I think of Olympic gold medalist Quincy Hall—the 400-meter race winner. I think of him ringing the stadium bell, his big gold grill smile, his hugging his crying girlfriend. While I relish the thought of victory on that scale, my immediate jealousy of this man comes from the fact that after he finished that single loop around the track, he got to stop running.
There has been a 400-meter dash in my head with no finish line—a race that loops around the track and around and around again—keeping me from sleep in the early mornings and laughter with friends. Most of all, it keeps me from the now.
That now is a tough place to find. We breathe deeply, breathe shortly, sing, exercise, listen to guided meditations from people with distinguished accents, drink, smoke, snort, shuffle, surf, and dance--all to get a taste of that now.
I’ve tried many things to stop this loop, but mostly I talk. I talk to whoever will listen. I talk and listen and talk and listen. I hope for reinforcement of my ideals while secretly praying for the invalidation of my misgivings. I receive heaping scoops of each, but neither seems to stop the race.
Excruciatingly aware of the privilege that is the gift of life, I carry a guilt around being so distant from the moment. As if my higher self is shaking his head at me like, “Bro… yolo.” My higher self wouldn’t say yolo, but you get it—he’s disappointed.
That higher self is extra bummed when he watches me hobble through a show at the beloved Spanish-style venue, El Cid, located on the famous Sunset Blvd. Struggling to connect to any presence of mind, “performing” feels phony. I play charades of a rockstar dude for 30 minutes. Sing this note, shake that way, play air bongos cause why the fuck not—disassociate.
It would be another week before I finally found it—a glimpse of that now.
Standing again on the corner of Sunset, where it intersects with Edgecliffe, I wait for the walk sign to illuminate so I can scamper to my car and go home. I had spent the last four hours talking and listening and talking and listening with my dear friend. She, gently glowing with new life inside of her, was generous with her afternoon, and of the reinforcement and invalidation I search for in every conversation, she gave both. And as she has done in many cases, she gave me clarity. In the past, she offered enough to comfort me, and this time, enough to shatter me.
As the air filled with the lavender of dusk and the promising gold of restaurant lamps and shop signage, the first wind of fall swept up the famous boulevard and wrapped itself around me. And there it was… the now, in all of its brutally hi-def nowness. Yeah, fucking brutal. But b eautiful in that it revealed itself.
I shudder to think what someone in a passing vehicle may have thought if they saw my face at that moment. It did not boast the smile of a gold medalist sprinter, but it was the look of someone who finally, if but for a moment, got to stop running. Maybe the sight of me startled them into some pursuit of their own now? Or likely they continued to sing along to whatever Chappell Roan song they had blasting through their speakers, paying no mind to that guy on the Silverlake street corner frozen in some hyper-dramatic surrender to yet another chilling turn of the season.
Your author would like to acknowledge the dour vibe of the last couple posts. While an apology would seem to undercut the truth (which is what I chase in writing) I do promise the wallowing will stop sooner or later. Till then, enjoy these photos by the wonderful Matt Kanzler, a friend who was able to capture exactly how I felt on stage at El Cid that night.
💙