level.”

“I bet.” Something about him made me trust, implicitly, his self assessment. I knew he was talented.

He went on to the second major issue, one not exclusive to geography, “And, then a lot of guys just want to sit around and smoke pot. So we don’t make any music.”

“I can see that.”

“Or…” and I should have seen this coming, but I forgot where I came from, “They just want to play Metal.” There was a little nausea in his throat.

“Of course they do.” I almost laughed, but the thought of this poor young man and his banjo and a Death Metal Cover Band in some forty year old guy’s mother’s garage…

I told him a few funny musician stories and quotes from guitarists I knew in San Francisco and LA. My young friend shared some secrets of the trade, confirming long held suspicions I had about his sort. So sweet, so open and so honest…I so enjoyed his youth.

“Get out West!” the last thing I said to anyone right before I left, my belly full of Jack Daniel’s salmon and fried cheese. Even if I am scared of how it will change him, I recognize a fish who was born into the wrong pond.

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Guitarist in the Yard

Last night, I awoke, naked, to discover a guitarist in the yard.

Hiding under Grandma Toots’ orange and green afghan, I tried to go back to sleep.

Slumber impossible through spotty plinking and the warbling of familiar melody,

I slipped into clothes, then under the stars to join a hearty throng of three.

 

Wood and strings screwed around on, adeptly, by a wasted man singing so loud,

I thought sure someone would call the police.

A beer spilling doggie tail sent bottles swooshing;

While Stairway to Heaven (picked as a joke near a hot iron stove),

Rolled laughter through good company.

 

Hitting my bed after midnight – in comfy pajamas -

Nothing on my mind, but the awesome surrender of sleep…

“We lost the crowd,” I heard murmured outside my window,

Just before I gave myself to dreams…

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Drift Away

I was almost evicted from my apartment about a month ago. Well, not almost, there was an attempt; but LA has great rent control laws and I am a lady who asserts her rights, so the whole thing kind of disappeared. It was still unsettling and got me seriously thinking about how the hell I am going to make something of my life.

When the attempted eviction initially happened, I was determined that I wanted to stay here. I was starting to sing and play the guitar, even going to open mics. My storytelling is finding an outlet. I was making new friends and thought I was finding some places where I fit in. With the threat of almost losing my home, staying in Venice became vital.

After all, if I had to leave the neighborhood or the surrounding area, not only would I be out of a home, but my business would disappear as well. I can only survive if I can bike through much of my dog walking route. It is not really a way for a 40 year old woman, with a college degree to live, but there you go…

If I have faith, if I am strong, I will find a way. That is what I kept telling myself and, after bandying around some possible solutions to finding a new place to live, the problem kind of went away. So, I was free to face Venice with a sense of discovery, with fresh eyes, with a fresh sense of self…a beautiful, confident woman for once in my life.

Then, I realized my guitar teacher was feeding me bullshit in a hustle for (not inexpensive) lessons. Emotionally manipulative out of immaturity and neediness, he meant no harm. So, I forgive and forget silly notions and move on, admitting I can never really trust what I feel here. You don’t encounter a lot of truth in LA, well at least not the pretty kind. After awhile, you lose your sense of it…

A dream is born and it is immediately covered in lies, your own as much anyone else’s, I guess. As happy as it made me, I can’t really sing. As perpetually late as it made me, I am not good on the guitar. My father keeps trying to tell me, when I play for him over the phone, but he can’t quite make himself. He can’t make himself lie to me either…

Me and the Old Man have always sucked at lying…Though some good old fashioned patronizing and being proud of me for trying might actually do me some good…Instead, I have spent much of this morning unconsciously chewing my callouses off.

Wandering around of late, I have been overwhelmed by how beautiful people really are, even though I stroll through kind of useless really. I don’t fit into Venice very well sometimes, a place in the world known for where people go, when they don’t fit in anywhere else.

Unwind a few tiny threads of my life and drift away…that would be nice…for a little bit, anyway…

Carried Away…

My imagination got carried away over this whole Silicon Beach thing. I have drifted in and out of other people’s dreams (or my obsessions with being a part of other people’s dreams), for quite some time. Not yet confident as a writer, I was unable to get a real bead on who I was. My own dreams have alluded me – not just in their pursuit, but in the actual formulation. I don’t think I planted any of my own seeds in Jamie’s Secret Venetian Silicon Garden.

I know Venice intimately, but from a distance, like a diligent and highly discreet stalker. (Though I have learned the hard way, not to make stalker jokes.) There was a time, back when I was unemployed and had only been a Venetian for a short while, that I was very happy in a state of blissful ignorance. I loved when the Canals were nothing but a big gorgeous house park, instead of a monument to gentrification. I loved when the Boardwalk was a carnival that held little interest, instead of a place that I consciously avoided.

My life in Venice Beach has been about birds, really.

Cranes, hawks, egrets, mockingbirds (an evil attack one lives on Amoroso), wild parrots (a whole freaking flock nesting in our palm tree), ducks (cheeky little bastards in the spring), swallows, geese, seagulls, pigeons, doves, crows, bluebirds, kestrels, pelicans (catching them in flight in the Canals with that wing span, still blows me away), hummingbirds…

My life is early morning fiction writing after yoga followed up with toast and strong, sweet coffee. My life is about insomniac nights, candles burning, Robert Johnson warbling Stones In My Passway, barely audible through my computer speakers, but fused with a haunting serenity nonetheless. My life is a little too lonely. That is mostly my fault. Sometimes I like it too much that way.

My life is about dogs. I lost one a few weeks ago. A beautiful lady black lab who was nine years old. She had a tumor on her heart and went so fast. When I go to the house to walk her surviving buddy, Ranger, I cry every single time. I’m crying now as I type this because I still cannot accept that I am never going to see her again. She was a good dog. I named my guitar after her. I still can’t play for shit, but the new Ms. Burton has an acknowledged spirit. That counts for something. As it turns out, that counts for everything.

My life is about bees and flowers. My life is about riding my bike to the ocean and watching the sun go down. My life is about singing when all the doors and windows are closed. My life is about walking to the Albertsons and saying hello to three or four folks along the way. Sometimes homeless guys manage to sleep in the brush surrounding the “Costco Compound.” Sometimes they even manage to set up a little camp. They never last long. Not only is it private property, it is technically Culver City where they don’t put up with that shit.

My life is about long phone conversations with friends, meeting for a drink, seeing a play or heading to a museum. My life is about my neighbors and a yard sale, a bag of mellow leaf and a fridge of Tecate that brings us all closer together. My life is about my family. My father so badly wants me to visit home.

I go to Starbucks for morning coffee when I don’t brew it myself. I would have preferred a local Mom and Pop for my regular joint, but none are within walking distance. Also, when a gal is up at 4am, there is something mighty nice about a place that unlocks its doors at 5:30am on the dot. Plus, the staff all knows me. They ask about my life. They were really excited about my cover story in the Beachhead.

I haven’t found much joy in many places, though the music and poetry are usually fabulous. People are not quite as alive as I had expected. There is a lot of sadness of which is spoken in the work, but not to each other.

Poetry nights at Beyond Baroque, a great band at the Talking Stick, something rare, but magical along the Boardwalk, walking around seeing all different kinds of folks…amazing stuff…But then there’s the old surfers and hippies who are always wanting a hug, which lasts way too long and/or involves a penis press and/or an ass grab. They bandy the phrase “Free Love” around like it is 1969 and that’s what they still mean.

In Venice Beach, it ain’t often about Free Love. Not anymore. It’s Free Fuck. Getting in, getting out and getting off – that’s howdy do Hollywood style. But, what do I care?!? It’s a free country. We all have to live in a body. Most of the time, people just want a fantasy.

What I do care about; however, is the lie that covers it all up, the pretty graffiti we slap all over that hard, exposed, entitled cock and say it’s art and, therefore, love. Those lies are something we don’t talk about in Venice Beach. Just like the rest of America, we don’t really call things what they are. We are no less hypocrites here than folks are anywhere else, we just have a good soundtrack.

There are a lot of things in Venice I would like to see change, but who the hell am I? I was proud to stand up for Free Venice in the Beachhead after that loaded Town Hall. Free Venice has a voice that needs to be heard and it was unfairly ambushed. But, I am certainly not that voice. I have not been here long enough and am not embedded in its history. I am in love, but not attached.

I am a bird watcher. I pray and meditate and lose myself in God on my best days. I lose my temper and yell at sanitation workers, who are blocking the one-way street with their truck on my bad days…

I am a happy woman who could be much braver in sharing her happiness, face to face, instead from behind a word processor. I could do much better living my life and I plan to do just that.

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Silicon Beach: Resurrection of the Artist as Hero

This one is a little weird to me after some time has past. I actually have to convince myself that I wrote it. Not all of it makes sense. I was really obsessed with Silicon Beach and then I wasn’t…

Silicon Beach has arrived in Venice. That is a fact. We cannot do the usual sticking our heads in the sand and flipping it the bird and make it go away. No. There is not enough graffiti in the world to cover it up. Silicon Beach is here to stay and it will continue to grow.

But, I am not afraid. Not yet, anyway. Here is why.

The Venice Creative Community could drive the winds on homelessness, diversity and other important social issues, which are coming to a head. This gives me tremendous comfort. Artists are extremely powerful. Now more then ever, they need to know it. They need to be organized and they need to hold the tech community accountable to its promise to merge with LOCAL talent. They need to feel as if they are vital in what is a life and death struggle.

There is a reason why all the crazy elements of Venice Beach result in such amazing creativity. Defining that reason, well good luck. All I can say is that our fucked up magic works, most of the time. The homeless are part of the drama, part of the struggle, part of the extremes from which artists draw. Not to mention, a lot of young artists, poets and musicians come here and do time on the street.

Once we decide we want the homeless out, who is next? We chip away at our own souls and then we can’t create. The art dries up, the music stops and the whole reason tech came here in the first place is a bust. We all lose, but boy doesn’t the Old ‘Hood look awful shiny for a little while.

And, of course, even if those who want to keep Free Venice get our way, we still have HUGE homeless problems to solve. We have to at least try to help others understand, with patience and grace, for it is we who are the host. We need our hearts and there is not a lot of reason. We just need them.

We live in a country where we have lost so much culture and beauty. We have lost our ability to come together in love, though we can unite in anger and outrage. It is like we all are so worried about when we’re each going to get our own fifteen minutes, we can’t fully celebrate someone else in the height of his or her glory.

I see it, even in Venice, when there is too much competition between so many artists clamoring for attention. I go to an opening where a brilliant musician shyly provides ambience, apologizing for being in a room, when he or she should be surrounded by attuned open hearts. I see some festivals with lower attendance and less making merry than I would expect from wild Bohemians…

Tech possesses enough of a soul to know we have something they need. They just don’t quite know what it is. Or, if they know what it is, they don’t get why we have it and they don’t. I think some of them believe they can hover nearby and pick it up osmosis style. Or, absorb it from our bones as they suffocate Free Venice and make what remains into what they think they want. Some of them want to be us and let go into the freedom we know.

That’s why we have to own who we are, in a way that brings us together, in a way that flares the fire in our bellies into a collective pyre. And yes, that includes the tech folks. It is NOT about losing our individualism. It is about building a solid infrastructure inside which all our individualism is safe for generations to come.

Whether or not anyone wants to hear this, in these parts, Free Venice is the establishment. It has shifted from the counter culture to the local mainstream, simply as a result of time. Free Venice has remained true to its core values and endured. This is one reason why, energetically, Google can be an ally: The shared understanding of what it means to endure and, more importantly, to continue to endure.

The old paradigms don’t work the same. Like Terrorism is an elusive enemy, identifying “the Man” in these modern times is often tricky. While we’re all distracted by the friendly Google giant, who is not really interested in eating our babies, some of these lone wolves (who don’t get us) are munching on our goats in the middle of the night. That is not to say that a friendly giant can’t still be clumsy…

Under the old rules, it seemed more natural to worry about the establishment and embrace the rogue. That now has to be done on a case by case basis. Due diligence is a necessary bitch. Thank God, we have Occupy. We will need help communicating.

The thing about Google – they have an international reputation to maintain. They don’t want to be seen as the company that came to Venice Beach and destroyed diversity, creativity and art. They want to support those things in our community that both work and give them a shiny image. There’s actually quite a bit on which to draw. We need to think, carefully, as a community how to leverage such power. How do we use this new kid on the block (who wants to make nice with the neighbors), to our greatest advantage?

Well, Google offered a diversity pamphlet at the Town Hall entitled The Black Community at Google. Oh, gee, by chance we have a bit of a struggling Black Community in Venice. Why don’t we get some stronger outreach? See if we can get some folks qualified for entry level tech jobs and the anticipated supporting industries. See if we can identify potential local entrepreneurs. Maybe our young startups can help with a little mentoring. Raise the income, knowledge base and resources for people already in the neighborhood and we curb the loss of diversity. We anticipate and use our creativity to prepare.

For that, we need leadership within the community. Calls to action are so important. Answering those calls that speak to your soul are even more important. We need focus. We need archetypes. We need vision. We need good followers. We need inspiration. We need music. We need hope. And, as anything that has lasted and will continue to last, we need change.

We need to figure out how to celebrate all that has endured about Free Venice in the today. We need to be honest about who we are, even if some of what we are isn’t terribly pretty. We need to own our story. Whether we have been good or bad, we sure in the hell have been interesting. We need a healthy sense of humor about ourselves and others. We need to let go of those things that no longer work, even if they were important to us in the past. And on some days, after we have worked really hard, we need to let EVERYTHING go.

Like it or not, we have to decide now if the Free Venice Culture is playing itself out, in the final stages of one hell of a run; or, is there an essence, a heart beat, a philosophy, blood, guts, eyes, a voice that will endure because arthritic hands have been replaced by fresh ones, tired feet just got some shiny new shoes, and a very old soul suddenly found itself inside a young body? To speak in Modern Tech: How do we define our brand so that it is embraceable, impenetrable, open to growth and, because we all have to eat, marketable?

For our creative community, that is the task at hand. As tech rains down, you must build the ark that can hold us all. Artists are the heroes lying in wait. We can set an example for the entire world. We can start the future with love.

And if the ship fucking sinks, we go down in one glorious party…To live who we are without fear, that sounds like win-win to me…

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Urban Nature III: Sun, Moon, Sky and Venice Beach

I spend a lot of time looking up. A natural dreamer, I often stare at the heavens and imagine myself there – always a different version, of course. Maybe instead of an actor, I should’ve studied to be an astronaut. Somehow, we all seem to find a way to escape around here.

Every once in awhile, no matter how much one might love Venice, you need a change of scenery. Taken atop LA, in Topanga Canyon, during a hike with one of my dearest friends, if you look really hard, there’s the Santa Monica Pier jutting into the Pacific. Venice is just to the south…

From the High Rooftop Lounge of the Hotel Erwin, a favorite spot to have a drink and watch the sun go down. Just be careful of crazy, skinny redheads who desperately need a cocktail and maybe a little something something extra.

Taken on a private rooftop, I was house sitting and enjoying the amenities.  It was back in March when the Venus-Jupiter conjunction was so visible in the night sky. Though hard to spot, the two planets are hanging out together at the top of the photo.

We had an absolutely spectacular sunset last autumn following an unusual afternoon of thunderstorms. I took about a hundred pictures and this is one of my favorite. If you look closely, you can see the eye of God – and the nose, upper lip, and maybe a little bit of His beard.

A few weeks ago, out for a late evening stroll, I snatched a waning crescent moon rising above the treetops. Ah to sleep, perchance to dream…

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee