The Pad

I went disguised as a writer. I was carrying glasses, laptop, pens, and a yellow tablet. If I put on my reading glasses, I might be convincing. I had found the red brick building, deep in the mysterious industrial zone of downtown L.A. It had no door. It had a gate, which rolled open if you said the right thing, to the right person, after pushing the right button. Aha! I gained entrance. Three flights up the fire escape, and I was in. The Writing Pad.

The door opened to shoes. Many shoes. Bare feet evidently enhanced either the experience or the shine on the blond hardwood floor. I sidled my Sketchers up against a masculine pair of New Balance. The floor was smooth, cool and clean on my feet. I stepped in.

Just past the white bed,on the left, a computer hutch and stacks of books defined a work area. To the right, a rectangle aburst with sunlight shining through gauzy curtains defined a mysterious space, with a couch.

I was immediately drawn to this veiled and lighted space, curious to know what mystical acts were performed in there that required more care in privacy than the bed. A peak revealed vaulting floor-to-ceiling windows and, yes, a couch. Then, the answer: Huge canvases asplash with colors, all colors, bold colors, bold shapes. Multiple easels and stacked canvases. A place to worship to the artistic process and nature’s sunlight.

Beyond, working towards more huge windows, were couches and chairs, a fireplace, and about a dozen people lounging everywhere, on the couches, on the chairs, on cushions, on the floor. Everyone was barefoot, and had something to write with and something to write on. In a corner kitchen, the hosts shared their morning coffee. Kindred spirits, surely.

So here I was amidst writers, not knowing quite how I got there, nor what I was going to do. I was in another world, in an artist’s loft. The building used to be a mattress factory, and yet here now were fifty artists creating art -- and me.

This space was everything. It defied norms, boundaries and separations. It was workplace and bedroom merged. It housed both a private life and a public life. All was skylit. Walls did not exist. Everything was movable. Chairs glided, the bookshelves rolled, cabinets shifted.

Here was a place where minds could change, hearts could roam, and spirits could investigate. And here I was. And so, there was just one thing to do. I began to write.

Tables and Taxes

I got up in a perfectly good mood and went downstairs to make a good, hot cup of tea. I approached my dining room table, but did not sit down. I glared at it. Emotions surged through my hands and I gripped the cup hard. Anger boiled. Rebellion built. Insurrection screamed.

The table was completely extended, big enough to serve a dinner party of 10. But no one was going to come and laugh and clink wine glasses, oh no. Not until the contents of this table, the piles of checks, the stacks of forms, the calculator, the checkbook, that covered every inch of its oaky surface, were cleared. No, not until the day of reckoning came. That day would come when it all got bundled up, its pertinent numbers crunched on a form, and it all got carried to the Tax Man. There, it would then cover his table and our dinner could be served again.

Until the fateful meeting with the Tax Man, every day, I would look at this. Its stacks demanded attention, and were designed to bother me, and bother me they did. This was constantly what I was supposed to be attending to instead of whatever it was I was doing. It foretold checks to write, withdrawals, and the concocting of deductions. It was nothing good.

Why is it so much trouble to give money to Uncle? Not only do you have to pay your medical bills, you then have to find a year’s worth of medical bills, find a year’s worth of measley insurance payments, add them, subtract them, and itemize them—all in hopes of getting back money you have already given.

And then there is the accountant. By the time the whole family has had the taxes done, the accountant bill alone could have paid for half a year’s education for a third grader. Think of what this could mean to starving school districts.

Last night I had a dream about the dining room table. In that dream, a man with a tall hat was informing me that I needed to estimate how many breathes I took that year, subtract the number of mouthfuls of food I consumed, and estimate what I was going to owe in tax dollars next year. In that dream, I just went home and laid myself down on the dining room table, closed my mouth tightly and tried not to breathe.

I woke up with a great tenderness for all of the groaning dining tables across the great nation with their burden of papers, and all the suppers eaten as people crouched with their plates on their laps.

Just Do It

I’ve been on the slow path to recovery from a ruptured disc. Slow is always difficult for someone used to getting things accomplished efficiently. But slow affords the opportunity to better notice things along the way.

My inspiration this week has come in the form of a dog. He is a German shepherd named Nike. Nike has had a stroke and has almost totally lost the use of his hind legs. One of his hind legs flops on the ground as he walks, and has to be protected with bandages. The other one is completely inert.

Nevertheless, this dog walks. He walks twice a day, every day, on the Strand. Nike is a “Just Do It” dog. He also has a “Just Do It” human who gets him up and about every two hours, takes him to her real estate office with her everyday, and takes him on his glorious walks.

She has also done something else: She has found Nike his wheels. Nike walks with his hind quarters suspended by an ingenious set of rear wheels, hind leg supported in a soft sling. These WalkinWheels were created by Eddie, who has custom-designed ingenious contraptions for dogs, sheep, pigs, llamas and even – yes – chickens. Seeing will be believing, so check it out at www.eddieswheels.com.

Eddie has found a way to help. And Nike has found a way to “Just Do It”. I would guess that Nike doesn’t think too much about how he is doing it. He just gets up, gets out, and gets going. It may not be the way he learned to walk the first time around, but, by golly, he gets his strong front legs going and somehow the rest of the dog comes along. One day, one fantastic day, he even spotted a squirrel, hesitated just for a moment, and took off after that squirrel, running This dog knows how to live.

We may encounter injuries and setbacks. We don’t always feel we have what it takes. But if we can just find our wheels and believe in them, get up and get going, we can do it too.

Why Is the Toilet in the Hallway?

My friend Amelia, who is five years old, asks the most provocative questions. Her latest one was, “Why is the toilet in the hall?”

This question prompts complex philosophical inquiry. There are many ways to explain such a phenomenon, as exemplified below.

“Well, it’s better there than in the bedroom!” This is usually going to be true, depending of course on what goes on in the bedroom.

“You see, when you don’t know how else to fix your life, you tend to turn your attention to plumbing.” When in doubt, upgrade your flushing capacities; you can’t go wrong.

“Well, the time was right. We decided to remodel our daughter’s bathroom before she moves out. She will enjoy it for a whole two months. Carpe diem.” Carpe momentus stupido.

“Well, we didn’t know if we were selling or staying, so we decided to embark on a project to further confound ourselves.”

As for the psychotherapist’s take on the toilet in the hall, as long as nobody uses it, there should be no permanent psychological harm.

Why the toilet is still in the hallway? Because, madam, you’re not in as much of a mess as other clients.” This is cause for optimism.

None of my explanations quite seemed to impress Amelia. So I distracted her by showing her the marvels of the black hole in the floor, down which goes the poop. She gaped in amazement. Now this,this indeed, was a profound revelation.

Young at Heart

Never judge a person by her age. 

I have a friend who is truly young at heart.  It just seems to come naturally to her.  She is inquisitive, spontaneous, energetic and imaginative.  Her eyes sparkle as if she were on the brink of a discovery.  Although I’ve only known her for a few years, she accepts me like a life-long friend.  She delights in simple things, and her laugh gurgles like a fresh stream after a rain shower.  I simply feel young when I am with her.  Her name is Amelia. 

Last night, Amelia was my dinner guest.   Within minutes of walking through the door, she was on the floor hugging the golden retriever.  After a rousing game of tug and fetch, she was eager to help cook the meal.  Amelia gives me fresh insights on everything.  For example, she is the only cook I know who needs no spoons. Why use spoons when you have your fingers?  Mixing cornbread, applying marinade, no problem.  The set of ten tools you were born with are sufficient. 

Amelia is also a believer in “taste as you go”.  Although this has the potential of disaster to the recipe, the results are nevertheless excellent when the method is equally applied to all ingredients.  She will always be welcome wherever she goes: She is the only guest I know who gets as much pleasure from washing the bowls as she does from eating the food. 

She leads with her heart.  Her passion for pink inspired the utmost creativity with desert, transforming whipped cream, strawberries and vanilla yogurt into a dream-bowl of frothy wonderfulness. 

To top off a most illuminating culinary experience, we indulged in our mutual love of literature by reading Pinkalicious.

If you need distraction from life’s complexities, it’s a good idea to seek out a good friend --  preferably one who, like Amelia, is five years old.