The New Reality

It was a beautiful day yesterday, up in the Santa Monica Mountains. The dreaded marine layer had covered much of the city in fog, but even as we drove up to the trailhead we could see small patches of blue beginning to emerge. It ended up being a nearly ideal situation: since most of the trail is under direct sunlight, the slowly-thinning fog gave us cover and cool temperatures; but at the same time we could watch more and more of it burning off as we approached the top, until finally we reached what felt very much like the dome of the world, and were treated to the incredible deep blue that you see in the picture. By the time it started to get really hot, we were already on our way back down, with great quiet sympathy for those late starters who were only just beginning that steep hot climb.

And oh yes, it sure was steep. As Jamie had warned me, "It's almost all uphill, and it kicks your ass." But I was doing pretty well, although Jamie carefully set a slow and steady pace. (One which also allowed time to appreciate the growth of the blue over our heads.) I got winded, and then caught my second breath, and survived the trip up very well. Coming down, Jamie had said, was easier, but I found it harder, as I always have: being absurdly tall, gravity hits me in different ways than it does 5'4" Jamie; plus I have a center of gravity that is way north of something called a "center" ought to be, so that I have always been very easy to tip over. Walking downslope, then, always becomes something of a battle against gravity. But she told me about a way to use the thighs rather than the back, which I was able to discover pretty easily in my own body. Then we would get to chatting about things and I would promptly forget to do it.

Jamie was in good spirits, despite having worked till late last night. When I arranged our little hike it simply never occurred to me that in order for her to drive in from Pasadena in time to pick me up at 8:00, she would have to get up pretty early; and if she was working late, well that really wasn't ideal. But it had certainly occurred to her, and she was fine with it; she brought with her nothing but enthusiasm and delight, so everything went swimmingly. The only wrinkle was that she had a scene to shoot in the afternoon, way out in Riverside, so her time this morning was limited, and as we worked our way back down the trail she began to grow increasingly concerned about time. I knew she wasn't working tonight so I'd been hoping to maybe make a day of it; so much for that idea. Our pace on the way down quickened and then quickened a little more, and then there was the pell-mell drive down Sunset and a very quick goodbye in the car outside my apartment. Slam wave whoosh and she was gone.

Unfortunately, it turns out I had a pretty damn busy day myself. A quick shower, a little time out to watch last night's episode of the improbably brilliant Battlestar Galactica, and then I was off again. Into Santa Monica, where I spent far too much time in Borders looking for a book that the screens said was there but which actually wasn't: Walter Murch's In the Blink of an Eye. It's a book about editing, by one of the best editors in the business (Apocalypse Now, The English Patient, and so on). I've been paying a lot of attention to learning the software, but it's important that I also pay some attention to the art of editing itself. But since the book wasn't there, I actually ended up buying a slim little book called Grammar of the Edit, by a German named Roy Thompson. It's all about the fundamental theories of editing, how you make a cut and why, and the use of "Grammar" in the title is appropriate: as with grammar, I've always believed that you must first know, and really understand and appreciate, the rules before you start breaking them. (Trust me: if I do something grammatically incorrect in this here blog, I'm doing it deliberately. Thus the effect is precise and not chaotic.) (I hope.)


Then it was off to the Valley, and now the day was very hot and I had the air conditioner going--and my body was beginning to say words to me. Words like "Hey, what did you this morning? We don't like this." Knees and hips were complaining particularly loudly. I ignored all this and went about my day.

I haven't yet mentioned Outta Sync. This is another of Ezra's projects, an improvised feature film about a group of guys plucked from the line at the Department of Motor Vehicles by one Phaedra Lee, who is inspired by the voice of God (who sounds remarkably like Tippi Hedren, we're told) to take these five random guys and turn them into a boy band. Never mind that we're all in our thirties and forties. I play Sergei, who says he is from a never-mentioned country somewhere deep in Europe. ("Small. Very small. Never heard of it you have not. So small. Name of country is larger than actual country.") We shot it in March and April, and apparently the editing is going well, and the piece is turning out to be great; so suddenly, the producers realized how important it was to actually get us under contract.

Ah, the independent world. Someone was supposed to deal with the contracts before we ever started shooting, and the one producer just kinda figured the other producer had taken care of it, then discovered we were all still floating out there, unsigned, and a mad scramble ensued, with the result that I had to take this trip into the depths of Studio City just to sign this damned piece of paper. It would've been fine on a day when I had nothing else to do, but instead it was a bit of a slog--particularly with my body complaining more and more loudly as the day wore on. (Oh, and my pale Scandinavian skin had already turned a bright pink.)

And when I got home? Marc, in his new apartment, needed help putting together his new desk. Oy.

By evening's end my legs were just plain screaming at me. Marc and I stopped at a pharmacy where everything he needed was down this long flight of stairs (the cramped quarters of Westwood, y'see), and as soon as we started down my knees just erupted in pain. I survived, but it wasn't much fun. And this morning everything is a little bit better, though I'm still hearing from the various joints involved.

The hike, you see. It seemed a perfect way to celebrate turning forty, by going off and doing something physical and vigorous, admitting no concessions to the new age. And within a few hours of it I was feeling nothing but pain. I realized that this is it, the new reality as time advances on me. Pain becomes the new constant companion, and there isn't much you can do about it but accept it.

Or go off hiking again. Whip the body back into shape and fight fight fight against the dying of the light. This sounds like a better plan to me. But do I have the resolve to actually do it? Ah, there's the interesting question.